No Fortress Is So Strong, Chapter 02
Title: No Fortress Is So Strong
Summary: In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those that know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes & Caveats: See chapter one.
Many, many thanks go to my intrepid team of beta readers: Micah and Salazire, who are thorough and clever and absolutely fabulous.
“When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.” ~Antisthenes
Chapter Two: Sons
“Get up, boy!” Aunt Petunia ordered, banging on the door of the cupboard under the stairs. Nearly-eleven-year-old Nicolas Evan Potter groaned quietly, rubbing at his eyes. The night hadn’t been a good one; flashes of green light flooded his dreams, accompanied by a feeling of terror and a blazing pain on his face.
He’d once asked his aunt why there had been so much green light during the gas explosion that had killed his parents, but that line of questioning had earned him the chore of scrubbing the entire kitchen from top to bottom, so he hadn’t asked again.
“Are you up yet?” Aunt Petunia demanded from the kitchen.
“Yes!” Nick lied, and struggled up off his cot. He shook a spider off his socks, put them on, and then stumbled out of the cupboard and into the kitchen.
“Mind the eggs,” his aunt snapped, thrusting the spoon at him. “And comb your hair.”
Nick ignored her and stirred the eggs while she hurried up the stairs to wake his uncle and cousin. Within moments, enormous thuds sounded as his cousin Dudley came down, and Nick sighed as he scraped the eggs onto a tray.
“I want bacon,” Dudley said as soon as he entered the kitchen, and Nick gave him a withering stare. The last thing Dudley needed was more bacon, being rather porky himself.
“It’s in the pan, Dudders,” Aunt Petunia simpered, giving Dudley a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She glanced up at Nick. “Put the bacon on the table, boy.”
“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Nick replied, twisting his mouth to the side a little, and he took the pan and spooned the bacon off onto the tray.
“Morning, Dudley!” Uncle Vernon proclaimed loudly as he entered the kitchen. “Excited, my boy? It’s your tenth birthday tomorrow!”
“Yeah,” Dudley said, grinning. “You got me a new television, right dad?”
“Well now, that would be spoiling the surprise, son!” Uncle Vernon said, settling into a chair and spooning eggs and bacon onto his plate. “But don’t worry - I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
Dudley looked smug.
Nick sighed and took a bite of toast.
A strong gust of wind swept up on Harry from behind, knocking his navy blue baseball cap off his head. He grimaced and took two large steps forward, crouching and sweeping it off the ground, then dusted it off. The bit of mud left a damp patch on the side, even after it was swept away. Sighing, Harry turned it over in his hands and put it back on his head, brim facing backwards, so that it obscured his wild hair.
It was a sunny summer day, but it was cold. Harry had a thick black jumper on to guard against chill. Despite that, the grassy park was filled with the laughter of children running and playing, safe under their parents’ watchful eyes.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harry started walking along the dirt path that bordered the park, scuffing at pebbles on the way. He knew that his foster parents would be wondering where he was, but he found it hard to care.
Not that the Williamsons were unkind, by any means. Harry was old enough to know that they’d put a lot of effort into helping him, and was not ungrateful…but in his nearly ten years he’d had many, many foster homes; too many to count, really. He used to hope, when he was younger, that if he was just good enough, smart enough, brave enough, perfect enough…that someone would adopt him. But that hope had gone away by now, nine years after Harry was put into the system. He had stopped trying to get perfect marks in school, stopped trying to be the best behaved child in the world, and stopped getting attached to his foster homes and foster parents.
So even though the Williamsons were good people, and even though they would be wondering where Harry was, he kept walking along the path aimlessly, killing time before he had to leave and sit down to dinner as a family and play games as a family and have quality family time with a family that wasn’t his.
Another gust of wind sneaked through Harry’s jumper and made him shiver violently. Ahead of him, a bench sat in the sunshine on the side of the trail, occupied on one end.
It looked very warm, sitting there on a sun-warmed bench. So, despite the fact that he didn’t want company at the moment, Harry found himself moving over to the bench and sitting down on the opposite side, sighing quietly.
“Full of woes, boy?” the bench’s other occupant asked, sneering, and Harry looked up at him in surprise. “You weren’t born on a Wednesday, as I recall.”
Harry blinked in surprise at the strange comment.
“Do you know me, sir?” he asked curiously.
“We’ve met,” the man said, staring at him with tunnel-like black eyes. “Years ago. You wouldn’t recall, I’m sure.”
“Did you know my parents?” Harry asked eagerly, turning in his seat to face the man.
“Unfortunately,” the man said derisively. Harry recoiled at the sharp tone, and the man looked at him and curled his lip, glaring at him in superiority down his large, rather hooked nose. Harry swallowed uncomfortably and then felt a rush of anger. Who was this man to make him feel like that? Determinedly, Harry straightened his shoulders and back, and raised his chin, glaring at the man as hard as he glared at Harry. If anything, this seemed to make the man sneer even more.
“You are your father’s perfect image,” he spat, jerking his head. The movement sent his shoulder-length black hair swinging lankly around his face, but Harry didn’t register any of that.
“Really?” he breathed, forgetting that he was supposed to be glaring at this man. “My dad looked like me? Do you know his name? And my mother’s? What did she look like? What did they do? How did they die?”
