
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13060131.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter, Hermione_Granger/Ron_Weasley, Sirius_Black/
      Remus_Lupin, Christopher_Potter/Ginny_Weasley, James_Potter/Lily_Evans
      Potter
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, James_Potter, Lily_Evans_Potter, Christopher_Potter, Iris
      Potter, Hermione_Granger, Ron_Weasley, Sirius_Black, Remus_Lupin, Albus
      Dumbledore, Neville_Longbottom, Cedric_Diggory, Ginny_Weasley, Draco
      Malfoy, Lucius_Malfoy, Order_of_the_Phoenix, The_Weasleys, Death_Eater
      (s), Voldemort
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Dark, Minor
      Character_Death, Slow_Burn, Character_Bashing, Graphic_Description,
      Violence, Morally_Ambiguous_Character, Pureblood_Culture, Politics,
      Language, Slash, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Child_Abuse
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-18 Chapters: 1/? Words: 3245
****** Siege and Storm ******
by yiwu
Summary
     For much of his life, Harry Potter was forced to become self-
     sufficient in order to survive. When a ritual marked him as the King
     of the Magical World, he must find his footing in a world caught in a
     political strife and turmoil while evading the machinations of
     others.
Notes
     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
     Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
     infringement is intended.
  This work was inspired by
      King_Who_Lived by cap red
                                  Chapter One
                            An Unpleasant Birthday
                                        
 
Harry Potter was an unusual little boy. It was through many months of
observation that Thomas Greene came to this conclusion, resulting in some very
disconcerting questions and assumptions. At five years old, the boy was very
small; so small, in fact, that on the first day of Primary school, Thomas had
mistaken him for a missing toddler. If it wasn’t for the vociferous demand of a
large dark-haired boy for him to get a move on, he would have handed the child
off to the authorities. His size aside, the boy painfully thin, an emaciated
wisp, and hardly spoke a word. He didn’t respond well when his name was called
during attendance in the morning – if anything, Thomas noted, he looked puzzled
by it.  The only thing large about him were his eyes, and they filled his face,
green and solemn. He bore the pinched look of someone unhealthy and was very
delicate in a way that concerned Thomas. Little bones and small features, and
pointy chin.
In all, his careful monitoring of the boy was what led Thomas to believe that
his home life wasn’t all that well. Compared to his corpulent brother,
Christopher, the jarring contrast between the two left no room for falsities.
While Christopher held the healthy glow of a child well cared for, bordering
obesity though he is, and his clothing tailored and of the latest fashion
trends, Harry wore jumpers and trousers that Christopher had obliviously owned
at some point for they hung off his skeletal frame. Mrs. Smith had taken to
using safety pins around the boy’s sleeves to keep them from swallowing his
hands whole, and a belt to keep his trousers from falling off his hips.
Mr. and Mrs. Potter themselves rarely commented on the boy’s appearance and did
not seem to bother with him, if they can help to avoid to. The couple was in
good standing within the community of Godric’s Hollow, and there weren’t many
things to be said of them aside from that they were perfectly normal; Mr.
Potter was Constable, though his work of location was rarely discussed, and
Mrs. Potter a housewife of pleasant features.
With the wealth of evidence to suggest that the boy was being neglected, the
proper thing to do is inform the authorities. Thomas wavered, however. While it
was readily apparent that something was greatly amiss within the Potter
household, he couldn’t very well in good conscience call upon the police and
disrupt the family on a hunch alone — he would ruin them if it turned out to be
untrue, and the scandal alone could cost him his job.
So, despite his apprehensions and worries, Thomas Greene did not alert the
authority of his suspicion. For his part, however, he did continue to look
after Harry; a consolation, perhaps, for not doing more for the boy.
His silence could only last so long, though. On the afternoon of October 31st,
when the children were out in the courtyard in their costumes for later that
evening, Thomas had been making his rounds when he came upon Harry. Huddled
into a corner and curled into himself to protect himself from his assaulter,
Thomas had balked at the scene before him for a moment before gathering his
wits about him.
“Christopher Potter!” he bellowed, startling the boy and several other children
within vicinity to jump in fright. He grabbed him by the elbow, staring down at
him with a severe expression. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, young
man?” he demanded, his nerves frayed. “How could you do this to your brother?”
“L-let go!” Christopher yelled, rearing up his foot to aim a kick at Thomas’s
shin.
“Not until you explain yourself.”
