Cinders and Scars

Part I

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

Chapter One:

Once Bitten

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that hour left my lips: for never may you , like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love. *

- Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

October 31st, 1981

"You're so loved, Harry, so loved . . . " Lily Potter could hear the front door bursting open.

She knew she shouldn't have trusted Peter. The man had always been too nervous, too cowardly to truly fit with the Marauders. After casting the Fidelius Charm, Lily tried to get close to the man in an attempt to understand him better. Her attempts were constantly rebuffed, until Lily was forced to concede. Peter, much like his animal side, was very good at slipping out of pressuring situations. Lily should have seen his evasion tactics as what they were: an attempt to distance himself from his once-best friends before they were all dead.

Unintelligible shouts filled the air, and Lily let out a soft sob as she saw a cast of green light from beneath the door frame. "James," she whispered, pulling out her wand. As Voldemort blasted open the door, the witch spared one last glance at her beautiful son. The boy's eyes were sparkling with tears as he clenched the bars of his crib.

Lily turned to her soon-to-be judge, jury and executioner, eyes bright and imploring. "Not Harry, not Harry, please, not Harry . . . " she pleaded desperately, quivering under the ruby gaze of Lord Voldemort.

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort warned, leveling his wand. "Stand aside, now. "

Lily shook her head frantically. "Not Harry, please no, kill me instead," Tears poured down her cheeks.

The Dark Lord's voice grew sharp with impatience. "Dear Severus spoke so highly of you," he drawled. "His precious Lily ; if you've any Slytherin tendencies at all, you'd save yourself. This is my last warning."

"Not Harry! Please, have mercy. Not my son - I'll do anything. "

"Avada kedavra!" he intoned, almost bored.

Screams filled his ears, and a cruel smile blossomed on his face. The child was sobbing quietly, unable to comprehend the severity of the situation. "Pity," Voldemort murmured, pressing a foot into the woman's cheek. Her skin was pale and flawless, red hair hair bright while her eyes were dead to the world.

"Thrice defied me, eh? Such bravery , such valor ," he sneered. "Oh, how ever am I going to break the news to Severus? He was so fond of you, his little mudblood bitch. Well, I'm sure he'll get over it." With a dismissive flick of his robe, the Dark Lord stepped over the witch.

Lowering his gaze through the bars of the crib, Voldemort met the eyes of a small half-blood boy, his eyes an interesting shade of death-green. "I take no pleasure in slaughtering children," Voldemort confided to the brat, lifting his wand. "But war is war, and I will not be taken down by a mere child." Harry sniffed, his chest jerking fearfully.

"Ah, that's right. You can't understand me," the Dark Lord laughed harshly. "Never mind, I'll make this quick. Any last words, equal?"

The boy choked on his cries. "Mama," he whimpered. "Mama."

Voldemort sneered. "What a quaint sentiment. But don't worry your pretty little head over her, child; you'll see her soon enough. Sleep well, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered. He slashed his wand. "Avada kedavra."

Light flashed. Pain seared. Magic filled the room, and everything went black.

"Peter?" a tight voice called out through a crumbling fireplace. A clock ticked in the background as Sirius Black declared his intent. "I'm coming through, you'd best be dressed!"

A vibrant green fire blared, ashes fluttering through the air as a slim figure emerged from the hearth. Sirius brushed the soot from his brown robes, raking a hand through his hair.

Brows furrowing as he took in the dark ambiance, Sirius immediately went on high alert. Pulling a long, straight wand from his inside pocket, Sirius gripped it tightly, stepping onto the faded rug. Pettigrew Place was a hovel compared to Grimmauld Place; the small, two-bedroom townhouse lie in a segregated part of Ilkley, made of brick and sticking charms.

The fact it was seemingly abandoned concerned Sirius.

Gone was the pile of comic books Peter kept on the coffee table, the bowl of chocolates and the tray of tea. On the mantel was a moving image of Peter and his dear mother; beside it was a framed picture of the Marauders, cracked down the middle as if it'd been thrown against a wall and hastily replaced. There were no clear signs of a struggle.

