Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series of novels and all associated fictional characters or locations are the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling, and whoever else has legal ownership of whatever and whichever. The only things that I claim ownership of are this work of fan fiction itself, and any original characters I might create for it. I do not intend to derive any monetary profit through the writing and publication of this fan work, and strongly recommend that anyone reading this support the official novels, if for some bizarre reason they haven't already!

Revision Note: At any point in time, with or without out notice, small mistakes, typos, and other minor changes may be made to any chapter of this story as I become aware of them. I will only post additional notes such as this one when an important update or rewrite is posted.

Cross-Post Note: All existing and future chapters of this story will be posted to Archive of Our Own as well. The AO3 version of this story features additional formatting options not available on this site (justified formatting and use of single special characters for formatting flourishes) as well as the option to download the story in a number of eBook formats (including both EPUB and MOBI for use with e-ink readers and applications like Calibre). Direct links to the AO3 version can be found on my profile page. However, because of the extra time the additional formatting options take to apply, new chapters will always be posted here before they go live on AO3.

Laurel Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
- a Harry Potter alternate timeline fan novel -
by
The One True Nobody

~ V ~

"I'm tough, I'm ambitious, and I know exactly what I want. If that makes me a bitch, okay."

— Madonna

~ V ~

"The easiest way to be cheated is to believe yourself to be more cunning than others."

— Pierre Charron

- Prologue -
"The Girl in the Tree and the Old Man She Met There"

Laurel Potter, the ten-year-old girl who lived with her aunt and uncle at Number Four, Privet Drive, had grown up wanting for nothing. That, at least, was the impression her teacher had. She always arrived at school, resplendent in well-cleaned clothes that betrayed nary a wrinkle, black hair clean and shining in its tight ponytail. Her green eyes shone with good cheer and mirth, and not a small amount of intelligence: she was the most popular girl in class, and she was a very diligent student. Her cousin, a fat and ill-tempered boy named Dudley Dursley, was constantly being compared to her by their teachers... which infuriated his parents, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, to no end. But they would not dare say anything against it these days. Laurel knew they wouldn't and she knew why. She knew they wouldn't and knowing that they wouldn't just never got boring. She took great private joy in basking in their tight-lipped irritation every time she brought home a report card to show off her marks.

It had not always been that way. There had been a time, when Laurel was small, when she had been forced to wear her cousin's hand-me-down pajamas and shirts and pants. She had slept in the cupboard under the stairs, and her only real family had been the spiders. She had loved the spiders, and she hoped they had thrived since she had left them. But she had come to understand that her aunt and uncle were horrible to her, and something deep inside her heart had refused to let it stand.

She had hatched a scheme a few weeks after the start of school, the year she had turned seven. She had gone out, in the dark of night, and she had climbed a certain tree, one that she had found at the local park. It was, from the outside, an ordinary tree, but as she had played at the park some weeks before, she had climbed it and discovered that some freak miracle of growth had created a comfortable nook very near the top, one that she could sit in safely and even curl up in if she needed to hide. Thinking it might be a good place to hide if the other children wanted to make fun of her again, she'd remembered it.

So, that night, she'd quietly snuck out of the house, locked the front door before closing it, and crept from shadow to shadow up the road until she'd come to the park. And then in that tree she had hidden herself, knowing that if she did not come back, did not go to school in the morning, eventually the police would have to be called. And in calling them, the Dursleys would have to hide their treatment of her. Perhaps they would claim that Dudley's second bedroom was hers, but Laurel had a plan for that. She would cry, she would sob fake sobs and tell the police officer who found her about the cupboard, and how the spiders scared her. She would behave as if the cupboard itself were normal, and that the spiders were the problem. Surely, she knew, no policeman would see the cupboard as normal. She had asked some classmates who were nicer than others what their rooms at home were like, and all of them had their own rooms like Dudley's. So surely it would cause the Dursleys some grief if the policeman who found her didn't like the cupboard. That, combined with the oversized and faded boys' clothes she was wearing, would surely look bad to an officer of the law!

That this would get them in trouble with the law never entered her head in spite of what she was using to spoil her family's name, because no one had told her about child services or anything like that. She simply knew that the Dursleys hated to appear anything other than normal and respectable, and that the best revenge she could think of would be to start bad rumors about them. It would make them very angry, and they would punish her, but punishing her would not make the bad rumors go away.

