The Plunnie Ate My Brain

(Note to self: plot twist: Michael is the Boy Who Lived because he actually lived through the curse, while Harry's mutant ability restarted his heart only seconds after the weakened Curse stopped it. Michael is the Chosen One - His twin in the Other. Meaning, both Voldemort and Michael have to die.)

The soft scratching of pen on paper echoed strangely in the quiet room. It paused every so often only to be replaced by slightly louder chink of glass and metal or the soft sound made only by the legs of chairs thudding against the floor. Then there would be a short, silent pause and once again the scratching sound would return. This was not an unusual occurrence in the well-sized kitchen, even as the clock above the oven struck five thirty a.m.

Petunia Dursley merely frowned worriedly as she glanced at the clock and gazed at the boy sitting at the kitchen table. He was so engrossed in his drawing that he didn't even notice the woman enter the room as he stared intently at the pad of paper in front of him, his pen moving in swift, sure strokes across the paper. He paused only long enough to pour himself more coffee from the pot next to him, not even registering the fact that nothing had come out of it until he tried to drink from his mug. It was at that point he stopped and put his pen down, frowning in consternation at his empty cup.

"Sweetie?" Petunia chose that moment to speak up, making the boy jump in surprise and nearly drop his empty coffee mug. He fumbled with it for a moment before setting it down on the table and turning toward her. "Are you all right, dear?" He lowered his eyes and turned his face to look down upon his drawing.

"I… couldn't sleep." She swallowed a sigh of frustration and sadness and gently smoothed his fly-away hair with her hand.

"Nightmares again?" He was silent for so long she thought he hadn't heard her. Then he sighed, almost violently, shut his notebook and clicked his pen shut.

"Yeah," he muttered. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. It was only a couple years ago that the nightmares started, and they had yet to find the cause. All they knew was that with each passing month they became darker and more troublesome, causing numerous sleepless nights and midnight raids of the coffee pot.

"Why don't you take a shower and freshen up, dear. I'll make more coffee." He sent her a smile that didn't reach his eyes and gathered his stuff. "Oh, and wake Vernon please, dear." He murmured his agreement and left the kitchen as silent as a wraith. Only when she was sure he was no longer in earshot did she release an explosive huff of air, scowling her displeasure at Fate and her vindictiveness at a boy who deserved much more than the injustices done to him.

She set about making breakfast, finding comfort in the familiar routine of every morning and the hustle and bustle of early morning Manhattan just now making its way to the no longer silent kitchen. It was rare that she missed the silence of Privet Drive, Surrey, and she found herself guilty in the fact that she missed it at all. She couldn't imagine utilizing her culinary expertise without the backdrop of honking cars and the nearby La Guardia Airport. Twelve years ago, she would have cringed at the very thought of such reckless clamor invading her pristine neighborhood and snubbed anyone who would dare suggest ever leaving the humdrum tranquility.

Now, however…. Now the commotion lulled her to sleep and greeted her with every morning. It filled her with a sort of peace she never knew she was missing in Surry, and the thought of ever returning to the place they tried so hard to escape filled her with trepidation.

No, they would never go back there. Not if they could help it. Not when it was doing so much to heal the heart that world had shattered into a million pieces with utterly no remorse or second thoughts. She was much happier exactly where she was, where she knew with a type of serene certainty one could only gain with such revelations that this place, this noisy, busy, completely different lifestyle was exactly where they belonged.

And as always with the thoughts of her old life came the bitter anger that fueled her curses at her only sibling, her brainless sister and her sister's oaf of a husband and that horrid man who ran that bloody school. If it weren't for them her family would have never felt the need to leave their home to escape the pain that resulted from their carelessness to abandon their own child to relatives they didn't care to think about often enough to do anything more than offhandedly invite to their wedding and send short, formal holiday greetings to.

Despite contrary opinions, Petunia Dursley nee Evans did not hate her sister. Infuriated with her, surely, but she did not hate her. She had felt differently during her youth when her younger sister had received a letter inviting her to an exclusive school from any child's fairytale, and felt extremely left out at every holiday and summer break when her younger, prettier sister returned home to the adoring adulation of their parents who felt it far more exciting to have a magical daughter rather than a genius one. Petunia, whom excelled far beyond any schools expectations and had received scholarships to the very best universities in Britain at a young age based only on her academic achievements, was always nudged off to the side by a few waves of a wooden stick and beams of colorful lights.

This may have caused resentment, but never hate. Lily was her sister, after all, and the only family she had left after the brutal murder of their parents back in '77. She was naturally very hurt when it was decided that Lily, being underage in both the magical and non-magical worlds, would remain in the magical one with her friends until she came of age instead of staying with her sister for the several months that would be. To cover her pain and grief, Petunia rushed her way through University, where she met her now-husband Vernon, then an undergraduate student of Oxford.

