A/N: This is the second story I've ever written, so hopefully it turns out as decent as my first. The general idea for my story is inspired by the story 'Lucky Harry' by Pyrgus which I encourage you all to go and read, I found it to be pretty good. You'll notice some similarities in the opening, but my ideas should depart pretty rapidly from his. I'll be posting it as I write it, I have the first few chapter done already and I'll post them in short order. Because I'm posting as I'm writing, expect there to be a less polish on them than my other work. That said, enjoy! Please review and let me know what you think.
By noon on November first, 1981, the world as a whole could not have been more different from the way it had been only 24 hours before.
Samhain. Halloween. The beginning of the dark half of the year. The time when humanity's ancestors took their flocks in and culled them in preparation for the coming cold. This was the time that changed the fate of the world, a fate which had been building for more than a decade.
On this day, in the wee hours of the morning, the self-styled Dark Lord Voldemort came knocking at a charming cottage in the village of Godric's Hollow. He sought to end the life of the one prophesied to destroy him, and as is so often the case with prophecies, in doing so brought about his own destruction.
The charming cottage in the valley that was Godric's Hollow was property of the Ancient and Noble House of Potter, and was inhabited by a couple and their child. James Charlus Potter, Lily Marie Potter, and young Harry James Potter.
That quiet and dark morning was interrupted by fire, lightning, the roar and clash of conjured creatures, and finally death. The gods alone know what transpired in that small home, but the results were free for anyone to see. James and Lily, loving parents and caring friends, were killed. Thomas Marvolo Riddle, the Dark Lord, was banished. Harry survived, marked for his time on this mortal coil by shadowed memories of a family he would never truly know and a bright scar on his head.
Many in the coming years would remark that the scar looked like a lightning bolt. Some would see it as a mark of a life yet to be lived. A rune forged in the dark heart of a magical event, Sowilō, the mark of the sun. The mark of the purifying light.
Sadly, only a few would truly see it for what it was. A sad reminder to a too young orphan of all he had lost, nothing more, and in the cold cruel dance of fate, nothing less.
Harry James potter was rescued from the wreckage of his first home, and by the order of the reigning leader of the times, sent to live with his last remaining blood relatives. Vernon and Petunia Dursley.
The young couple knew the boy was different. They knew he was part of something much larger than their lives would ever reach. They hated him for it. Harry was neglected, sentenced to live in a cupboard, a space unfit for even the storage of cleaning supplies. They did not feed him as the tiny child needed. They spared no band-aids, no sippy-cups, and no object not already at least third hand for the boy.
When their own son, Dudley, reached the age necessary to understand what this behavior meant, the physical assault on Harry began. Harry was target practice for the youngest Dursley and all of his friends. By the age of seven, Harry had broken enough bones to make a professional hockey player consider a different profession. By age nine, Harry had lost enough blood on the ground of his school, local park, and home to fill three children his malnourished size. Vernon and Petunia were careful to never touch the boy themselves though, by an understanding reached inside Harry's earshot, nothing was done in view of the adults either.
Sometimes life, sometimes magic, and sometimes fate are each curious things. These actions did not break a child who was never certain of his own name. No. These collective actions forged inside the young boy the will of a warrior. A heart bent to the purpose of living despite adversity, and an intelligence dedicated to righteous vengeance. There was a reason the boy was injured so. He never backed down. His hide bore the work of a gang of budding thugs and he fought them as best he could, knowing that if he didn't no one would. The blood, the bile, the abuse all gave Harry James Potter a weak body, but a diamond soul.
Thus the stage is set for our tale. In another world, many have remarked that Harry Potter was fate's whipping boy and fate's bitch. What if, on one day early in the year 1990, fortunes were reversed, and instead Harry made fate his bitch?