The man stared at him, expression suddenly blank. Harry felt his heart pound, his hope almost painful in his belly, twisting like something alive. A moment stretched on for an eternity, and Harry knew, just knew that the man was going to get up and walk away, and leave Harry crushed on the bench behind him.
But he was wrong.
“Your father’s name was James,” he said, finally. “James Edward Potter. He looked remarkably like you but for his eyes, which were hazel instead of green. Your mother’s name was Lily Evans, and you have her eyes. Her hair was red.”
“How did they die?” Harry asked breathlessly, scooting closer to the stranger on the bench.
“They were murdered,” the man said abruptly, and Harry recoiled again, this time in surprise. His eyes went wide.
“Why?” he asked, plaintively. “Who did it?”
“Why?” the man questioned, and shook his head. “No, boy. I will not tell you why.”
“Why not?” Harry demanded angrily, feeling his heart twist at this turn of events, feeling a crushing sensation at having the information he sought so desperately near and yet completely out of reach.
“A tale for another time,” the man stated as he rose to his feet. Harry jumped up, wanting to beg the man to stay and tell him about his parents, but crushing disappointment seemed to weigh down his words before they reached his mouth. “For now,” the man said, “I come bearing a message.”
“A message?” Harry whispered hoarsely, and the man nodded.
“Not long now, Harry. A friend will contact you soon.”
“That’s the message?” Harry asked.
“Word for word,” the man confirmed, then swept his arm out to his side in an elaborate bow, his long black coat swirling around his knees. “Wednesday’s child,” he said coolly, and spun on his heel. Within two strides he was around the bend, and Harry finally felt his feet come to life.
“No, wait!” he yelled, and took off around the bend, and then skidded to a halt.
The man was gone.
Six days before Nick’s eleventh birthday, a letter arrived for him. He’d been outside watering the garden before breakfast when the postman had come, and Nick watched as he distinctly sorted out two letters and dropped them into the slot.
Moments later, when Aunt Petunia hollered out the door that breakfast was ready, Nick wiped his feet off on the mat, opened the front door, and almost stepped on the pile of three letters inside the doorway. His first thought was annoyance that no one had picked it up yet, and his second was one of surprise and disbelief. There, sitting next to his grimy trainer, was a letter on creamy parchment addressed in emerald green ink to Mr. Nicolas Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Blinking at the strange address, Nick bent down and picked it up just as Dudley thundered down the stairs.
“Wha’ ‘ave you got there?” Dudley demanded, and stood on tip-toes to take a look. “Mum!” he bellowed, making Nick jump. “Nick’s gotta letter!”
“Who would send him a letter?” Aunt Petunia wondered out loud as she came out of the kitchen. Nick leaned away when she reached out to take it.
“It’s mine!” he protested, holding it away. “It’s addressed to me!”
But Aunt Petunia’s eyes had fastened on the green ink, and her face went puce.
“Give me that!” she shrieked, so loud that Nick jumped in startled surprise. “Vernon, Vernon! Come downstairs! Give me that letter, you wretched boy!” she hissed, and whipped out her long, bony arm. She managed to snag a corner and rip the letter from Nick’s grasp. “Go,” she managed, pointing a shaking hand at Nick’s cupboard. “Go, boy, or you’ll get no meals today.”
Nick went, reluctant and furious, just as Vernon came stamping down the stairs.
It was not by any means the end of it, though. The next day, two letters came with the post, both of them addressed in green ink. Uncle Vernon burned them. On the third day, Nick snuck out to meet the postman at the corner, but Aunt Petunia anticipated him doing such a thing and sent Uncle Vernon to fetch him back. When the post arrived, there were three letters addressed to him, which Uncle Vernon shredded individually and with great relish while Nick watched in dismay.
It was far from over. The next day brought a full dozen letters, squeezed through the slot and even under and around the door, squeezed flat to get through the cracks. Uncle Vernon, face trembling under the weight of his blustery fury, drove the letters to the dump and nailed the door shut.
The next day Nick entered the kitchen, bouncing on his feet in anticipation, wondering what his mysterious letter-sender would do today. Aunt Petunia was at the window, handing a confused-looking delivery boy a handful of pounds as he gave her a flat of two-dozen eggs through the open kitchen window.
When he left, a strained looking Aunt Petunia shoved the eggs at Nick and told him to make breakfast.
With one ear towards the mail slot, Nick fetched the pan and lit the stove, waiting for the butter to melt. No letters had arrived when he picked up one of the eggs and cracked it neatly on the edge of the pan, pulling the halves apart to let out the raw egg.
Except no egg appeared. Instead, rolled up and scrunched down so tightly it was egg-shaped, was a letter.
Nick gaped silently, then looked around furtively. Aunt Petunia was upstairs waking Dudley, so he turned back to the egg-letter and smoothed it out, slitting it open with the butter knife.
There were two pieces of thick parchment inside, both covered in the now familiar emerald green ink.
Nick read it silently, lips moving slightly. His eyes got wider and wider with each word.
“Aunt Petunia!” he yelped, finally finding his voice. “AUNT PETUNIA!”
Chapter Three