Chapter Text
HARRY POTTER AND THE FIRST LAW
Newton’s First Law of Motion:
Every object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless compelled to change its state by the action of an external force.
CHAPTER 1
It began, as all manner of things do, with something quite small.
A serene woman, wearing an Ankh and dressed all in black, returned a favour for a colleague, and took over his responsibilities for a time. In the course of completing those responsibilities, she dallied for a short while with, shall we say, a ‘client’, allowing said client to write the last few lines of his first novel before accepting his end.
It need not be said that the friend she was substituting for would not have agreed to that brief reprieve, and if he had been the one completing his duties that day… Well. Things would undoubtedly have turned out very differently.
And, in another universe, another time, they did.
But in this universe, the man was allowed to finish his novel before dying, and his son later found both his father and the novel finished. His son, a noted dog lover and maths teacher, while still grieving, felt comforted by the completed novel, and resolved to set his efforts to seeing it edited, revised and published.
This meant, of course, that he would be unable to teach the next year at Stonar School, where he would have discovered a new litter of bulldog pups and promptly turned them into a project for the young girls to care for over the course of the school year. But because he was unable to look after said dogs, instead of being teaching tools, they were sold to a pet store. One of those dogs went on to be the pet of a young boy named Warlock, rather confounding the plans of a certain angel and demon…but that is another story altogether.
This story, however, begins when a young girl named Marjorie Dursley does not meet a litter of bulldog pups and falls in love with them. Instead, young Miss Dursley falls in love with…a horse.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Stonar School, Wiltshire
Tuesday, January 9, 1962
“I wouldn’t.”
Twelve year old Marjorie Eileen Dursley turned and sniffed at the older boy leaning against the stable wall. “Wouldn’t what?” she said haughtily.
The dark haired teen nodded his head towards the stall she was in front of, “Wouldn’t ride ‘ol Basil. He looks a treat, but he’s a lousy jumper.”
Marjorie paused, eyeing the beautiful bay Welsh pony in front of her. She only needed to complete this term’s course on riding and she’d be done with that elective, but she was determined to show up the other girls at the end of term competition. “And how would you know? Who are you anyway?”
“I know ‘cause my da’s the vet, and I’ve seen Basil out on the course. He looks awfully nice jumping, but he lands stiff.” He looked her over and Marjorie straightened up self-consciously. “Not sure why you want to jump anyway.”
She bristled, “Just because I’m a little larger than the other…”
“No, no, no,” the teen responded shaking his head, “I don’t mean your weight, though you’ve got a bit of pudge, I mean your gait, your stance; you’ve got great balance and a straight back. I think you’d be a dream at dressage.”
Taken aback, Marjorie struggled for a response. The teen’s assessment of her ‘pudge’ wasn’t spoken derisively or harshly, and his tone wasn’t unkind. Before she could think of anything to say he continued speaking, waving a hand out towards the paddock.
“And if you want to try your hand at it, I’ve got the perfect horse for you.”
Curious now, Marjorie followed him out into the paddock as he walked up to…a rather sorry looking mare with tangled mane and covered in mud. She looked at the horse, a slow anger building within her. Was this a joke?
“Good morning to you, Dory-girl,” the teen said softly, feeding a carrot to the mare. His face and voice were suffused with affection. He looked back and saw the confused and angry expression on Marjorie’s face and laughed heartily. “Hey there, don’t judge a book by its cover! Now, what’s your name?”
Pursing her lips, she considered the youth. Dark, curly hair set in an open, friendly face, dark eyes glimmering with humour and seemingly not a trace of the malice she’d expect if a joke were being played. “Marjorie.”
He smiled at her, “Well, Miss Marjorie, you can call me Jake, and this lovely lady here is Menodora. Means gift of the moon in Greek, and she’s a gift alright. Unfortunately, she’s also addicted to the mud. Look, hop on the fence and give me a few minutes to clean her up, alright? I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
A soft whinny drew Marjorie’s attention to the mare, and she blinked in shock. “Blue eyes?”
