Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Light of Hope
The Twins Who Lived
1 reviewOne word, so many consequences. One change, so many outcomes. The life of Harry Potter and his twin sister, Hope, revered by the Wizarding World as the Twins Who Lived.
0Original
Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. You can try to sue me, but you won't get much. I wouldn't bother.
Light of Hope: Part One
Chapter One: The Twins Who Lived
When Petunia Dursley opened the door that morning, on the first of November, she did not expect anything unusual to be there: just the milk, eggs and newspaper. She did not expect to find two bundles, and definitely did not expect those bundles to contain her niece and nephew. When that was exactly what she did find, she did the only plausible thing she could think of.
Her scream was not quite loud enough for Arabella Figg, living several blocks away, to quite make out, but it came close. It was certainly loud enough for her husband, Vernon, to hear.
As he stumbled down the stairs, he remembered how very odd the day before had been for him, and the sense of anticipation he had felt deepened.
"What is it, Petunia?" he asked. "You'll wake up the neighbors!"
His wife seemed to snap out of a trance, and she quickly dragged the bundles inside, leaving the milk and eggs to sit in the early morning .
Inside the blue blanket, a fifteen-month-old occupant stirred and opened wide green eyes and began to wriggle, until her blanket came up against her twin brother. He awoke as well, and while Mrs. And Mr. Dursley argued above them, the pair set out on a mission to free themselves. Upon succeeding, they toddled out to explore the house, hand in hand.
"Oh, no, you don't!" said Petunia as she snagged a baby in each arm, thrusting the boy in yellow at Vernon. After that was taken care of, she inspected the baby in blue--her niece, she supposed, but why her dratted sister didn't dress her in pink was beyond her--and was forcefully struck with a memory of her sister at that age. Dark red hair curled gently over fair skin, marked by large, bright green eyes. There were two differences between her sister and Hope, however. The child in her arms had a thin, jagged scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on her forehead, and (freak that she was) had been born blind.
Petunia switched babies and stared at Lily's son. Jet black hair tufted over identical scar and similar eyes. He saw, though, and his eyes were more alert.
Vernon, who had been reading the letter tucked into Harry's yellow blanket without noticing his wife's antics or Hope's enthusiastic tugging at his mustache, growled and smacked the letter onto the table.
"You're sister and that--that horrible man of her got themselves blown up, and they thrust their brats at us and expect us to just take them? Those two are going strait to the orphanage-"
"Vernon, wait!" Petunia said desperately. She had also read the letter, and the postscript, addressed specially to her. "We...we have to take them. Maybe she was a witch, but she was my sister." Seeing that Vernon was about to overrule her, she hurried on. "W-We'll just have to...to press the magic out of them!"
Three years, two months, and one hour later, a very small Hope Potter pressed up against the wall of the kitchen at number four, Privet Drive. Vernon Dursley stood before her, purple-faced and puffing. Hope and Harry had been awakened by their aunt that morning, with the sharp command to "get up and make breakfast." Harry had performed admirably, setting the toaster to the correct setting and not burning the eggs. He thought that the bacon had burned, but by the time he placed them on a plate they appeared to be perfect.
Hope was not so lucky. Three plates had been thrust into her arms, topped with two breakfast glasses, a lidded cup, three napkins, two knives and three forks; her aunt then instructed her to set the table. Hope's thin arms barely managed to hold the weight, and they gave out after a few steps. The crash and Petunia's shriek alerted Vernon Dursley, coming down the stairs, and his face was turning the most interesting color when he stepped through the door. Vernon grabbed Hope's arm and dragged her into the laundry room.
Harry, eyes wide, listened as his uncle beat Hope, the sharp buckle tearing into her flesh. His aunt, seeing that he was about to rush in, grabbed his arm. He listened in silence, knowing with the strange wisdom of a child in hardship, that if he cried out, it could be worse for his sister. Hope herself made not a sound.