But everything was gone. As though Peter . . . had made a run for it.

"James," Sirius breathed, swiveling on his heel and scrambling for the pot of left-over floo powder. "Bagshot Bungalow, Godric's Hollow!" He called out, jumping into the flames.

Sirius sucked in a breath as he appeared in the floo system of Ms. Bagshot, Lily and James' elderly neighbor. A shrill alarm sounded through the household and a bleary-eyed, stooped-back woman staggered from the kitchen.

"Oh!" the older woman gasped in surprise. She tightened a dull pink robe around her nightgown, hustling over to move the fireplace screen. "Mr. Black, is that you?" Bathilda asked, voice gravelly. "Thank goodness, someone ought to check the Potter Cottage; I could sense their wards shattering just a bit ago, and earlier this evening I heard a poor Muggle boy crying to his mother about a red-eyed monster."

Eyes widening, Sirius rushed past Bathilda, breaking out into the chilled front yard. Following the street lights, he skidded to a stop in front of the quaint Potter Cottage.

"No, no," he whispered, staring at the broken wrought-iron gate dangling from it's hinges. He stepped carefully onto the front path, limbs trembling with dread. The door had been blasted open, the moth-ridden porchlight flickering ominously. All was silent except for the harsh wind, bellowing through the gaping front door.

With a stubborn set to his shoulders, Sirius pressed forward.

Pictures were torn from walls, spell-fire burned into the floral wallpaper Sirius and James hated but Lily adored. Sirius jolted as a noise came from the toy bin; it was Harry's toy broomstick, quivering, as if in fear.

The couch had been torn in two, bits of cushion fluff settled on the ground alongside shreds of polyester. A bottle of milk had been upturned, gently trickling down the coffee table onto the carpet. With a twitch of his wand, Sirius cast the human-revealing charm. He gasped in surprise, registering at least two chimes of extraneous human presence. "James! Lily! Harry!" he bolted up the staircase, hope rising unbridled in his chest.

He came to a screeching halt, nearly tripping over the human leg sticking out behind the corner. "No. No - " Sirius fell to his knees, cradling the cold body of his best friend. A strangled noise climbed up his throat. " James!" he sobbed.

In the nursery, another man could be found, head bowed.

"Lily," Severus Snape whispered over the cadaver of his childhood friend, reaching for his wand inside his robes. He had to leave; Black was like a bull in a teashop, stomping about without any respect for the dead. "I'm so sorry."

With a last, fleeting glance at those unseeing green eyes, Severus disappeared with a sharp crack, startling Sirius from his grief.

"Harry?" Sirius choked out, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. "Lily?"

A long wail began, filling the air with the sound of pure, terrible loss. "Harry!" Sirius stumbled from the hall, eyes widening at the sight of a dilapidated nursery. Canis Major sparkled above head, clearly visible through the cavity in the nursery ceiling. Sirius carefully stepped over chunks of broken wood and kneeled beside Lily's corpse. Her body was slumped beside the changing station, hair splayed in a halo-like fashion.

With trembling fingers, Sirius pressed his fingers to her throat, hoping desperately for the flutter of a pulse. His charms were never wrong. Someone else had been here; someone other than himself and Harry.

Sirius was torn from these thoughts as Harry sobbed, stark red blood dribbling down his forehead and darkening his white footie-pajamas. "Oh, Merlin," Sirius whispered, moving slowly to grasp his godson under the armpits. With a rap of his wand against Harry's dark curls, the stream of blood slowly closed up, leaving behind a peculiar red-rimmed scar.

After years of living with the most notoriously Dark family, the Blacks, Sirius knew a cursed scar when he saw one. Dark magic practically stewed within it, the vitriol magic only kept at bay by a soft sheen of what was clearly Lily's magical signature. He cradled Harry's dark-haired head to his chest, listening numbly to the boy's frantic mumbling.

"Pa'foo," Harry whimpered. "Mama . . . mummy, where mummy?"