Gradually, she became content with herself and her life, enough so that it hurt only a little when her wedding invitation returned with a flowery brief yet polite, "Sorry, but we're busy." So she settled into her life with the knowledge that her sister wanted little to nothing to do with her, and painstakingly ignored this fact while becoming a housewife to her beloved Vernon who was quickly climbing the ladder in one of the largest drilling firms in Britain, content in knowing that should they ever need to, she could always fall back to one of her degrees earned in academia.

And then they received that letter. That thrice-damned letter dropped from the talons of an owl that soon-after perched on her kitchen windowsill and patiently waited. It took her almost an hour to explain why an owl had delivered a letter to them to Vernon, and almost twice that long to convince him that magic did indeed exist without having any actual proof. It was after she had read the letter that all of her pain and resentment she felt towards her sister was brought to the fore.

The letter explained with little detail that Lily and her husband had something extremely important to discuss with Petunia and her husband, and that they would be dropping by that weekend in the afternoon. They needed their help with something vital that could not be discussed in a letter, and that they would be bringing along a man who could help them to explain the situation.

For the remaining week before the weekend that changed their lives, Petunia could barely be consoled in the fact that her sister only wanted her when she was useful to her own plans. When the weekend finally arrived, it was with unease and not a little bit of bitterness that she allowed the three into her home. It was within half an hour that she wanted to kick them right back out.

Lily brought with her a boy barely four years old, her son Harry. She explained to her sister that shortly before Harry and his twin brother Michael were born, a prophecy was foretold that one of her children were fated to destroy a great evil that plagued their world. Three years earlier on All Hallows Eve, the boys were left in the care of one of her husband's friends while they were needed elsewhere for an important gathering. The friend, as it turned out, was actually in league with the monster bent on destroying the so-called filth of their world and had told his master exactly where to find the two children who could possibly stop him. The man, known as Voldemort, showed up at their home while they were away and attempted to kill her children.

He failed, her husband explained next. Miserably. It turned out that their son Michael was the prophesized child and had managed to deflect a powerful killing curse back upon the evil Lord Voldemort, thus destroying him and everything around him for a hundred yards. When they returned home, fearing that their children were both dead, they found them both perfectly unharmed save for cuts and scrapes from falling rubble and the mark of that powerful curse etched into their skin, saved from further harm by a dome of bright blue light surrounding them. Michael had born the curse scar upon his forehead while his brother bore his upon his breast. It wasn't until they picked up the first child they reached that the dome of light dissipated, proving that Michael was indeed the child of prophecy, for it was he they had picked up.

It was not until later that they had noticed something peculiar. The Book of Names that resided in the Ministry of Magic's Hall of Records of the Department of Mysteries recorded the names of all children born in England who would someday attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The names were usually written in bold black ink, fading to grey if the child died or being crossed out in red ink if they accepted to go to a different school. Harry's name had turned silver.

According to Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School, this had never happened before to his knowledge. They didn't know what to make of it until a few years later when the boys turned three. Three was normal age for accidental magic to begin happening around a magical child. Michael showed plenty of this, but around Harry, nothing happened at all. It was then the three of them started to suspect that the silver turning of Harry's name could mean that the curse, instead of killing him, had instead rendered him a squib. And since the names of squibs had never entered into the Book of Names nor had any magical child turned into a squib, it was only concluded that this was the case.

Voldemort was not truly dead, the Headmaster told them. This meant that Michael would need to be trained extensively in various magical fields to prepare him for his fated task of destroying the Dark Lord once and for all. They feared that because the amount of time they would need to spend with Michael would take away from the time they would be able to spend with Harry (who would never be able to understand or fit into his birth world) that it would be better all around if Harry were raised in the Muggle world. This would allow Harry a normal childhood without the threat of him becoming bitter without his magic.

That was where Petunia and her husband fit in. They wanted Harry to grow up in a place where they knew he would be safe and happy, without having to give him up for adoption to a family they had never met before. It was their hope that Petunia and Vernon would see it within their hearts to take in and raise their son, without telling him of his magical heritage so he could live his life in peace.

Petunia was infuriated. One look into her husband's eyes showed that he was as disgusted with her sister as she was. To abandon their own son because of an unfortunate accident? It was despicable. She was heartily tempted to tell them to bugger off, but she knew that they would only go with their last course of action and indeed put him in a non-magical orphanage. Disgust and anger warred with familial obligation within her, and she excused herself and her husband to the other room so that they could talk.

It was a talk they didn't need, as it was obvious to both of them what they would do. Their own son, who would have been Harry's age, had been born stillborn due to complications that destroyed any chance of Petunia ever having children of her flesh and blood. They simply needed time to cool down before they returned with the verdict so that they would not scare the already terrified child that had sat silent and still on the chair in front of the fireplace, face pale and withdrawn. Both of them could tell that the boy knew very well what was going on despite his young age, and that a long talk was forthcoming as soon as his parents left.

After they returned and agreed to the arrangement, the three wizards left, her sister promising to return the next day with Harry's personal belongings although she left a bag of clothes for the night. This only fueled their ire as they realized they had expected them to agree and it was with a cold goodbye that they retreated.