The police never found her, however. As she hid in the tree after the sun had risen, reading a book that she had nicked from the mostly-untouched bookshelf in Dudley's second bedroom (The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) she heard someone approaching the tree from below. She paused, remaining still and quiet, and bit her inner lip in worry as she heard someone deftly begin to climb the tree. She would have to talk to whoever it was and convince them not to mention that they had seen her, but if she told them she was playing hide-and-go-seek, that would probably be enough to make them go away and keep her a secret.

She dog-eared the page she was on, stared at the dog-ear in dry amusement as she realized the irony of it, and closed it. A few moments later, a branch was pushed aside and Laurel looked up, staring into the stranger's face. A very strange face it was, too. Blue eyes gazing out at her over half-moon spectacles, perched upon a long nose that was quite crooked, as if it had been broken more than once. Beneath the nose and spectacles hung a long, silver-white beard that continued on down and out of sight. It gave her the impression of a wizard out of one of those Tolkien books that the Dursleys had forbidden her to take out of the school library the one time she had come home with one.

Not that his state of dress was very wizardly, but it was odd all the same. The man wore a suit and tie. Very strange tree-climbing attire indeed.

"H-Hello," Laurel said. The old man smiled kindly.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked. Mutely, Laurel nodded.

He looked old enough that he shouldn't have been climbing a ladder, let alone a tree, but he hoisted himself up into the hollow and, as Laurel sat up and shifted, managed to find a comfortable place to sit next to her. His legs in their neat dress-pants dangled freely. She stared; he was wearing pointed boots with buckles instead of laces. Definitely not the sort of shoes you climb trees in, either!

"A very comfortable place to get away from things," the old man observed softly, folding his hands atop his knees and gently kicking his legs out in front of him as if he himself were a child relaxing in a treetop hideaway. "But is today not a school day, Miss Potter?"

Laurel stiffened. The old man knew her name? Well, that itself wasn't terribly odd. There were a lot of strange people who seemed to know her, strange people who would wave or bow or in one memorable case, shake her hand, when she was out shopping with her relatives and the like. Aunt Petunia had been thoroughly spooked by that last one, and Laurel had wondered if she knew the man herself. But she had known better than to ask about it. Don't ask questions... it was a very important rule for a peaceful life with the Dursleys, so if Laurel wanted to know something, she had to find out on her own. None of the strangers had ever stuck around long enough for her to talk to them before.

So Laurel gulped and said, "Yes, but I'm not going."

The old man hummed to himself. "You'll be in trouble with your aunt and uncle when your teachers call home," he said. "To say nothing of the worry you'll cause them if you go wandering off without permission. Is it truly worth it, just to skive off on school?"

Laurel, thinking quickly, realized that telling this man could be as good as telling a policeman as far as starting a bad rumor went. She ducked her head and said, "I'm not skiving! I called out sick," Laurel said. "I'm just relaxing outside instead of inside. The spiders make it hard to sleep."

The old man blinked and some of his good cheer vanished, to be replaced by a kind of uncomprehending blankness. Then he turned to look at her over his half-moon spectacles for a few moments, as if he didn't believe her. But something flickered in his eyes, and he asked quietly, "Have spiders gotten into your bedroom? I'm sure if you told your aunt, she would clean them out so that you can rest."

Although she had claimed to be sick and the old man wasn't questioning it, Laurel got the impression that he hadn't believed her lie. But for some reason, he didn't disbelieve her about the spiders. She gulped and looked away.

"W-well, there are a lot of spiders in my cupboard..." she admitted, trying to go along with her original plan. But something about the old man made her feel as if she was sitting under an X-ray. She shivered. Suddenly, Laurel wanted nothing more than to get out of this tree and find a new place to hide.

The old man turned away, and said no more. For some time after that, the two sat quietly. Eventually Laurel's unease subsided somewhat, although she wondered why he wasn't asking about her cupboard. Was she wrong? Was sleeping in a cupboard normal after all? Guilt crept into her heart. If it was normal, then Laurel had made her aunt and uncle worry for nothing... she should climb down, and find a bus that could take her to school... oh, but she didn't have any money...

"Is it a good book?" the old man asked. Laurel gave a start and glanced at him. He was smiling now, eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "I confess, I'm woefully behind on my reading. The Hound of the Baskervilles is a rather famous one, however, is it not?"

Laurel's eyes went wide.

"'Rather famous' is a way to say it," she said, disbelieving. "Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes! Even me."

"Ah, yes... the famous detective," the old man mused. "I have never read any of the stories, but you cannot swing a shopping bag in a London department store without knocking a stuffed bear wearing a deer-stalker cap off a shelf, can you? I'm surprised a girl your age would be reading such a book."