Christopher, perhaps knowing it was futile to attempt another assault against
Thomas, fizzled under his withering glare. He was not used to such treatment –
least of all from adults, and sullenly stared at his feet as he muttered, “Dad
says its ok.”
“And why would you father ever allow such a thing?”
Christopher glanced over at his brother, lips drawn back in anger as he loudly
proclaimed, “Because he’s a freak and a nobody!”
Thomas, in his stupor, loosened his grasp on Christopher and the boy shot off
towards the school. It was only when the curled over lump that was Harry Potter
unraveled to peer up at him through the gaps of his fingers did Thomas regain
his lost composure. He offered the boy a reassuring smile as he helped him to
his feet, mindful of his pitiful whimpers of pain as he escorted him to the
infirmary.
“He won’t get away with this, I promise you that,” he said obstinately, and if
Harry believed him or not, the boy gave no indication of it.
On the way over to the infirmary, Thomas was deterred by the presence of the
Headmistress. Madam Withrow was a tall, thin woman well into her fifties. Her
salt-and-pepper hair was drawn in a tight bun at the nape of her neck that made
her appear more gaunt and unpleasant in disposition. With her was Mrs. Potter
who held a babbling toddler in one arm while her other was secured around
Christopher’s shoulders.
“Mr. Greene, my office, if you please,” clipped Madam Withrow.
“If I could, perhaps, join you there in a little bit,” Thomas started, smiling
tightly at Mrs. Potter’s sharp glare. “Harry is, as you can see, in need of
some medical attention.”
“I hardly call a few scraps worthy of medical attention,” intoned Withrow as
she turns on her heel. “This way, as you please.”
It was not a suggestion in the least.
Thomas heaved a great sigh, in partial irritation and apprehension. He gives
Harry what he hopes is a reassuring smile as they trailed after the trio,
Christopher sticking his tongue out at the pair in mockery as Mrs. Potter
conversed with the Headmistress. When the arrived in the cream and beige
office, Harry and Thomas sat across from Mrs. Potter and her two other
children, and the Headmistress was seated behind her spacious mahogany desk.
“Well then, Mr. Greene,” she began, spidery hands entwined over the desk,
“Christopher here claims to have been unduly handed by you in the playground.”
“Unduly?” spluttered Thomas incredulously. “The boy was beating his brother!”
“Was not!” retorted Christopher, his hazel eyes wet with unshed tears as he
stares sullenly at his mother and the Headmistress. “We were only playing with
Harry. Honest!”
Mrs. Potter smiles at her son indulgently, her hand moving comfortingly through
his unruly mane. “I know you were sweetums,” she says softly, all but ignoring
the whining toddler in her lap. She levels Thomas with a wholly unimpressed
expression. “Chris and Harry have always played like this – they are boys,
after all.”
Thomas blanched at her words; she’d said it unwaveringly, her eyes – a shade
darker than Harry’s -  hard and unseeing to the boy that all but cowers into
his side. Headmistress Withrow nods in agreement. “There was no reason for your
actions, Mr. Greene,” she said tartly.
“I disagree,” Thomas said. “I saw a boy being assaulted by five others and
intervened. I did the right thing.”
Mrs. Potter unwinds a lock of her auburn hair from the tight fist of her
daughter, shushing the baby quietly as Christopher sulks into her bosom. Madam
Withrow sighs, hands splayed over her desk as she glanced over at the quiet boy
seated beside Thomas. “Harry, go to the infirmary and return to class once
done,” she instructed, and the boy is quick to react.
Before Thomas could even interject, Harry Potter had slipped from the office.
Pursing his lips, the blonde man crosses his arms over his chest, off-put and
disheartened that he couldn’t have done more for the boy.
“I’m sorry again for the inconvenience, Mrs. Potter,” Madam Withrow was saying,
and Thomas stands as the women do. “And I’m quite sure, Mr. Greene is equally
regretful of his actions.”
Thomas’s teeth set on edge at the impatience written across the aged-face of
his employer. Mrs. Potter, it seemed, enjoyed his discontent as he turns to
face her. “I am sorry for causing such a commotion,” he said slowly, “and I’m
sorry, Christopher, if I unintentionally hurt you.”
“I’m sure the fault lies with Harry,” Mrs. Potter says with a long-suffering
sigh. “He’s always been a handful, that boy – stubborn as a mule. He makes
trouble wherever he goes.”
