Darth Marrs - Firebird Trilogy 1: Firebirds Son

The Firebird's Son

A Harry Potter Story

By Darth Marrs

Author's Notes:

I had a really long author's note here, but then I realized nobody reads these. However, I did want to establish some expectations and dash others, so you'll find a brief discussion of this story in my forums. Review responses will also fall in that forum as well to streamline the actual reading text.

What you will find A radical AU of characters, settings, history and circumstances. Possible OOCness; some gender switching (according to set rules established above); Seer Harry (for good reason); Seer Luna (also for good reason); Truly Long Lifespans; NO HORCRUXES as described in the book; SEX BUT NO LEMONS; violence; a pot-smoking Sybil Trelawney; and Elemental magical leanings (Not A:TLA, but Greek Classical references).

Book 1 is now available in a Spanish translation by LeumaS Cauldron at ...s/13683267/1/Firebird-s-Son-Book-I-of-the-Firebird-Trilogy-TRADUCCIN.

DisclaimerYep, you guessed it. I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter One: The Eyes of a Witch

Petunia Dursley would never admit to any of the neighbours how very much her nephew frightened her. They would never understand, not really. "He's just a boy," Mrs Pettis next door would say with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Just take him under your thumb and shorten his leash."

"The boy will only act out only as much as you let him," Mrs Polkiss would say, which was ironic given the way her own children acted out.

They could never understand, but Petunia knew what they did not. She remembered what it was like growing up with a witch-born; she still bore the mental scars even if her skin was unblemished. It wasn't just the way Harry looked at her with those witch-green eyes of his. It was if he were looking not through her, but deeper inside her than was proper. It wasn't the fact that he did not cry when he should, and often cried when he shouldn't. Nor was it the way he seemed to watch things in the air with rapturous attention that were not there at all.

No, it was the way he made her feel when she got too close to him. Not just her, but anyone. The first time she picked him up from the basket Vernon found on the front step of their house, she felt as if she were holding an electrical wire. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and on her arms, and her stomach twisted and cramped. Vernon did not try to hold the boythe one time he reached out to him, he jerked his hand back.

"One of them," he snarled. He started a diatribe about how he would not have one of them in his house. However, when Petunia read aloud the letter that accompanied the babe Vernon's face at first reddened, and then paled. "They wouldn't," he finally sputtered.

"They would," Petunia told him surely. "You don't know what it was like, Vernon, when they came for his mum; or what happened right after. They wouldn't think twice to steal our minds and make us slaves, and if they didn't come, the boy would become too dangerous. You remember what happened to my mum and me!"

She placed the toddler back into his basket, but he immediately climbed out and walked with much, much steadier legs than Dudley had at fifteen months, straight toward her. "Green light!" he said in a babyish lisp. "Where Mummy go? Green light!"

He was only fifteen months. They were proud of Dudley saying "Ball!" at fifteen months.

"We may have to take him in," Vernon finally said, "but the letter says nothing about how we treat him. He'll be no son of mine, and I won't tolerate any of his foolishness."

Almost instantly, the family cat, Mittens, came tearing down the stairs from the first floor as if her tail were on fire. Petunia watched in shock as the cat ran to Harry, and then into him, knocking the toddler onto his nappy covered bottom. "Mittens!" he said, giggling as the cat licked him.

There was no possible way he could have known what the cat was called.

Vernon got rid of the animal the next day. He did not take it to a shelter; he took it into the back garden and broke its neck before burying it in the shrubberies. More disturbing was the way Harry cried over the following week, asking for "Mittens" and saying, again, "Green light! Mittens!" until Vernon lost all semblance of his temper and threw the boy into the cupboard under the stairs.

And there he remained.

~~Firebird~~

~~Firebird~~

Harry started school before Dudley did, but not because Aunt Petunia thought he was smarter or more capablebut because at age three he was entitled to five two and half hour sessions a week at the local nursery school for free, and she wanted him out of the house.

The teacher, Miss Jacoby, knelt down to greet Harry when Aunt Petunia pushed him into the class, smiling. "HelloHarry," she said, her smile faltering mid-sentence as she caught herself staring into the most unnaturally green eyes she had ever seen. "My, what bright eyes you have!"

He started to smile shyly, but said nothing. "I'll pick him up in two and a half hours," Petunia said curtly before she turned and left the boy. Ms Jacoby frowned a little at the woman's abrupt manner before looking back down at Harry, who was peering about the room with interest. Other kids were playing in their centresthe girls around the kitchen, the boys and a few other girls at the blocks.

The other kids ignored him, absorbed as they were in their own games, and he simply stood as if frozen, staring at them. "Harry," Jacoby asked, "would you like to play at a centre?"

He shook his head.

"Well, at least let me show you around?" She offered her hand; he stared at it for the longest time as if it would strike him, before he slowly reached up to place his small hand in hers. Miss Jacoby tried to hide her startled jerk as the almost hot, electrical feeling of his hand settled in hers. It took every ounce of restraint she had to keep from jerking her hand away from him. After the initial shock wore off, she looked down to see him staring up at her with those impossible eyes, weeping without a sound.

Alarmed, she knelt down beside him and said, "Are you alright, sweetie?"

How could a three-year-old, even a witch-born, explain how wonderful it was to have anyone actually hold his hand after a year and a half of isolation? The only way he knew how was to rush forward and hug her. Miss Jacoby felt as if she were being electrocuted, but again she consciously fought against her initial reaction and after a moment, the shocking feeling changed from one bordering on pain to a wonderful, soothing warmth unlike anything she ever felt before, and she found herself not just returning the hug, but actually lifting the small boy in her arms. She carried him on and off for the rest of the day, allowing her assistants to handle the other kids for the two and a half hours she had him.

When Petunia Dursley returned with her large, blonde-haired boy in tow, she seemed surprised and even alarmed when she saw Miss Jacoby holding Harry.