Seven Pointed Star
Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and scenarios are the legal and intellectual property of the one who first created them. Therefore, Hogwarts, Harry Potter, Trelawney's prophecies, the war with Voldemort, and all other characters, locations, and scenarios from the Harry Potter series are the sole property of J. K. Rowling, with all rights and ownership as have been legally determined by her or those with the legal authority to act in her name. In other words, I don't own it.
A Note on Fairie Names: All sidhe names in this story, Seleighe and Unseleighe, are a single syllable. The only exceptions to this are the names of the Courts and the word "fairie," which is the human term for them. The old Gaelic (or Celtic?) name, sidhe (pronounced 'she'), is being used as their term for themselves.
A sixteen-year-old boy with messy black hair and shockingly green eyes sat on his bed in the Gryffindor Tower, his bed curtains opened and a book on his lap, carefully arranged to make the most of the moon- and wand-light that he was attempting to read it by. No longer small and scrawny, the slim young man still thought of himself as being short, but those who had known his father at school had no doubt that Harry Potter would be every bit as tall as James had been.
Professor Dumbledore had called Harry up to his office near the end of Transfiguration that day, offered him a lemon drop (which Harry had declined) and then handed the boy a thin, dragon hide-bound book, inconspicuously black with "Lily" printed in gold in the lower right-hand corner of the front cover. The sixth-year Gryffindor had looked at the book in confusion, looked up at the batty old Headmaster, and then opened the book. At the sight of Lily Potter's handwriting, he had gaped up at Professor Dumbledore, and there had been a decidedly satisfied twinkle in the old man's blue eyes.
"It's your mother's journal, Harry," the aged Headmaster said gently. "I haven't read any of it, Harry—it's all yours. I hope that this can help to answer some of the questions that I have not been able to." He smiled, twinkling merrily at the sixteen year old on the other side of his desk.
"If you had this, why didn't you give it to me earlier?" Harry demanded, anger rising. The old man had kept so much from him, from leaving him with the Dursleys to refusing to tell him the contents of the Prophecy. He kept it in check—barely—and hoped that this time the Headmaster might have some sort of explanation.
Dumbledore shook his head, that annoying twinkle lessening. "I didn't have it, Harry," the old man said softly, sounding hurt. "I found your mother's diary when I was going through Sirius's things; he named me to execute his will. I don't know why Sirius had it; perhaps he did not even know that he did. The important thing is that it has found its way to you now."
Though he wasn't entirely sure he believed the Headmaster, at least the old man was starting to make an effort to correct his mistakes, and on some level Harry had to respect that. He had nodded, taken the journal, and chatted with Dumbledore for a few moments before returning to class. After classes that day, he had opened the book, pouring over it, devouring the entries that told of his mother's life from the time she was eleven on. Despite the fact that he had never been one to spend hours with a book, he hadn't put down the journal since he had opened it. Now he was nearing the end, and he came across an entry that was different from the ones that he had read up to that point: this one was addressed to him.
1 June 1980
James and I have been married for a year now. It's so hard to be happy about it when so many terrible things have happened; still, it's wonderful to know that we have each other. James's parents, my parents, Remus's … all dead in the last two weeks. It's almost as though Voldemort is taunting us. He can get to anyone, anywhere, and no one we care about is safe.
Oh, little one, I'm so frightened. If for no other reason that you're ours and that we've gone against him so many times, Voldemort is going to want you dead. You'll be marked from birth, just like James and I are marked. We've defied Voldemort too many times for him to let anything of ours remain, your father and I.
Know that I love you. Even now, when we're not even sure if you're a boy or a girl. James wants you to be a boy so that we can name you Harry, his father's middle name. If you're a girl, your middle name will be Deirdre, after his mother. I don't care if you're a Harry or a Rose. I picked that one; it's a tradition to name the girls in my family after flowers, as I've probably mentioned before. I love you, Harry James or Rose Deirdre. My little Potter. My little baby. We'll do everything we can to protect you. I only hope it's enough.
I love you, baby.
Harry had to wipe tears from his eyes. He had always known his mother loved him, especially since discovering that her love had saved him, but he had no memory of her saying it. Now it was here, right in front of him. His mother loved him. Still blinking back tears, he read on.
17 June 1980
Dumbledore just gave us the most horrible news. It's about you, little Harry or Rose. Well, only if you're a Harry. Some Seer named Sibyll Trelawney had a prophecy while Dumbledore was interviewing her for the Divination position. And if you're a boy, you fit the description. You and Frank and Alice's baby. They're naming him Neville, I think.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month die."
Oh, my darling baby! Voldemort knows the first bit, that you or Neville is a danger to him. Dumbledore told all four of us, James and I as well as Frank and Alice, and told us we should go under a Fidelius Charm when the babies are born. Dumbledore is going to be the Longbottoms' Secret Keeper, but James wants Sirius to be ours. Sirius will do it; he's so loyal. He's going to be your godfather; he'd do anything to protect you.
Oh, baby, I hope you're a girl—you have to be a girl. That's the only way you'll be safe from Voldemort. We can only keep you safe if you're a girl, if you can't be the one the prophecy is talking about. I hate to hope for it to be Frank and Alice's boy, but it can't be you. We can't loose you. You have to be a Rose.
Tears sprung to Harry's eyes, trying to escape as he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face into his hands. His mother had been so scared for him, and in the end it hadn't helped. She had wanted him to be a girl so he'd be safe—and then he'd been a boy. He gripped the edge of the book, forcing himself to continue, wrinkling the pages as he read.
31 July 1980
You're a boy. You're a boy, and you were born today, on the last day of the seventh month. Born to those who have thrice defied him. Harry, my little Harry, I'm so scared for you! We're going into hiding, and James and Sirius decided to switch Secret Keepers at the last moment, from Sirius to Peter. I'm scared, but they're right; no one in their right mind would think we'd used Peter.
I love you, Harry. We both love you. But I'm so scared for you. If only you'd been a girl, or you'd been born on a different day. I'm going to do everything in my power to protect you.
14 August 1980
Oh, my baby, my little Harry! This is going to be my last entry, and now I'm not sure you'll ever see this. I've given you away to the only people who could find us, and perhaps the only ones who can truly protect you. They'll keep you safe, and train you so that you can defeat Voldemort if you're to be the savior of the wizarding world. I don't care about the world; I just want my baby! But at least you'll have a friend among them, another little one with you. Frank and Alice gave Neville to the fairies as well.
The thing they've given us to take your place looks something like you, I suppose. If we get out of this all right and I get to see it grow up, it won't look the same. Like a Potter, they assured us. No one will suspect. But still, not my little one, not my Harry. I can hardly bear to look at it.
The whole thing makes me sick. To have to give away our baby to the fairies and take a changeling in his place—no parent should have to do that. The fairies say that we'll forget soon that it's not Harry, and that the changeling will forget quickly, too, and stop screaming. But I don't want to forget. I want my Harry back.
That final entry was like a poisonous, hypnotic snake—he hadn't been able to look away, and it had bitten him. He felt sick, and he could hardly think. He was a changeling. A changeling, not Harry Potter at all, not even human, but some thing that his parents had been given when the fairies had taken the real Harry Potter away with them. And Neville, too—
Author's Note: Well, it looks like I might actually be able to get back on my feet with Seven Pointed Star now. This is so much better than it was before, and rewriting the first fourteen chapters should help me to get back into the groove, so to speak.
Reposted 13 March 2007