Sirius swallowed, holding tight to the child's small torso. "Your mama's in a better place now. And you're safe. You're safe." His silver eyes never left Lily's splayed body.

The two were startled when a low keen sounded from down the stairs. Sirius glanced down at his charge, frowning. "Hush," he shifted Harry to his hip and grasped at his wand.

"Sirius?" came a trembling timbre, recognizable as their half-giant friend. Sirius relaxed minutely. "Ol' Bathilda said you were jus' here . . . "

"I am!" His voice cracked. "I've got Harry!"

Closing his eyes, Sirius forced himself to exit the nursery, a chill rushing through him as he passed James. "I swear, I'll avenge you," he whispered, holding Harry tight, the boy suckling his thumb anxiously. "I'll kill the slimy rat."

He bounded down the last few steps, greeting Hagrid at what remained of the front door. "Lily?" the man choked out, wringing a handkerchief in his large hands. "James?"

Sirius tersely shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

With a burst of fresh tears, Hagrid sobbed into his kerchief. Harry looked frightened, whimpering softly, and Sirius awkwardly reached up to pat the half-giant's shoulder.

"Quiet, Hagrid - please, we must leave before the Muggles swarm," he whispered, tugging Hagrid out into the lawn. In the distance, he could hear the recognizable sounds of a police siren. "What are you even doing here? Where's Dumbledore, the Ministry?"

Hagrid blew his nose, visibly attempting to control himself. "Dumbledore sent me to fetch the lad," he sniffled, dabbing beneath his eyes.

Sirius' brow furrowed, anger burning within his chest. "It's a miracle Harry's alive. How did Dumbledore even know that You-Know-Who was here? I don't - "

Hagrid shrugged helplessly. "All I know is that if Lily 'n James were dead, Harry was to be sent to his relatives in Surrey."

"What? That's not Dumbledore's call to make; James assigned me as godfather at the christening. Besides, Petunia and what's-his-face absolutely despise Lily . They wouldn't take Harry in if their lives depended on it."

"Now, surely that's not true," Hagrid defended. "Dumbledore knows what he's doin'. He thinks Harry will be safer with them Muggles, away from any remainin' Death Eaters and the Ministry, meddling in his business."

"I can keep Harry safe, too!" Sirius broke out. The raise of voice startled Harry, who let out a soft wail. Sirius immediately lowered his voice, pressing his lips to Harry's mess of dark hair. "He's safer with a trained wizard than any damned Muggle, especially if there is an attack. And it's what Lily and J - James wanted."

Hagrid's gaze softened. "I know it's hard," he soothed, a large hand grasping Sirius' arm. "But you've gotta do what's best for Harry. Dumbledore's got it all worked out - there's some sorta protection over the Muggle's home an' Dumbledore's got an Order member movin' in across the street. I'm sure Dumbledore will let you visit . . . but you've got to let him go for now, Sirius."

The man's grip momentarily tightened on his godson, his mind racing a mile a minute. "How did you get here? How do you plan to get to Surrey? Surely you won't take Harry through the Floo, his lungs aren't strong enough. And, sorry, but you can't apparate, can you?"

Hagrid's fuzzy lip twitched. "Hadn' thought of that. The Knight Bus, maybe?"

"No, Harry would holler the whole way. I've got a motorbike," Sirius blurted out. "It broke down a few weeks ago and I lent it to Lily, she's good at fixing the charms. It should be in the shed out back."

Beady eyes lit up. "Would'ya get it for me, Sirius? I'll take Harry."

Reluctantly, Sirius began to pass over the squirming child, only to have Harry clutch even tighter to his lapels. Smugly, Sirius settled the body back, sending Hagrid an apologetic look. "I suppose I'll wait here with him. Say goodbye, and all." He swallowed.

"A pair of wire cutters should be next to the shed, you can break the lock with them. My bike will probably be in front, you'll have to bring up the kickstand; the front wheel is busted, but it should fly just fine all the same."

The large man nodded and lumbered out into the yard, staring balefully up at the wrecked cottage roof.