Jake nodded even as he began hosing the mare down, “Aye, she’s a blue-eyed cream Connemarra pony. Stonar got her for a steal because Ireland’s banning blue-eyed creams, superstitious idiots. They used to see them as just bad luck, but for a decade or so now they’re convinced they’re God’s fury or some such nonsense. Don’t believe a word of it, though, if anything she’s God’s gift. Just wait, you’ll see.”
Struck by the mare’s unusual eyes, Marjorie hopped up on the paddock fence and watched as Jake hosed the mud off the horse and then carefully groomed her. Twenty minutes later he was putting a saddle on, but Marjorie had long since ceased paying attention to the tall teen. She was completely captivated by the blue-eyed, creamy white horse gleaming in front of her – gift of the moon indeed!
By the end of Easter term, Marjorie was completely in love with Dory, and thrilled to be the winner of the term dressage competition. By the end of Trinity term, riding had been added to her daily schedule. By the end of Michaelmas term the next year, Dory’s scare with a foot abscess had her learning everything there was to learn about equine veterinary science from Jake’s father. By sixth form, Marjorie had convinced her parents to send her to university to become a vet specialising in equines.
By the time she graduated with honours from the Royal Veterinary College of the University of London, she had her whole life planned out ahead of her…but after a proposal featuring a frisky blue-eyed cream colt named Chandra, she allowed that perhaps her life could include Jacob Leo Blakely.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Summersly Farm, Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex
Wednesday, December 16, 1981
Eileen Blakely, once known as Marjorie Dursley (and quite pleased to have rid herself of both names, finding her middle name and Jake’s surname far more appealing), rolled her eyes so fiercely it hurt. “Vernon, don’t be ridiculous! It’s Christmas, of course we’re coming!”
“But, Marge–”
“Vernon, how many times have I asked–”
“Sorry, sorry. Leena. It’s just…” There was silence on the other end of the line before her brother’s rather nervous voice returned. “There’s been, well, a few changes here, and…well…” Another long pause and what must have been a harsh whisper from Petunia. “Well, alright. We’ll see you both soon, then.”
“Yes, see you Saturday.” Leena shook her head, wondering what on earth was going on with her brother now. Hanging up the phone, she looked over at her husband, curled up on the couch with the kittens from the newest stray to wander onto their farm. “Changes? My brother is making less sense than usual.”
Jake shrugged, “Well, Petunia did just lose her sister…”
Leena snorted, “Yes, because that was such a loving sisterly relationship.”
A raised eyebrow prompted her to blush slightly. “Yes, I know, pot-kettle and all that.” She walked over to the couch and snuggled into Jake’s other side, so as to not disturb the kittens. “I do love Vernon, I do, it’s just…” She thought for a moment and then continued, “I think the hardest part about Vernon is that I see him as the well-travelled path.”
“Hmm…” Jake sighed. “Yes, I can see that. You took the road less travelled on and he…well.”
“And he followed in our parents’ footsteps,” she filled in. She set up slightly straighter to look at her husband. “I mean, think of it: you know how close I was to leaving Stonar that year. I didn’t fit in with the other girls, I was a right bit pudgy and rude and put on airs I had no reason to – imagine if I hadn’t met Dory and left at the end of Easter term like I meant to.”
She shuddered. “I’d have gone home, a failure, spent my time looking after Vernon and going to the local, maybe ended up with a secretarial job. Add a few good stones more and I’d have been a miserable old maid determined to make everyone else’s life miserable too.”
“Ah, thank goodness for Dory,” Jake teased.
She laughed. “Well, yes, you were a bit helpful I suppose…”
“Oi!”
She shot him a cheeky grin, then sighed, as she thought back over the years. “Imagine if I’d never gone to India when Neha invited me in sixth form. Imagine if I hadn’t gone to Greece with Thalia or to Kenya with Akinyi sophomore year at RVC –”
“Or the Devon Horse Show, the Festival in Aachen, the Paris show…”
“Exactly! Vernon’s never been out of the country! His biggest dream is vacationing in Majorca!”