They had then returned to the living room to find young Harry sitting exactly where he had before, his face hidden behind his midnight hair and shaking almost hard enough to rock the chair. It wasn't until Petunia gathered him within her arms that he finally cried tears of grief and abandonment. When he had finally calmed down, she showed him to his room which now had to be renovated, as they had not had the heart to change the room from a nursery back to a second bedroom. Until it was done to his satisfaction, she promised, he could stay in the guestroom. He left him to rest after the events of the day and set about dinner, which was a rather withdrawn affair.

A year later, they decided that England held too many painful memories to continue living there. Vernon put in for a transfer to their offices in New York and they left only a few weeks later. However, the memories were not the only reason they left. The most important reason was the fear that once the Potters discovered that they had been wrong about Harry – horribly wrong – that they would take their son back and destroy their small family.

Harry, as it turned out, was far from a squib. It was a year before he revealed this fact to his foster parents, fearful of their rejection of what he could do. As it was, Harry had such a strong control over his powers that whatever magical thing he did was not accidental at all, but extremely deliberate. His control was so precise and so accurate, that the Potters never realized that what happened around Harry was magic at all.

So they left as quickly and quietly as possible, selling their house and moving as far away from England as they could. It did not take long for them to settle into their new home, and in fact they found they were much happier there. If Lily and James Potter ever wondered where they had gone, the Dursleys didn't know about it and very much preferred it that way. To accept them back in their lives would cause nothing but heartache. Especially for poor Harry, who had never really gotten over the fact that his parents could care less about him simply because he did not have magic.

Adjusting to one of the United States' busiest cities and strange Americanisms was probably one of the hardest things they had ever done. It wasn't until Harry was in middle school that they had finally felt comfortable in their new lifestyle, one the Dursleys had to admit was vastly better than their old, as with the transfer of offices came a huge promotion for Vernon, which excelled him through the ranks even faster than before. Anything strange or bizarre New York pushed on them passed right over their heads without a second thought; when you raised such a powerfully magical child as Harry, strange was no longer all that strange in comparison.

Breakfast was a lighthearted affair. Harry's normally cheerful, playful demeanor seemed to have been restored during his shower. His smiles reached his eyes this time and his nightmares were seemingly forgotten for the time being. The miniature food-fight between Vernon and Harry, which had become a sort of daily ritual over the years, was presided over by Petunia who mock scowled over the mess her husband and pseudo son were making all over her pristine kitchen floor. It seemed Vernon had won this time as a piece of bacon clung off the side of Harry's stylized silver-framed glasses. He feigned innocence when his wife glared at him, who only rolled her eyes in exasperation at his response.

As usual, Vernon begged off having to help clean up the mess by needing to go to work as he hastily gathered his things. With an amused grin, Harry retrieved the broom from the cupboard and began sweeping the floor while Vernon kissed his wife goodbye and ruffled Harry's hair into and even bigger rat's nest than usual, promising to be home by dinner. A short while later they retreated to the den with a hot pot of tea, a habit none of them could seem to give up.

"Vernon and I were wondering where you would like to go for your birthday this year," Petunia said, fixing their teas. Harry thought for a moment, before shrugging.

"I haven't really thought about it. It's still a few weeks away, yet."

"Are there any places that come to mind?" Harry shook his head and sipped thoughtfully at his tea.

"Not immediately, no…. Why don't we just have something simple this year? Maybe the three of us could just go out to dinner or something." Petunia hid a mischievous smile behind her teacup.

"Not four of us?" At his perplexed look, she clarified. "Wouldn't you like to invite Warren along?" She laughed at the heavy blush that stained his cheeks at the name.

Warren Worthington was a handsome young man only a few years older than Harry himself. Several years ago, when the concern of raising a magical child while not having any knowledge of the subject became a priority, they had met a man named Charles Xavier, who offered them a chance to give Harry the education he needed in regards to his unusual powers. He called it the Institute, and although it was a school founded for the training of mutants, Harry's uniqueness was such that they could train him in his craft and control as well.

Not wanting to part with Harry for long periods at a time, they agreed on the condition that it would only be until Harry had a better grasp of what it was, exactly, that he was dealing with, and only if Harry could still live with them during parts of his training. It was fortunate, of course, that the Westchester mansion was only a fifteen minute drive away from their home. It was at this school that Harry met Warren, who was not actually a student of the school having no unique power that needed to be trained but was instead a rare visitor. He was aptly nicknamed Angel for the large, white wings that sprouted from his back and enabled him the ability to fly, an ability that fascinated Harry to no end.

Warren was drawn to Harry by the pure exuberance and blunt openness he portrayed, while Harry was drawn to Warren by natural curiosity. Over the years their tentative friendship grew into a subtle courtship as they danced carefully around each other and their growing attractions. This dance amused Harry's foster parents and the others at the Institute considerably, and Warren's once tri-yearly visits to the Institute became much more frequent, and only, of course, if Harry himself was there. It also gave them ample ammunition to tease the both of them with.

Harry fidgeted for a good few moments before narrowing his eyes at her with a pout (not that he would ever admit to pouting). She covered her mouth to hide her smile.