After Vernon had finished, he left Hope in a heap and sat down to breakfast. Harry tore into the laundry room and fell down beside his sister. "Hope," he whispered, wishing desperately that she might wake up and walk with him to their cupboard, where they could go to sleep and find that it was all a dream. He closed his eyes and bit his lip; at least they could go to the cupboard. The light in front of his closed eyelids changed. He peeked and saw that they were in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry kneeling next to the cot, Hope lying on her stomach atop it. Leaning over her, she saw that the blood had dried; and only it and angry red welts remained of Vernon's morning activity. They will never hurt her again, he promised himself. No one will. I won't let them.
Nine years, eight months and seven hours after Petunia first screamed, one Harry Potter found himself on the roof of his school after trying to run away from his cousin. His sister gasped and frantically demanded to know where she was.
After receiving a rather unusual note from the principal of her son's school, Petunia Dursley contemplated her dilemma. She knew that she couldn't punish Hope properly, other than giving her more chores and less food. The last several times she had struck the girl, Harry had run into the room, and Petunia would find herself unable to hit the girl again. The same thing happened to Vernon; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't beat Hope. However... Harry seemed to be a fair target; even if Hope was in the room, nothing had happened, even if the boy had recovered freakishly quickly...
Enough, she told herself firmly. If we cannot punish the girl, the boy will be punished doubly. And summer is soon...
Three days later, the first day of the holidays, Harry was awakened in the night by a voice he knew all too well.
"Boy! Get out here!"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said dully. Better to be quiet, stay out of the way, and do as he was told.
Hope was still asleep on the cot; she never woke up from her dreams.
"BOY!"
Harry opted to simply open the door, rather than answer. He blinked as he walked into the dark hallway, wondering why Uncle Vernon wanted him at this time of night.
"Get into the kitchen," Vernon hissed. The lick on the door clicked. Harry did as he was told, noting fuzzily that the table had been moved, and that there were several layers of newspaper over the linoleum. As he wondered about that, he was pushed and he fell, knocking his head against the floor.
Even less clear minded, he barely felt his shirt being ripped away.
The first blow cut through the fog like a knife. The second dispersed it altogether. The third knocked him unconscious.
Hope awoke with a gasp of pain. Harry was hurt, terribly hurt...
She shrieked for him. Later, she wasn't sure that it had been out loud, but it had the desired effect.
He was in the kitchen.
He was hurt.
He wasn't awake.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Hope was curled up on the cot. She had tried the door, to no avail. It was locked.
The door opened, and a person was tossed into the small closet. Hoped waited until the door was closed, then went to her brother's side.
He was still unconscious. He had landed awkwardly, head thrown back, one arm twisted and pinned beneath him
A wet rag was on top of him. She fingered it and realized that it was the shirt he usually slept in. Her fingertips were smeared with whatever was on the shirt. Hesitantly, she touched her middle finger to her tongue, and cringed at the metallic taste of blood. His chest was wet with the stuff, but she couldn't find the source.
Hope knew he had to be moved. He was hurt, probably lying on top of his wound, and he shouldn't stay on the floor anyway. As he was not awake to argue about taking the cot...
She heaved him onto the cot as gently as she could. Both of them were too thin, and Harry often gave her part of his food.
She found the source of the blood, a strip about three inches wide, stretching from the left of his neck to two inches above his right hip. She sponged off what blood she could with the remnants of his shirt, then sat there, at a loss for what to do. Unbidden and unnoticed tears fell onto the injury, and Harry relaxed in his sleep. Suddenly, Hope felt drained and exhausted. She slumped to the floor and was instantly asleep.
A/N Like? Love? Loathe? Review! (Yes corny, but how else am I going to know what you think?) Constructive criticism is appreciated, praise is delightedly devoured, flames are decidedly unappreciated--for pity's sake, people, if you don't like my fic, tell me why, don't net-scream it in a dialect so peppered with cursing that its hard to see the actual words.
