The One With the Chocolate Factory
Prologue
0o0
Mr. and Mrs. Bucket woke up one November morning to find it unpleasantly wet. This didn't deter them from their usual routine, however. Mrs. Bucket worked quickly and efficiently to make a pot of piping hot cabbage soup, which she then ladled into six bowls for her, her husband, her parents, and her parents in law. Mr. Bucket, who worked at a toothpaste factory, got ready for work.
The family of six sat together around a rather large bed, in which four of them laid. They spoke of inconsequential things, mostly what was in the morning paper, toothpaste brands, and the nosy neighbors down the hill. For most of the time, they drank their soup and felt comforted with the presence of each other. They cared not that their house was rather beaten, nor that they were dressed in rags, nor even that they often had barely enough to eat.
Just as Mr. Bucket was about to set off to work, with a kiss to his wife and a wave to his parents, there came a knock at the door. All six exchanged looks and Mr. Bucket answered the door. On the steps stood a man he never would have expected to see.
"Why Vernon," said Danielle Bucket to her estranged third cousin's husband, "whatever are you doing here?" Vernon Dursley, related to Danielle Bucket on his wife's mother's father's sister's side, twitched his overly large mustache and entered their house with a grimace of distaste. A blanket-covered bundle moved restlessly in his arms.
"This," he said, glancing at the bundle with an even larger amount of distaste, "was left on my doorstep yesterday morning." Part of the blanket slipped off to reveal a dark-haired child, who blinked sleepy green eyes at the other occupants of the room. "He belonged to your other cousin, Petunia's sister. My wife and I have agreed that we have no wish to raise the child, so I came here to ask if you would be willing. If you are not," again he glanced around the room in distaste, "then I shall drop him off at the nearest orphanage and be done with it."
Daniel and Danielle Bucket looked at each other, then at the child. He was a rather cute babe, with shining emerald eyes and a curious mar on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt. They fell in love with him immediately.
It was well known in their small family that Mr. and Mrs. Bucket had wanted a child for a very long time now, but have been unable to conceive. Mr. Dursley's arrival with the child was an unexpected but pleasant gift, and despite the fact that Mr. Dursley was as onerous as they came, they were sure that this child deserved much better than an out-of-the-way orphanage.
"Of course we'll take him, Vernon," said Daniel Bucket, taking the child from his arms. It was not hard to miss the way Vernon stepped away from them immediately after, as though they and the child held some kind of disease.
"Good," said Vernon Dursley, his mustache twitching once more. "Then I shall take my leave. His name is Harry Potter. Do not expect to see me again." And with that, he was gone.
"What a despicable man," said George Bucket, glaring at the door after him.
"But what a darling child," said Joanne Darling, gazing at the babe her daughter now held.
The four Buckets and two Darlings gazed at the child adoringly and knew, no matter what, that the babe named Harry Potter would forever be a part of their family.
0o0
Chapter One
0o0
At five years old, Harry Potter-Bucket was a rather curious child. Everything he saw he wanted to know about. He would often ask his Auntie Mum and Uncle Da hundreds of questions, most of which were off the subject of what he had at first wanted to know about. One summer, he had asked why some days had clouds and other days did not. That line of questioning would continue on to why it rained, and why it didn't snow in the summer, and why some snow was perfect for making snowmen and having snowball fights and other snow wasn't.
His parents, who were never quite able to explain why they were both his parents and his aunt and uncle (although technically they were his third cousins once removed), would bare these questions with remarkable patience and answer each one as best they could. Whenever he would ask them a question they could not answer, they would simply say, "I don't know, dear heart." At such an answer he would either ask another question or make up a story to explain it himself.
Harry was so curious a child that his rather high-strung kindergarten teacher often sent notes home with him explaining that if he did not learn to keep insignificant questions to himself she would have no other choice than to put him in a different class. He was a bright and sweet child, really, she often said, but his abundant questions disrupted the flow of class. After several of these notes, each one getting more and more frustrated, the school board interfered and Harry was moved to a higher-level class with the explanation that his work far exceeded the expected level of his current class and his was teacher summarily moved to another district.
Although he loved his Auntie Mum and Uncle Da, Harry adored his grandparents. He could sit and listen to Grandpa Joe's stories for hours, often asking questions that were immediately answered. When Grandpa Joe got tired from telling stories, Harry would watch Grandma Joanne and Grandma Georgina knit beautiful scarves and warm, fluffy mittens while Grandpa George read to him from the newspaper and made him laugh with all of his comments. It was not unusual for him to be found curled up in the center of their large bed fast asleep.