Thomas digressed, but he doubts present company cared much for his opinion on
Harry Potter. When Madam Withrow bid Mrs. Potter farewell and escorted them
from her office, Thomas had begun to trek back to his classroom when Mrs.
Potter drew him aside for a quick word. She spoke something in a strange
language that sounded distinctively Gaelic, and Thomas blinks the spots of
light from his eyes.
“Are you quite alright, Mr. Greene?” she asked in a serene voice, and for the
life of him Thomas could not recall why he’d ever thought her eyes were dark
and murky green – they were as lovely as grass in the summer, an emerald. Her
son, Christopher, gives him a charming smile.
“Oh, yes, a bit out of sorts is all,” he said slowly as if he’d just awoken
from a long slumber. “What were you saying again?”
“I was only saying that you shouldn’t mind Harry in the least,” she reiterates.
“He’s a troublesome boy – very stubborn and always undermining his big brother,
Chris.”
“Ah, yes – yes, I’ve been warned of his behavior before,” Thomas murmurs,
blinking at the woman owlishly.
“All truth, I’m ashamed to say.”
Thomas settles a hand over her quaking shoulder. “Do not blame yourself for his
actions, Mrs. Potter. Some children are just — well, I hate to say this about
anyone, but… well, rotten.”
Mrs. Potter nods mutely, and if he cared to question her adamant acknowledgment
of his declaration, Thomas showed no sign of it. When he finally bid her
farewell and accompanied Christopher back to homeroom, Thomas did not glance
over at Harry Potter as he’d once did; he did not keep tabs on the boy’s
health, did not praise his accomplishments, or intervened on his behalf when
the other children mocked him.
Harry Potter was an unusual little boy, but Thomas did not pay him any mind.
===============================================================================
 
At nine years of age, Harry Potter understood that life for him may not be the
same for other children. Despite having grown up in the same household as his
older brother, Christopher, the two lived infinitely different lives.  Though
to the public, the Potter family appeared to be a united front, behind closed
doors the truth was a stark contrast.
In the beginning, Harry never questioned his parent’s treatment of him —
partially because they did care for his inquiries, and because he’d lived under
the belief that their treatment was normal; after all, as the second born son,
he was a spare — a security measure at best, but he sincerely doubted his
parents would look to him if anything ever happened to either precious
Christopher. What little parental affections and concerns they’d had for him
had waned and ultimately diminished as they latched onto Christopher with a
fervor, lavishing him with time, adoration and mounting pride for the most
insignificant of achievements.
What little interactions they did have with Harry were limited and done
begrudgingly. His own needs were only seen to after Christopher had been taken
care of, and by the time he was old enough to reach the knobs on the stove
without a stool, Harry no longer sought the assistance of his parents.
He was not only treated differently from his brother (and sister) but also
looked very different from them. It was readily apparent with Christopher and
Iris whom they took after; whereas Christopher had turned into the spitting
image of their father, James with his unruly black hair and hazel eyes that
gleaned with mischief — or malic —, and Iris, at eight, took after their
mother, Lily, sans the green eyes. Harry was a wisp of a boy with large, pale
green eyes and small, delicate features. He hair was too dark to be considered
red, and yet not dark enough to be thought of as black or even dark brown; it
was as soft and heavy as a birds feather and fell just below his ears.
The Potter children were unique in their personalities. Iris and Christopher
had been, in Harry’s humble opinion, spoiled to rottenness by the excess of
gifts and fanfare they received from their parents and others; others thought
his brother and sister charming and well-behaved children, but they were not
subjected to their temperaments whenever things did not go their way. Harry
kept mostly to himself on a principle, electing to do so after numerous failed
attempts to gain the approval of his parents, and the dawning comprehension
that he had little to nothing in common with his brother and sister;
Christopher wanted nothing more than to play sports and torment others, and
Iris preferred to spend her time playing dress-up and crying for whatever new
toy caught her fancy.
Harry did not necessarily hate his siblings or his parents for that matter – if
anything, he wanted nothing more than to be as close to them as they were with
each other. But his own family had made it quite clear that they neither wanted
nor cared for him. He was a burden upon them, and one they couldn’t get rid of
without it negativity reflecting on them.
Because Harry was not the Scion of his family. He was not the Boy-Who-Lived or
even Iris – the girl who’d done the inconceivable and had been born the first
girl in twenty generations. They did not care for his achievements, and kept
him locked away from others under the guise of an ailment that left him weak
and sickly; they did not care about how he felt or even what happened to him.