"I'm so sorry, Prongslet," Sirius whispered, pressing his lips to the scarred forehead. "I'll come back for you." The siren wails came closer and Sirius could see Bathilda peering out from behind grey curtains, watching him shift awkwardly in the lamplight. "Hurry up, Hagrid," he hissed beneath his breath.

Metal clanked as his motorbike twisted midair, Hagrid looking slightly sheepish as he settled it onto the front walk. "I broke down the shed door," he explained. "Couldn't figure out the wire cutters."

"Not like anyone's here to care," he said, strained.

Hagrid blanched, nearly dropping the too-small riding goggles in his hands. "Righ'," Hagrid agreed, flushing. "Did'ya say yer goodbyes?"

Sirius looked down at his godson, brushing back his dark fringe to press his lips onto the flawed skin. "Yeah," he rasped. "Take him. Keep him safe."

Hagrid nodded exuberantly as he took the bairn in his arms, the layers of clothing cushioning the child's head. "I promise. Now, take care of yerself, Sirius," the man warned, revving the engine. "I'll return this in a few days, once everythin' blows over."

"That's fine," Sirius said dully.

Hagrid paused, gaze slightly wet. "Contact Peter and Remus, won't ya?" Sirius' eyes flashed at the thought of that traitorous vermin. "Maybe ya'll can visit Harry at the Dursleys - after he's settled, o' course. And, Sirius? I'm sorry 'bout James and Lily. They were good people."

The young wizard sucked in a long breath. "The best."

Hagrid nodded and started forward just as blue and red lights flashed down the street. The motorbike disappeared over the Potter cottage, Hagrid's large silhouette vanishing into the horizon. Sirius stood still in the yard, peering up at his best friend's house.

"I'll find him," he murmured, looking back up at the house with a solemn, determined look. "I'll find Peter, and I swear to Merlin I'll make him pay." A car door slammed and Sirius flicked his wand, disappearing with a sharp crack.

November 1st, 1981

The sound of a bird cawing just outside their bedroom window woke Petunia Dursley née Evans quite abruptly from her pleasantly dreamless sleep. She blinked in confusion, a torpid stupor mentally weighing upon her. A slight pecking was made against the glass, two taps in quick succession as if to assure Petunia that the noise was not, in fact, apart of her imagination.

Petunia pressed her face into the mattress, hoping to all the - normal, socially acceptable - deities that if she just ignored the baleful annoyance, it would cease to exist. As if by magic (perish the thought!) , there was a brief pause in the bird's preaching.

Alas, it was clearly not to be. A sharp hoot pierced through the air, causing a fidgety Vernon to roll on his side and snort directly in his wife's ear. Hazel eyes snapping open, Petunia expelled a long, irritated breath and forced herself out of bed. Staggering to the windowsill, she impatiently pulled open the floral drapes, and stared, bewildered at the small brown owl peering up at her with wide, black eyes.

In one swift movement, Petunia had slammed open the glass and snarled at the creature. "Bloody pest, if you're one of those freakish 'messenger owls', I will wring you by the neck! We don't accept your kind here!" She flapped a manicured hand out the window and the owl lunged forward, nipping at her palm.

As Petunia let out a startled cry, the bird fled into the morning sky, joining the flocks of owls soaring over the orange skies. Indignation sweeping through her, Petunia brought her aching hand delicately to her chest. The cool Autumn breeze sent goosebumps up her arms, and she slammed the window shut with her good hand.

She stood very still for a long moment, watching her husband for any sign of awaking. Sighing in relief, Petunia swept from the room, retrieving her pink and white-spotted bathrobe that hung behind the door. A quarter hour or so later, the air was filled with warm steam, the washroom tiles glinting with condensation. Her reddened hand twisted the hot water faucet, a stream of clear liquid halting.

