Title: What Courage Means

Author: Daeleniel Shadowphyre

Feedback: darkone2813 at mindspring dot com

Fandom: Harry Potter - AU

Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama

Rating: R

Summary: Abandoned to the harsh life of the streets as a baby by his muggle relatives, Harry Potter grew up without a lot of things-- including a name. Called 'Dealan' -- the Gaelic word for lightning -- by the others in his little gang of street kids, Harry will have to use his street-sense to make his way in a world he didn't even know existed!

Warnings: Alternate Universe Fic! Also violence, death, harsh language, "mature" themes... and pretty much any of the warnings that apply to the original series. ;;;

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, or any other characters created by J.K. Rowling. I'm just borrowing them, and I hope they're still recognisable when I'm done.

Notes: Another Severitus Challenge response, this one also partially inspired by "Not Myself" by Saerry Snape. From her, I read the idea of Harry being raised on the streets, and I wanted to see what I could do with it.

Distribution: Ask, and ye shall receive.

Prologue

Games of Uncertainty

Mr and Mrs Dursley were happy to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Every weekday morning, starting on Monday and ending on Friday, Mr Dursley would kiss his wife and go off to work at Grunnings, where he made drills. Mrs Dursley did her shopping for the week on Wednesday morning at the local grocery, her son Dudley riding along with her in his prambulator and screaming for attention or food or just to make "a nice healthy amount of noise" as they drove.

However, on the 4th of November, 1981, the house at Number 4 Privet Drive was unaccountably occupied for a Wednesday. Mrs Dursley did not go shopping as she usually did, staying inside instead and pulling the shutters closed on the windows. Dudley still made his customary amount of noise, but it only garnered him a sharp command to hush and Dudley, who was not used to being told to hush, moved on to more destructive methods of attention getting, which were unaccountably ignored. Mr Dursley did not go in to work, ringing his secretary at the office to say that there had been a family emergency and he would not be in today or perhaps tomorrow, either.

The subject of the emergency lay in a basket, wrapped up in a blanket and sleeping quietly. A little thatch of jet-black hair covered his head, but did nothing to hide the angry, healing cut in the centre of his forehead that was shaped, oddly, like a bolt of lightning. The letter that had been found in the basket with the baby boy readily identified him as Harry Potter, and he was most definitely family, whether the Dursleys liked it or not. And the Dursleys most certainly did not like it.

Harry Potter was the son of Mrs Dursley's sister. The Dursleys usually pretended that Mrs Dursley didn't have a sister, because in their opinion, Lily Evans could not have been more abnormal. Her husband, James Potter, had been just as bad, in the Dursleys' opinion, so naturally the Potters were to be avoided at all costs. The Dursleys were the last persons that would be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Unfortunately, it was just that sort of nonsense that was causing the family emergency, for as the letter in the basket had said, Lily and James Potter were dead, and the Dursleys were to be responsible for little Harry.

'I knew this would happen!' Mr Dursley grumbled, glaring balefully at the little boy. Quite the opposite he was from their Dudley, who was a fine, healthy, normal baby. 'I knew it! Those reports of owls and shooting stars on the telly, and strange people muttering the name Potter in the streets--'

'As if that wasn't enough of a disaster!' Mrs Dursley screeched. 'What will the neighbours think?' Then she turned pale, and began muttering to herself, 'No, no, they can't know, they mustn't find out, mustn't...'

'Well, what choice do we have?' Mr Dursley snapped. 'We can't just get rid of him! Those... those freaks are probably watching our house by now!'

'Oh, what'll we do, Vernon, what'll we do!' Mrs Dursley wailed, wringing her hands and pacing back and forth, pausing every now and then to stare down at the sleeping baby with a mixture of pain, fear, and loathing. There was considerably more of the latter two in her expression than the former.

'They expect us to keep him,' Mr Dursley said, disgustedly. He locked his beady eyes with those of his wife and said deliberately, 'We have no choice.'

'Fine,' Mrs Dursley said tersely, but she nodded. Mr Dursley may not have said it aloud, but she had understood him perfectly well. Taking the cursed letter that had accompanied this most unwelcome burden, she went into the kitchen to find matches with which to burn it.

The ginger tabby cat on the wall outside the Dursleys' main window nodded to itself, apparently satisfied that the Dursleys would do as directed. Standing, the cat stretched and jumped down from its perch, sauntering off into the nearby shrubbery. Within seconds, it had vanished.

That night, under cover of darkness, Mr Dursley crept out of the house. In one hand, he carried his car keys, while under the other arm he carried a basket. The occupant of the basket stirred briefly as the car roared to life, but did not wake. The car reached London without incident and, searching out a suitable alleyway in which to dump the basket, Mr Dursley parked the car along the side of the street and got out.