Laurel shrugged.

"Dudley's got all these books in his second bedroom," she said. "But he never reads them. It's a waste, isn't it? They just get all dusty. So I sneak one out every now and then. But my cupboard doesn't have a light, so I have to go out to the park or something to read."

The man's eyes lost the cheerful twinkling look they'd had up until this point. He didn't respond right away. He almost seemed to be trying to decide something. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

"A book that goes un-read certainly is a waste," the old man said. "But it would not do to steal from your cousin, either."

"I put them back when I'm done! He never even notices they're gone," Laurel said, bristling.

The old man smiled. "Oh, I do not think you're doing anything wrong," he said. "But if he does notice, I am certain he would tell your aunt or uncle, and that wouldn't be good. I think..." The old man paused. "...Yes, I think it is better that you have your own copy. I will see what I can do."

The old man tilted his head downward then, the smile fading away into something... older, more tired-looking.

"...I am afraid I must insist that you return your aunt and uncle's house," the old man said.

Laurel frowned, opened her mouth to try and protest that she would rather stay in the tree, because she needed to rest and get better and the spiders weren't helping. But the old man held up a hand. She couldn't help biting back her response, and he was smiling in apology now.

"I must insist that you return to your aunt and uncle's house later," he amended. "It is... let me see..."

The old man slipped his hand into his front jacket pocket, withdrawing from it a fancy watch. He looked at it. Laurel leaned in, momentarily distracted. She couldn't see the face or hands from here, but it looked like quite a nice pocket watch. He nodded to himself.

"It is quarter-past ten," the old man advised. "Remain here, or find a more comfortable place to read if you wish, and then return to number four around lunch time. I think, by the time you return, your spider problem will be taken care of."

Laurel frowned deeply and glared her best Aunt Petunia glare at the old man, which seemed to amuse him, because the twinkle returned to his eyes.

"How can you know that?" she asked crossly.

"I have my ways," the old man said mysteriously. "For now, I will leave you alone with that fascinating book. Perhaps I shall buy a copy for myself. It's long past time I became acquainted with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I think."

As the old man shifted and moved to plant his pointy-toed left boot on a lower branch, Laurel folded her arms obstinately over her chest, hugging the book to it, which slightly ruined the effect of crossness she wanted. But she said, "And now you're just going to leave? That's rude. I don't even know your name."

The old man paused, looking still more amused. "You're quite right, I have been rude!" he laughed, as if only just realizing it himself. "My name is Albus Dumbledore. Enjoy your day off from school, Miss Potter, and get well soon."

And without further conversation, the man called Dumbledore climbed down and out of sight. Frowning, Laurel stared at the place his head had withdrawn from sight. She sighed, settled back down, and opened her book to the page she had marked, thinking of the odd encounter with the old man, and mentally kicking herself for not asking him if he knew about the other strangers who seemed to recognize her.

She wondered if maybe she ought to ignore his advice to go back home, but she knew it probably wouldn't do her any good. She thought he might know Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon and they'd asked him to look for her, so she climbed down the tree when she started to feel hungry and made her way back to Privet Drive. When she got there, she found her aunt sitting stiffly on the doorstep, eyes darting up and down the street. The woman stood up quickly when she saw her a few houses down, and bustled over.

"You—!" she began, lips thin with anger, but she stopped. Her jaw was tight and Laurel cringed, knowing that she was about to be sent to her cupboard, which maybe wasn't anything other than normal at all.

But Aunt Petunia glanced around, seeming fearful, and turned back toward the house, putting her hand on Laurel's back to push her toward it.

"Inside! Get inside!" Aunt Petunia whispered, stiffly. "Go upstairs. To... Dudley's second bedroom. Take your things up there. And change your clothes! There's a bag of new things on the... on the kitchen table. Get changed and then come down for lunch."

Laurel looked up in alarm. "Dudley's second bedroom?" she asked faintly. "But... what about my cupboard?"

Aunt Petunia flinched, and cast a nervous look around, as if she expected the neighbors to be peeking out of their windows and listening to every word they said.

"You won't be sleeping there anymore," Aunt Petunia said tersely. "And don't ask questions."

They reached the front step of number four, and as Aunt Petunia opened the door to push Laurel inside, Laurel's eyes fell on a faint, dirty half-footprint on the floor that Aunt Petunia normally kept sparkling clean. It was the front of a boot-print, with a pointed-toe shape...