Petunia stepped out of the shower, staring insecurely into her reflection. Damp hair, pointed features, pink skin. She dutifully checked her bosom for lumps, and insured that she hadn't obtained any rashes over night. Water droplets slipped from her pale, stick-thin legs and onto the floor, echoing in the otherwise noiseless washroom. As she toweled herself off, Petunia winced in unspoken torture as the coarse material brushed against her raw skin. She had scrubbed perhaps a bit more than necessary, trying in vain to rid the filth the owl had no-doubt contaminated her with.

Running bony fingers through lank blonde hair, Petunia shuffled to the sink. By the time she had finished business, a pile of store-bought plastic curlers had been carefully sorted within their container, her toothbrush lying ramrod straight on the vanity shelf and a black comb cleared of loose hairlets.

Mouth tasting of mint and skin thoroughly lathered with lotion, Petunia dressed herself in lightweight day clothes. She padded into the hallway, the soft carpet tickling against her bare feet. As Petunia passed the long line of framed pictures, she absentmindedly straightened each one.

Eventually, she came to a stop at a door, six colored letters proudly declaring it to be DUDLEY's nursery. Slowly twisting the knob, Petunia peered inside and crinkled her nose. The room was an utter mess. While her beautiful son lay peacefully in his 'big boy' bed, the floor was littered with stuffed toys, dirty clothes and a surprising amount of candy wrappers. Dudley's Halloween costume, which he'd reluctantly worn the night before, was wrinkled and stained with chocolate.

He currently wore a blue-striped set of pajamas, his chubby belly peeking out through a large gap in his nightshirt, the buttons partially undone. His round bottom was sticking straight in the air, a head of dishwater blonde curls burrowed into a downy pillow. A sausage-like thumb was jammed in his mouth and a stream of drool collected beneath his chin. Satisfied that the boy was sound asleep and undisturbed by her morning rituals, Petunia shut the door with a barely audible click. The child's snores reverberated through the wood, loud enough to rival her husband's.

Descending the stairs, Petunia tersely wandered into the kitchen, deciding to begin breakfast. Setting the stove and deftly cracking the eggs, she remembered the lovely pastry bread Mrs. Polkiss had made for their brunch several evenings ago. Feeling quite pleased that she'd needled the stubborn woman into giving up the recipe, Petunia went through the motions of mixing flour, yeast and sugar. Turning to the fridge, Petunia abruptly realized that she had used the last of the milk on the scrambled eggs. Shaking her head, she lowered the stove temperature and slipped on a pair of loafers.

Tightening her cardigan, she prepared herself for the brisk Autumn chill and opened the front door. Distracted by the sunrise, which seemed somehow brighter than usual, she bent down, expecting her fingers to catch on the cool metal case of milk bottles.

Instead, they brushed against something soft and most definitely alive.

She jerked away with a gasp, nearly falling backwards as she saw the tiny bundle lying on her doorstep. Cautiously, Petunia crouched low, brushing back the red and gold quilt to see the delicate face of a sleeping child. The child had a mess of black tangles, curling around his ears and tickling his nose.

Swallowing tightly, Petunia lifted the child, carefully cradling his head. She kicked the door shut and re-entered the family room, quickly preparing a pile of pillows on the couch to lay the babe within.

Eyes narrowing as she spotted the corner of a letter sticking out of the blanket, Petunia quickly snatched it away, as if afraid the child would bite. Holding the envelope in shaking hands, she instantly recognized the Headmaster's looping cursive, written in an odd emerald ink.

Petunia thought she'd heard the last of that man after receiving a gently-worded but extremely mocking rejection letter to that school so many years ago. Nostrils flaring, she tore open the envelope with no lack of bitterness. Rheumy eyes skimmed the parchment, halting for a moment, before reading it over. A helpless keen slipped past her lips as Petunia leaned back into the couch, a hand to her heart.

"V - Ver . . . Vernon!" She screeched. "Vernon, come quick!"

Within minutes, a large man came stomping down the staircase. Vernon Dursley was an extremely obese man, and even at the age of twenty-five, his comb-over and impeccably trimmed mustache was peppered with grey hairs. He held his old Smelting's stick aloft, poised in the air by thick, jiggling arms. "Wha' is it - " he slurred, blinking heavily, "Petunia? Wha . . . what's wrong? What is that?"