“Which is in Spain–”
“Yes, in Spain, but he’d be surrounded by mostly other Brits and probably wouldn’t even have to learn: ¿Dónde está el baño?!”
Jake’s body shook with his deep belly laugh and he rearranged the kittens to cuddle her closer. “Si, mi amor, but you did finish Stonar. You did finish university. You did travel outside the country. You have taken the road less travelled.”
Leena tucked her head under Jake’s contentedly. “Yes. And that has made all the difference.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Little Whinging, Surrey
Saturday, December 20, 1981
Jake pulled up into the driveway of prim and proper Number 4 Privet Drive and shivered slightly. The perfectly normal looking house in the perfectly normal looking neighbourhood always made him uncomfortable – everything just the same, everything in its place.
So very unlikely Summersly, the converted granary on Truleigh Hill they’d made their home. Built in 1801, there was always some small repair needing done, weather boards needing replaced, roof needing patched, mud on the floor no matter how hard one used the rugs, cats running everywhere and bits of hay spread about like tinsel on a Christmas tree.
But there was something different now, a shiver down his spine as they walked up to the house, different from his usual discomfort…he shrugged his shoulders, trying to relieve the odd feeling as Vernon stepped out to greet them.
The feeling persisted even as they settled their things into the guest bedroom, fussed over Dudley with Petunia hovering proudly and sat down for tea, and Jake tried to put it out of his mind. There was a rather lovely spread to enjoy; regardless of any other character traits, Petunia was an excellent cook.
He opened his mouth to compliment the food, when a thin, wavering sort of cry echoed from upstairs.
Jake looked at Leena. Leena looked at Jake. They both turned to look at Dudley, snug in his high chair. They turned to look at Petunia, turning white and Vernon, swallowing nervously.
Leena cleared her throat. “Ah, changes, you said, Vernon?”
Vernon and Petunia glanced at each other grimly. Vernon nodded abruptly, and stood, “Yes, well. I suppose I’d better show you.”
A few minutes later, Vernon, Jake and Leena were gathered around a rickety crib in what had been the Dursley’s storeroom, now turned into a makeshift nursery. Inside the crib was a small, shivering toddler with a dark patch of hair, striking green eyes, and…a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
Jake looked at the scar. Leena looked at the scar. They ignored Vernon stumbling through an explanation until certain phrases caught their attention.
“Did you say he was left on your porch? With just a letter?” Leena asked incredulously.
Vernon nodded, his moustache bristling, “You have to understand, Pet’s sister, she…well, she was involved in all sorts of…strangeness. The people she was with…they’re just not normal.”
Jake and Leena looked at each other again, a silent conversation between couples occurring. Both nodded rapidly a minute later, and Leena moved decisively to pick up the toddler and change him, scolding Vernon as she did so, because obviously anyone could see the poor dear was soaked through! Of course he was crying! And when was the last time he’d been fed?
Leaving Vernon in his wife’s capable hands, Jake walked downstairs, nodded briskly to Petunia and picked up the phone to call his father.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Hampstead Garden, London
Saturday, December 20, 1981
Mark Blakely, formerly known as Marius Black, put down the phone and looked at his wife Chloe. “Well.”
Chloe raised an eyebrow, “Well?”
“It appears the safe place Albus Dumbledore sent the Boy Who Lived is Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry Potter is living with Jake’s in-laws.”
Chloe blinked, tilted her head and blinked again. “Well, indeed.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
NOTES: The woman referenced in the beginning of the story is, of course, Death, from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman universe. Warlock is from Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s Good Omens. This story uses canon and fanon interchangeably, as well as original characters and interpretations. Charlus and Dorea Potter are Harry’s grandparents, for example, (Euphemia, who?) and the Blakely family and friends are original characters. Most locations referenced exist: for those details, family trees, floor plans and other references, please see: oniongirlsays dot dreamwidth dot org slash 437916 dot html