The basket, containing Harry, was put halfway down the alley, partially under an empty box. He spared a last glance at the baby in the basket, almost wishing that Harry was a normal child and he didn't have to do this. But then the breeze stirred the baby's hair, drawing all-too-clear attention to that horrid cut, and Mr Dursley turned away from the sight in loathing. Moments later, he was back in the car and speeding away from the alley, returning to his wife and perfectly normal baby son in his nice, normal house on an ordinary street in an ordinary neighbourhood, where nothing strange and mysterious ever happened.

Had he stayed a moment longer, he would have seen the tattered and dirt-covered form slip out of the shadows and approach the basket. He would have seen the girl of perhaps fourteen who had watched him abandon the child. Would have seen her responding with that instinctive, mothering aspect that females often have to the whimpering of the little baby as he began to feel the cold and -- on some level -- the bereavement of family.

'Poor li'l tyke,' the girl murmured, her voice rough and a little scratchy from the beginnings of a cough. 'Goin' ta be rough fer ye on th' streets so young.'

She picked up the baby, awkwardly cradling him to her chest in his blanket, as she'd sometimes seen real mothers do with their babies. To her surprise, the little boy burrowed closer to her, turning his face into her ragged shirt. A wave of... something, she wasn't sure what... welled up in her chest as she stared down at the baby. Protectiveness, she supposed.

'Psst!' a sharp hiss came from behind her. 'Psst! Oi, Nat!'

'Keep yer trap shut, Olly!' the girl whispered over her shoulder. 'Some fat bloke gone an' left a baby 'ere. 'E's sleepin' now, an' I don' want ye wakin' 'im till's we get back!'

A second figure emerged from the shadows, a boy of maybe sixteen with scruffy hair and even scruffier clothes. He was just as thin and dirty as the girl, but had a little more muscle to show for it. Now, his face showed worry, and his eyes were on the girl.

'Ye're no' really gon' try an' keep 'im, is ye, Nat?' he asked, eyes darting around. 'Ye can'na take care of a baby! Ye don' know 'ow! An' wot'll Dom say if ye do?'

'I don' care,' she said fiercely. 'I jus' saw 'is da or summat leave 'im 'ere-- jus' like we was left! 'E won' live fer long on 'is own, an' 'ell if 'm gon' sit by an' let some fat ol' bugger do 'im like we was done. If 'is family don' want 'im, I do!' She stared down at the baby, who was awake now and looking up at her curiously, and felt that strange something welling up again. ''E's mine, now,' she whispered softly, more to herself than to the boy behind her.

'Ye're looney, Nat,' the older boy hissed at her, coming to stand by her shoulder to peer down at the baby. 'Blimey, tha's some cut 'e got! Think them's tha' left 'im did it?'

'Don' know an' don' much care,' she said firmly. 'C'mon, le's get back t' Dom an' 'em.'

''Ang on,' he said, putting a hand on her arm when she started off. 'Wot ye gon' call 'im? An' ye sure it'sa 'im?'

'A'course 'm sure!' she scoffed. 'Ge' th' basket, eh?' Grumbling, the boy did as directed, and the two started off, slipping into the shadows and making their way through the alleys and side-streets in the darkness with ease of those raised on the streets.

'Ye dinna answer m' question, Nat,' the boy said after a minute.

'Wot'd ye ask, then?' the girl responded, adjusting her hold on the baby to keep from jolting him as she walked.

'Wot ye gon' call 'im?' he repeated, grinning. 'Ye can'na jus' let 'im grow up bein' call'd, "Oi, kid!" all 'is life!'

'Tha's rich!' she said, a chuckle escaping her at the thought. Thinking, she said finally, 'Ye know tha' cut on 'is 'ead? Looks kin'a like a bolt of lightnin', don' it?'

'Ye gon' call th' kid, "Lightnin'," is ye?' he joked. She grinned ferally back at him.

'Yeah, or summat like it,' she said. 'Ye go' a problem wi' tha', mate?'

'Nah, 'e's yer kid,' the boy said, holding up his hands in a surrendering gesture, the basket still clutched haphazardly in his right hand.

'Jus' so's ye 'member tha', Olly,' she said smugly. 'Now le's 'urry back t' Dom, eh? 'E's gon' need food soon, an' I wan' ge' some sleep afore I can' no more!'

The street kids hurried away into the gloom of a nearby alley, threading the maze of passageways to return to their night's shelter. Held close to her chest against the rising Autumn wind, travelling through the pitch black back streets of London, the little baby boy had fallen asleep again, safe for now in the arms of his new mum.

In the house of Number 4 Privet Drive, Vernon Dursley lay awake in bed, plagued by the thought that the little baby he had just abandoned to fate would come back to haunt him and his family someday, finally settling into an uneasy sleep with the assurance that the child couldn't possibly survive more than a day in that alley.

Somewhere, in a castle that could not be plotted on a map, a stern, ginger-haired woman assured an aging, long-beared man of the Dursleys agreement to take in their nephew, and the safety of the Boy Who Lived.