She turned fearful, red-rimmed eyes to the man she loved, hoping he'd have answers. "Lily," she croaked, tears dribbling down her cheeks. "It's Lily's son."

Vernon gaped unintelligibly at the small being. "Well, for God's sake - what's he doing here?" he hissed. His wife closed her eyes, a trembling hand rising to wipe at her cheeks, which were stained a furious red.

"My - my sister's dead, Vernon," she forced out in a broken voice. "And as much as I hate it, her brat is ours now. We're stuck with him."

"Mumma?" came a tired voice from the door frame.

"D - Diddykins," Petunia jerked up, seeing a head of soft blonde curls as Dudley peered into the room. He was suckling on his thumb, a ragged blanket dragging behind him. With the help of Vernon, Petunia shakily rose to her feet. Dudley waddled over to his mother, detaching himself from his thumb long enough to say, "Tum hurts. Wan' food."

"Oh, is my little one hungry?" she asked, remembering the half-made breakfast and rebuking herself for her forgetfulness. She pulled Dudley up onto her hip, allowing the boy to rest his head in crook of her neck. A cold trail of drool went directly down her shirt and she shuddered faintly. "Let's see what I can whip up in the kitchen."

"But I wan' food now!" Dudley's whined, bringing down his little fists. "Muma -"

Suddenly, Dudley let out a gasp, pointing a chubby finger at his cousin over his mother's shoulder. "Who 'dat? 'Dat baby?"

Petunia winced. "Yes, darling," she murmured. "That's a baby. But don't worry about the freak - I mean, the baby, dear. Daddy and I will take care of it." Once in the kitchen, he set Dudley into his high chair, fixing the straps and tenderly tucking in his rolls of fat.

As Harry began whimpering, slowly returning to consciousness, Vernon began to panic.

"P - Pet! What do I do with it?"

"Oh, goodness, put him in the cupboard and lock the door, I suppose. I'll feed him later. Just get him away!"

Nodding hurriedly, Vernon grabbed the child painfully beneath his armpits. With a startled yelp, the child blinked awake and Vernon rushed into the hallway. Dropped onto a pile of ratty pillows, Harry reached blindly towards the fat man who'd held him. "No - stay," Vernon commanded. Green eyes began to wet and Vernon slammed the door shut just as Harry's wails filled the air. "And stay quiet!"

The man stalked back into the kitchen, collapsing into a chair and accepting Petunia's offer of strong tea. "We're good people, aren't we, pet?" he mumbled, grimacing at the muffled caterwauling of their nephew. "This isn't some punishment for a past sin?"

"Of course we are, darling," Petunia said, spooning a bit of mash into Dudley's drool-coated mouth. "We certainly never asked for any of this."

What the Dursleys didn't realize was neither did Harry.

THE LONDON GAZETTE

Obituary: James Potter and Lily Potter née Evans

Husband and wife James and Lily Potter of Number Seven, Godric's Hollow, Cornwall were found dead at their home last night due to suspected foul play. Suspicious lights from the household caused neighbors to contact the constable.

Born in Cokeworth and beloved by all she met, Lily is survived by her son, Harry (2), her sister, Miss Petunia Dursley née Evans, and her nephew Dudley Dursley (2). No information on James Potter could be found. The funeral will be held on Saturday at 3:30 p.m. at the chapel of St. Jerome to the graveyard.

*' Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' - William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Notes:

Significance:

'Once bitten, twice shy' is what the chapter title is referring to. I'd like to think it applies to Lily and James, who have been betrayed far too many times. Peter, someone she thought was a friend, makes Lily prepare for the worst. With her lost breaths, she defies Voldemort and protects her son by making the decision to give her life for his.

Hell certainly hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed. Both Evans sisters have been scorned, but with the appearance of Harry tearing away Petunia's dream for an idyllic life, Petunia's fury will make Privet Drive hell for Harry.

Theme of poem: Tragedy