When they had been young, Lily had always looked to her for protection from their uncompromising grandparents-- their parents were not often there to care for them. At least, not until Lily's eleventh year-- the year she had been called to Hogwarts to begin her lessons in Witchcraft.
That was what had broken the ties between the sisters. Raised by their grandparents for longer, even just a few years, Petunia had taken on some of their beliefs; including the one that said that witchcraft was a devil-bestowed power. To Petunia, the fact that her much loved sister could not resist the call of that evil power, meant that Lily was already too far gone. She would never have the sister she loved back-- only this demon worshiping... thing... standing in the girl's place.
When Lily had returned from her first year of school, their parents returned home from their travels for good. Petunia saw this as another example of witchery-- their parents had never been there before.
The blonde had lost all faith in her family at that time.
But now...
The words on the note were as clear as the harsh black marks on the babe's face, circling that pecular scar. Already, the marks were beginning to fade.
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To the Missus Dursley, Sister of Lilian Evans;
It is my shame to inform you that we must place this burden upon you. The child is the son of Lilian Evans and James Potter, two prominent Aurors who have gained many post humous honors in their fight against the Dark Lord. They sacrificed their lives to defeat the madman; a madman who had a contingency plan.
Upon his death at the hands of Evans and Potter, he sent his very soul into the young body of their son. It is to my eternal consternation that we were unable to extract the Dark One from your nephew's flesh. Because of this, we have taken a step that has not been used in centuries; we have since bound all of the boy's magic into the seal you see upon his face. He has no more power than the average squib, and never shall, should the seal hold.
And hold it shall, until his dying day, when the spirit of the Dark Lord may finally be extracted, weakened from his battle with the seal. It should be a simple affair to destroy the spirit at that time, though we know not how just yet. Rest assured that the Ministry of Magic will work day in and day out in order to discover how to finally destroy the spirit; and on that day, we shall gladly remove this burden from you.
Until then, however, you will be provided with monetary compensation to put up with this child-version of the Dark Lord.
Our most sincere apologises for resting this upon your shoulders.
Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
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Petunia stroked the soft black hair of her nephew; here was a remnant of her dear sister. This child... this wonderful, magic-less child... she promised the dear lord that she would raise him to be what his mother was too weak to become. With the devils having sealed off his own devil-spawned power, she would not have to worry about him becoming enchanted with their ways and running off to join them.
She would have to discipline him a touch stronger than her own beloved son, due to the blood of his demonic father, but she would reform him into a proper man of the Church of England.
A thrill of delight wound it's way down her back. Perhaps... perhaps she could raise the boy to do what she never could-- convince the children stolen from their proper places in the world... convince them to give up the devil's power and return to the light of god. Yes... yes, that was a wonderous idea.
She could hardly wait!
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Seventeen years later...
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Harrison Evan Dursley-- once known as Harry James Potter-- tugged irritably on the silver cross around his neck. It was an old habit, begun when he was but a toddler. Back then he had worn a plastic cross large enough not to choke on; now it was small and metal, more a symbol than a pacifier. He was dressed smartly-- his khaki's pressed, and his golf shirt impecible.
He hated it.
Harri-- as he much prefered to be called-- would much prefered a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. White or black, it didn't matter; just anything but this... junk... he was currently wearing. But his mother- - well, his aunt, but she and her husband had formally adopted him when he was three-- had insisted. And while he was quite content to disobey his mother's whims, this was an important date.
Despite everything that had ever been said about him, he had graduated two months ago. And now... now he was going to join the Brigade. A warmth started in his stomach at the mere thought; he had been groomed for this all his life. Told the stories of the evils of the wizards and witches that infested his beloved England.
He hadn't believed them for the longest time-- more than half of his life. His hand moved from the cross about his neck, to his cheek, briefly covering the black marks that crisscrossed his face in a strange little network. That was the remnants of his eleventh birthday party.
They had come for him; come with the intention of killing him, he knew. Mother had told him what they had planned to do with him, had even showed him the old letter that had been sent to their door with him when he had been a baby. These people had bound his powers-- for which he was grateful-- and promised only to arrive when they had a way to kill the demon spirit trapped within him. Which also meant that he would be killed.
They had come in, wands at the front, and proceeded to use their evil witchcraft to freeze his parents, brother, and friends in place, leaving him all to his lonesome.
He'd run like the hounds of hell were after him-- and he could think of no better description for the men in dresses. He hadn't gotten far, before running into an old man with a beard that was snow white. The old man had frozen him in place with his wand. He had said numerous things in other languages, but Harri didn't understand a word of it.
All he knew was that his head felt as though it were on fire, and he passed out from the pain. When he awoke, he had found himself being cradled by his mother as she sobbed. He'd also found that the markings that had only shown up before when he was excited or angry, were now permenant.
It was because of those damned wizards that his family's reputation had been destroyed-- after all, who lets their eleven year old son get a facial tattoo?
It was because of them that he had spent the last seven-- or nearly so, at any rate-- years being mocked and ridiculed.
It was because of them that he would never have the ability to be a normal person, like he'd so wanted.
So he was joining the Brigade-- the slang term used to reference the team of elite men and women who rescued children who had been sucked into that hellish world of magic. Outside of the bereaved parents and siblings of those stolen away, the Brigade was a well known and often praised group of "cult deprogrammers". Occassionally they would dabble in other cults, though mostly that was to see if any of the members had a connection to the true occult.
Harrison smiled a cold smile in the mirror, before dropping his hand and straightening his shirt once more.
He had every intent to become one of the members of the Brigade, and save those that needed to be saved. He wouldn't let his birth mother's fate befall any others.
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Question: What if the Ministry had gotten to Harry before Dumbledore?
Pose a question, and I'll do my best to make a drabble out of it. Just can't get my head in gear to write anything longer than a couple of pages.