Summary: At the age of ten, Harry Potter disappeared off the face of the Earth. After months of hunting on the part of the Ministry and the Order, Harry is presumed dead and the search is called off. Four years later, a mysterious and suspiciously familiar boy is found. Remus takes on the task of reintroducing him to the wizarding world, Harry resisting every step of the way. Why did he leave? Where has he been? And most of all, will he ever trust anyone again? (Contains implications of child abuse)
Minerva McGonagall sat comfortably at her desk. The firelight danced across the stacks of parchment she was slowly making her way through. It was that time of the year again. The summer was drawing to a close and she was dutifully signing the letters addressed to each of the students who were to be attending Hogwarts the coming year. She found she quite enjoyed the repetitive task, her quill making the same confident strokes over and over and over. Some might think the assignment dull, but she found it relaxing: soaking in the warmth of the fire, listening to the scribbling of the enchanted quill that was addressing the envelopes, the rustling of parchment as the booklists magically folded themselves.
Pausing in reminding Zachary Stebbins to catch the train on September 1st, she removed her square spectacles, laid them carefully on her desk, leaned back in her chair, and shut her eyes. She intended to take full advantage of the last few weeks of peace before the students returned. She was just contemplating taking a break to make a pot of tea and indulge in a few Ginger Newts when she noticed how quiet it was in the room. The magical quill had halted its systematic scribbling despite the thick stack of envelopes still to be addressed
Never having known of this happening before, it was with some curiosity that Professor McGonagall walked around the desk to see what was wrong. The emerald green quill was poised motionless over the paper as though awaiting dictation. On the envelope was written only one line of text, nothing more.
McGonagall frowned concernedly. A students name shone clearly in the still drying green ink, but no address was written below it. The quill was charmed to replicate the names and directions offered to it by the Trace Spell placed by the Ministry on all minors based on their magical signature. But for some reason, with this student it did not appear to be working.
Unsure of how best to act, McGonagall stared at the envelope for a moment longer. This specific name gave her particular reason to be nervous. And so, making up her mind, she turned on her heel, strode quickly over to the door and wrenched it open. Albus would know what to do. He always did.
Behind her, still lying on the desk, a single drop of emerald ink fell from the tip of the quill and landed with a splatter on the envelope, just below the words, Mr H. Potter.