The winter of his fifth year was particularly snowy and cold. One day in early December, Harry was alone. Well, not really; his grandparents were home with him, but they were all asleep. His parents were outside, his father trying to gather enough wood to last them through the rest of the winter and his mother gathering cabbage from the garden, and Harry was not allowed to go with them because of the cold. With no one to talk to or tell him stories, he was rather bored.
'Well, this is no good,' he thought. 'I might as well read a book.' So he hopped off of his bed and went downstairs to choose one from the shelf. He perused the books for a moment before deciding which one he wanted. However, he encountered a small problem; the book was on a shelf much too high for him to reach. He briefly considered climbing the shelves for it, but his mother had scolded him smartly the last time he had done so after he had fallen from it, and he didn't want to risk doing it again.
"I wish that book wasn't so high," he said to himself, frowning at it. Then, in front of his astonished eyes, the book wobbled briefly and then fell to the floor. The noise startled his grandparents awake. His parents, who were just coming through the door, gave him the look they usually did when he was in trouble.
"Harry, darling, you must be careful," said his mother.
"But I didn't do it," Harry said. "At least, I don't think I did. The book moved and fell to the floor, all on its own."
"Now Harry," scolded his father, "you mustn't tell lies." Harry frowned at them for a moment, then at the book.
"I didn't lie," Harry said finally. "I'll prove it to you." He put the book on the highest shelf he could reach and took several steps back to make sure that no one could say he must have touched the book himself. Then, staring hard at the book, he said, "I wish I could have the book."
Once again, the book wobbled off of the shelf. This time, however, it floated calmly to him and stayed there until he took it out of the air.
"See?" he said, turning to his parents.
"Heavens above," Grandma Joanne breathed.
"Amazing," went Grandpa Joe.
"I knew he was special," said Grandpa George smugly.
"Applesauce goes great with turkey," said Grandma Georgina, who wasn't quite all there.
"Oh my," said his mother.
His father stared hard at the book before commenting, dazed, "My mistake."
"Sorry for waking you," Harry said to his grandparents. Then he clutched the book to his chest and went upstairs to read.
0o0
When Harry was seven, his brother Charlie was born. Harry was fascinated with the tiny baby that now shared their home, and spent a lot of his time sitting unusually quiet next to the small brass cradle next to his parent's bed. Harry amused his little brother by floating his toys just a bit above him when the babe was awake, and read to him while he slept. When he was not doing either of these things, he talked to him about anything and everything.
"Did you know," he said to the fascinated infant, "That a mouse's heart beats over five hundred times a minute? It beats so fast it sounds like it's humming."
Charlie gurgled and clapped his hands (a recent accomplishment, one which he was apt to do often).
"He's so good with him," Danielle murmured to her parents as she chopped up some cabbage.
"They're going to be the best of friends," said Grandma Joanne.
"The very best," agreed Grandpa Joe.
"Good thing he's with us, isn't it," grumbled Grandpa George. "That rotten Dursley would have stifled him."
"Did you say rotten apples?" asked Grandma Georgina. "I don't like rotten apples."
"The very rottenest," said Danielle.
0o0
As it turned out, Harry and Charlie seemed to be very suitable companions. Charlie learned to talk early, and following in his brother’s footsteps had a very curious mind indeed. As Harry grew older, he began to ask less questions and go about trying to answer them for himself. Around that same time, Charlie started asking questions of his own.
Their father called it, “Picking up from where Harry left off”. Their mother called it a blessing to have, “Two such remarkably smart boys”. Their grandmothers called it sweet, while Grandpa Joe decided it was absolutely marvelous. What Grandpa George called it wasn’t exactly suitable in polite company. (Not that he was any less proud, of course.)
When Harry was eleven, and Charlie four, an interesting letter arrived for him, tied to the leg of a small brown owl.
“An owl?” said their mother. “In the middle of the day?”
“Never mind that, what on Earth is it doing with a letter?” asked Grandpa George.
“What’s it say, Harry, what’s it say?” said Charlie excitedly, tugging on his trousers.
“What does it say,” corrected Harry absently, staring at the strange crest on the wax seal. He carefully peeled the wax from the thick envelope and pulled out the letter within. “Dear Mr. Potter,” he read.