As for the chapter: Yes, I know, it was kind of gruesome, but it was necessary for the plot. Yes, I do have a plot. No, I will not tell you what it is, unless I abandon the story, then I will finish it in summary form.
Light of Hope: Part One
Chapter One: The Twins Who Lived
When Petunia Dursley opened the door that morning, on the first of November, she did not expect anything unusual to be there: just the milk, eggs and newspaper. She did not expect to find two bundles, and definitely did not expect those bundles to contain her niece and nephew. When that was exactly what she did find, she did the only plausible thing she could think of.
Her scream was not quite loud enough for Arabella Figg, living several blocks away, to quite make out, but it came close. It was certainly loud enough for her husband, Vernon, to hear.
As he stumbled down the stairs, he remembered how very odd the day before had been for him, and the sense of anticipation he had felt deepened.
"What is it, Petunia?" he asked. "You'll wake up the neighbors!"
His wife seemed to snap out of a trance, and she quickly dragged the bundles inside, leaving the milk and eggs to sit in the early morning .
Inside the blue blanket, a fifteen-month-old occupant stirred and opened wide green eyes and began to wriggle, until her blanket came up against her twin brother. He awoke as well, and while Mrs. And Mr. Dursley argued above them, the pair set out on a mission to free themselves. Upon succeeding, they toddled out to explore the house, hand in hand.
"Oh, no, you don't!" said Petunia as she snagged a baby in each arm, thrusting the boy in yellow at Vernon. After that was taken care of, she inspected the baby in blue--her niece, she supposed, but why her dratted sister didn't dress her in pink was beyond her--and was forcefully struck with a memory of her sister at that age. Dark red hair curled gently over fair skin, marked by large, bright green eyes. There were two differences between her sister and Hope, however. The child in her arms had a thin, jagged scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on her forehead, and (freak that she was) had been born blind.
Petunia switched babies and stared at Lily's son. Jet black hair tufted over identical scar and similar eyes. He saw, though, and his eyes were more alert.
Vernon, who had been reading the letter tucked into Harry's yellow blanket without noticing his wife's antics or Hope's enthusiastic tugging at his mustache, growled and smacked the letter onto the table.
"You're sister and that--that horrible man of her got themselves blown up, and they thrust their brats at us and expect us to just take them? Those two are going strait to the orphanage-"
"Vernon, wait!" Petunia said desperately. She had also read the letter, and the postscript, addressed specially to her. "We...we have to take them. Maybe she was a witch, but she was my sister." Seeing that Vernon was about to overrule her, she hurried on. "W-We'll just have to...to press the magic out of them!"
Three years, two months, and one hour later, a very small Hope Potter pressed up against the wall of the kitchen at number four, Privet Drive. Vernon Dursley stood before her, purple-faced and puffing. Hope and Harry had been awakened by their aunt that morning, with the sharp command to "get up and make breakfast." Harry had performed admirably, setting the toaster to the correct setting and not burning the eggs. He thought that the bacon had burned, but by the time he placed them on a plate they appeared to be perfect.
Hope was not so lucky. Three plates had been thrust into her arms, topped with two breakfast glasses, a lidded cup, three napkins, two knives and three forks; her aunt then instructed her to set the table. Hope's thin arms barely managed to hold the weight, and they gave out after a few steps. The crash and Petunia's shriek alerted Vernon Dursley, coming down the stairs, and his face was turning the most interesting color when he stepped through the door. Vernon grabbed Hope's arm and dragged her into the laundry room.
Harry, eyes wide, listened as his uncle beat Hope, the sharp buckle tearing into her flesh. His aunt, seeing that he was about to rush in, grabbed his arm. He listened in silence, knowing with the strange wisdom of a child in hardship, that if he cried out, it could be worse for his sister. Hope herself made not a sound.
