Chapter Text
The night was calm. Almost too calm. Only thing disturbing the almost absolute silence was the sound of soft wind between boring, identical houses. Standing there, on this boring, normal street, between those normal, plain houses was a man completely out of ordinary. Tall elder, with a long, white beard, wearing distinctive blueish robes. Next to him stood a neat, strict looking woman, with her dark hair slit back into a bun. The unusual visitors, talked in hushed voices, clearly waiting for something or someone to end the tension around them.
- Are you sure this is the right call, Albus? The boy will be famous. Adored by everyone in the magical world. Is it fine to raise him so far from his roots?
- I'm sure, Minevra. It'll do him good to have a normal childhood. He doesn't need to know yet. Let the boy rest.
In that moment the silent night was abruptly cut by a roaring motor engine. A flying motorcycle came down from the dark, cloudy sky. A man of an impressive size stepped down onto the ground. In his hands layed safely an infant wrapped in a soft blanket. With tears in his eyes, the gigant handed the sleeping child to Albus.
- Do we have to leave him here, Professor? - Hagrid wepped, searching his coats pockets for a tissue. - He's still so small...
- He'll be the safest here. Away from the evil of the wizarding world. Away from his destiny. - That said, Albus placed the unaware boy securely on the front stairs of the house number four. - Good luck, Harry Potter.
***
Petunia had a really bad morning. She barely slept that night, because some hooligan decided to ride their loud bike down the street at two in the morning, the kettle's lid broke in half, while she was making coffe, and Dudley was once again throwing a fit in the feeding chair. What she didn't expect, however, was that it could, in fact, get even worse. How you may ask? Well, finding her one year old nephew, whose mother she cut contact with a good few years ago, laying on her doorstep with nothing more but blanket and a good luck note, was not on Petunias to do list for today.
For a moment she stood there, completely frozen in place, looking at the child as if he was a curse placed on her perfect family by some hateful force, but as that initial shock wore off, she quickly took the kid, and hid him inside, calling out to her husband (what would the neighbors think!).
- What are we supposed to do with him? We don't have the time to raise two kids. - Vernon walked circles around the living room in stress - No, no, we have to put our family first. Keep our son away from all this ridiculous... magical... heresies!
Petunia looked down at the now crying child in her arms. His eyes - identical to her sister's big green orbs - observed her through the tears as he extended one little arm toward her face. An ugly, fresh, lightning shaped scar cut through the boys forehead. She felt sorry for the child. He did loose his parents after all. Her sister was dead. Gone forever, just like that. But Vernon was right. They can't raise another child. Especially not a one connected to those people. To that world.
- You're... You're right. We need to take legal action. Let the government deal with him. He'll be safe living in the orphanage. He shouldn't be our responsibility.
- Don't worry darling. - Vernon gently put Harry into a portable baby car sit. - I'll take care of it. - That said, the man put the kid on the back seat of his car and drove off.
Filling out the documents in the adoption center he could feel his hands shaking. It wasn't the boys fault. But if everything in the letter was true... he could be dangerous. And Vernon could not take that risk. He had to protect his family. Protect his son from all those magical freaks. He looked at Harry, now laying safely in one of the caretakers hands.
- Sorry kid, but you're mot my problem anymore - He signed off the last paper, handed the stack of papers to the director, and looking at his nephew one last time left the center.
***
Dazai didn't remember his early childhood. All he knew, was that around the age of two, he was sold by some British orphanage to an organ dealing organization, transported to Japan, and after his oppressors were caught, he ended up alone in the Yokohama slums just like many other kids and adults these times. Somehow surviving from one day to another he ended up as an apprentice of a certain underground doctor, which led him to where he was now. Not even eleven yet, Dazai was a higher executive of the port mafia, and the bosses right hand. He was the demon prodigy, the terrifying being no one believed to be human anymore, not even Dazai. The bandages curled tightly around his body and face, covering God only knows what, his black, way too big coat flopping in the wind. He slowly looked down at the coursing river a few meters below his feet, the black water mirrored in his dead, greenish grey eyes. He slowly touched the lightning shaped scar on his forehead, now cowered by the bandages. All he ever wanted was to die, and right now, only thing between him and eternal rest was just one small step. But he couldn't. Not today. He needed to complete the task given to him by Mori. Dazai threw his legs over the bridges railing, and landed safely on the concrete sidewalk. He turned his head to the men in black suits patiently waiting for his orders.
- What are you waiting for. - His voice unnervingly cold for a child that young. - It's time.
That said, Dazai walked up to the seemingly abandoned hall, loaded his gun and kicked the door open.