As far as they were concerned – and perhaps even the rest of the Wizarding
world – because Harry was nothing but ordinary, that alone made him useless; a
stain upon their otherwise perfect family.
But Harry did not care about what they thought of him – at least, not enough to
allow himself to be hurt by it. Of course, there was nothing he could do about
the longing that grips his heart whenever he sees his mother hugging
Christopher and Iris, or hears her reading to them from at night and wishing,
desperately, that she would just come to his room and say goodnight to him as
well. There are times in which he cannot stop envy from unfurling in the pits
of his stomach when his father praises Christopher or takes him out on some
grand adventure.
There was a time when he’d cried just for attention, only to be scolded for it;
he’d even once – in some futile hope of being whisked in his mother’s arms and
coddled – fell from the top of the stairs. He’d gotten a broken arm for his
efforts and confinement in his room for a month for disturbing everyone from
their dinner.
Harry made the best of the situation by keeping his head down and mouth shut.
He had no choice, having learned long ago that doing otherwise only resulted in
punishment – even if it was undeserving.
Which was why, when his mother had ushered him outside on a scorching day in
July and pointed vaguely in the direction of the garden shed, he set to work
without complaint. Within the span of a few hours, he’d mown the lawn, swept
the walk, and watered his mother’s roses; a difficult task meant only for the
house-elves, but his mother hadn’t wanted him inside while they were preparing
for Christopher’s birthday party later that evening. The sun was making its
final ascent as he started on his final task – weeding. Decimating every
unidentified shoot and sprout he could lay his hands on, Harry all but seethed
as he watched people coming up the winding drive of the manor through the gaps
in the flowerbeds.
“It’s my birthday too,” he says as he pulled a dandelion from the soft soil
forcibly. “I shouldn’t be working. I should be celebrating, same as everyone
else.”
He knew, of course, that his parents would never allow him such a luxury. Harry
couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a birthday party, or celebrated his
birthday with his twin, for that matter; maybe never. His parents made sure
that he was conveniently indisposed during all occasions; Christmas, birthdays,
essentially anything that resulted in Harry being within their vicinity was
unacceptable.
Sitting back on his hunches, Harry wiped his brow with an exhausted groan,
leaving a streak of dirt running from temple to temple. His arms were sore and
muscles twitching in compliant as he pulled another weed, tossing it carelessly
into the pail at his side. In all, Harry supposed he could be worse off; his
parents had always threatened to ship him off to live with his mother’s Muggle
sister, permanently.
Nearly three years had passed since Harry had seen his Muggle relatives, and
though he had only spent a few weeks with them while his family was off
traversing through Europe, he remembers the cupboard under the stairs. It was
where he’d stayed during his visit, when not doing chores or using the loo.
The only highlight of the visit, if Harry had to pick one, was the realization
that the Dursley’s hated him for intruding upon their lives. They didn’t care
that Harry wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived or even Heir to the Potter fortunate. As
far as they were concerned, Harry was magic and that was a reasonable enough
excuse to despise him.
Wiping the dirt from his hands onto his shorts, Harry sprawled back on the lawn
and closed his eyes. In all, his morning had been relatively blissful. His
mother hadn’t yelled at him, the neighbors had kept their suspicious glares to
themselves, and all the plants were alive and the exact same size they’d been
when he started.
It was the best he could expect while living with his relatives, which said a
great deal.
When the last of the sun had descended and the air had become cool, Harry
opened his eyes. He was momentarily confused by the sudden splatter of stars in
the velvet, indigo sky, his mind muddled by sleep. Blinking dazedly at the sky,
he rolled himself over onto his stomach and drew to his hands and knees.
Crawling out from beneath the flowerbeds, Harry stood up and stretched with a
long groan.
Entering through the back door, a chorus of “Harry birthday to you,” sounded
from the living room where the party had congregated. Harry stood there for a
moment listening before trudging up the stairs towards his bedroom. Easily the
smallest room in the entire manor, it was furnished with the bare necessities;
there where no photographs or trinkets, and toys. Aside from the old wardrobe,
a narrow bed and bookshelf, it did not look lived in.
Falling back on his bed, Harry tucked his arms beneath his head as he listened
the animated chatter and laughter coming from downstairs. He sighed. Part of
him wanted to go downstairs, consequences be damned. He just wanted to feel
like he belonged, just once.
 
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