After Vernon had finished, he left Hope in a heap and sat down to breakfast. Harry tore into the laundry room and fell down beside his sister. "Hope," he whispered, wishing desperately that she might wake up and walk with him to their cupboard, where they could go to sleep and find that it was all a dream. He closed his eyes and bit his lip; at least they could go to the cupboard. The light in front of his closed eyelids changed. He peeked and saw that they were in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry kneeling next to the cot, Hope lying on her stomach atop it. Leaning over her, she saw that the blood had dried; and only it and angry red welts remained of Vernon's morning activity. They will never hurt her again, he promised himself. No one will. I won't let them.
Nine years, eight months and seven hours after Petunia first screamed, one Harry Potter found himself on the roof of his school after trying to run away from his cousin. His sister gasped and frantically demanded to know where she was.
After receiving a rather unusual note from the principal of her son's school, Petunia Dursley contemplated her dilemma. She knew that she couldn't punish Hope properly, other than giving her more chores and less food. The last several times she had struck the girl, Harry had run into the room, and Petunia would find herself unable to hit the girl again. The same thing happened to Vernon; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't beat Hope. However... Harry seemed to be a fair target; even if Hope was in the room, nothing had happened, even if the boy had recovered freakishly quickly...
Enough, she told herself firmly. If we cannot punish the girl, the boy will be punished doubly. And summer is soon...
Three days later, the first day of the holidays, Harry was awakened in the night by a voice he knew all too well.
"Boy! Get out here!"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said dully. Better to be quiet, stay out of the way, and do as he was told.
Hope was still asleep on the cot; she never woke up from her dreams.
"BOY!"
Harry opted to simply open the door, rather than answer. He blinked as he walked into the dark hallway, wondering why Uncle Vernon wanted him at this time of night.
"Get into the kitchen," Vernon hissed. The lick on the door clicked. Harry did as he was told, noting fuzzily that the table had been moved, and that there were several layers of newspaper over the linoleum. As he wondered about that, he was pushed and he fell, knocking his head against the floor.
Even less clear minded, he barely felt his shirt being ripped away.
The first blow cut through the fog like a knife. The second dispersed it altogether. The third knocked him unconscious.
Hope awoke with a gasp of pain. Harry was hurt, terribly hurt...
She shrieked for him. Later, she wasn't sure that it had been out loud, but it had the desired effect.
He was in the kitchen.
He was hurt.
He wasn't awake.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Hope was curled up on the cot. She had tried the door, to no avail. It was locked.
The door opened, and a person was tossed into the small closet. Hoped waited until the door was closed, then went to her brother's side.
He was still unconscious. He had landed awkwardly, head thrown back, one arm twisted and pinned beneath him
A wet rag was on top of him. She fingered it and realized that it was the shirt he usually slept in. Her fingertips were smeared with whatever was on the shirt. Hesitantly, she touched her middle finger to her tongue, and cringed at the metallic taste of blood. His chest was wet with the stuff, but she couldn't find the source.
Hope knew he had to be moved. He was hurt, probably lying on top of his wound, and he shouldn't stay on the floor anyway. As he was not awake to argue about taking the cot...
She heaved him onto the cot as gently as she could. Both of them were too thin, and Harry often gave her part of his food.
She found the source of the blood, a strip about three inches wide, stretching from the left of his neck to two inches above his right hip. She sponged off what blood she could with the remnants of his shirt, then sat there, at a loss for what to do. Unbidden and unnoticed tears fell onto the injury, and Harry relaxed in his sleep. Suddenly, Hope felt drained and exhausted. She slumped to the floor and was instantly asleep.
A/N Like? Love? Loathe? Review! (Yes corny, but how else am I going to know what you think?) Constructive criticism is appreciated, praise is delightedly devoured, flames are decidedly unappreciated--for pity's sake, people, if you don't like my fic, tell me why, don't net-scream it in a dialect so peppered with cursing that its hard to see the actual words.
As for the chapter: Yes, I know, it was kind of gruesome, but it was necessary for the plot. Yes, I do have a plot. No, I will not tell you what it is, unless I abandon the story, then I will finish it in summary form.
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