After that, Laurel Potter said good-bye to her friends the spiders and moved her few possessions up into Dudley's second bedroom. She changed clothes, into a cute skirt and shirt that her Aunt had apparently rushed out to buy her, and gave back the horrible over-sized shirt and pants. The lunch that Petunia made for her was cold-cut sandwiches, but compared to what she normally had, it was a lot. And then Laurel went back upstairs, opened the door, and stopped in the doorway.

There was a large, brand-new hardcover novel on her bed. She walked over to it, and lifted it, her fingers brushing over the embossed cover. An image of a tobacco pipe adorned the front, beneath the words The Complete Sherlock Holmes Collection. Turning it over, she read off the back that it contained not only The Hound of the Baskervilles but also all of the other Sherlock Holmes novels and short stories that had ever been written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

She sat down, staring at it. It certainly had not been there before. Abruptly, she stood again and whirled toward the window, heart pounding, for her brain had finally registered something her eyes had tried to tell her when she'd first stepped into the room: the window was open, and in the distance, she could see a bird flying away over the rooftops several blocks away. She walked over to it and looked out, wondering how it had gotten open. But there was no one outside, so she closed and locked it.

Did Albus Dumbledore sneak the book in through my window? Laurel thought wildly. A mad thought. No one would climb the front of someone's house in broad daylight like that. Besides, her window locked from the inside...

She thought back to the footprint near the front door, the pointed-toe footprint. Maybe, though, the reason Aunt Petunia had suddenly decided to buy her new clothes, feed her more food, and move her into a real bedroom had been that old man she had met in the tree...

Bemused, Laurel Potter picked up the old copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles that she had been reading at the park and returned it to Dudley's neglected bookshelf. Her eyes drifted over all of Dudley's old, broken things. There would be a big project of moving these things out of her room, Laurel knew... her room, yes, that sounded so nice even in her head. She would probably be the one who had to do all of the work, she thought. Better rest up while she had the chance.

So, Laurel Potter flopped back onto her bed, opened her shiny, new Sherlock Holmes collection, and running an absentedminded fingertip across the lightning-shaped scar above her left eye, she began to read. She found where she had left off in The Hound of the Baskervilles and lost herself in the mystery, not knowing just how much the status quo had changed, not knowing that over dinner, her Uncle would with a sublimely pained expression on his large mustached face tell her that she and Dudley would be moving his extra toys and things into the attic, not knowing that Aunt Petunia would ask her after dinner if she perhaps wanted to go shopping for more clothes over the weekend, not knowing that in two months, her Aunt, looking stiff and strained, would come up into her bedroom while Uncle Vernon was away at a business dinner, to tell her the truth about the "car crash" that had killed her parents...

The ten-year-old girl who lived with her aunt and uncle at Number Four, Privet Drive, had grown up wanting for nothing. That, at least, was the impression her teacher had. She always arrived at school, resplendent in well-cleaned clothes that betrayed nary a wrinkle, black hair clean and shining in its tight ponytail. But she had grown up wanting for everything, until an old man named Albus Dumbledore had visited number four and, because he was a wizard, made sure that Vernon and Petunia Dursley knew in no uncertain terms that he would not tolerate their mistreatment of their niece any longer. For Laurel Potter was a witch, and her daring plan to start bad rumors about the Dursleys by sneaking away and hiding until a policeman found her had been a smashing success. It hadn't gone anywhere close to how she'd expected it to, of course...

...but life was good. And now, at ten years old and as the school year came to an end, Laurel Potter lay awake every night, her window thrown wide open, gazing out into the stars and wondering when the owl would come.

The owl that was surely going to be sent soon, sent with the letter that told her she had been accepted as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, like her mother before her...

Author's Note:

I have a grudge against Harry Potter fanon worthy of Severus Snape, and if I went into detail about it here, I suspect I would anger some people who believe that it enriches Harry Potter fanfiction in general. I do, believe it or not, understand the sentiment. But I feel much of it, through repetition, weakens the potential of many stories and presents a crutch upon which many less-talented fanfiction writers lean. At its worst, it's used as an excuse for some truly horrible fanfiction trope repetition. Manipulative Dumbledore, who wants Harry to die as a sacrificial lamb to defeat Voldemort and has been hiding Harry's birthright as Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Potter and the vast piles of gold that come with it! Oh, and Slytherin House has a policy against displays of disunity between students! And pureblood noble etiquette, and wards, and magical cores and on and on and on. I'm sure there's some story, if you follow the memetic "bloodline" of the tropes back far enough, that does something worthwhile and engaging with each of these concepts, but I have only ever seen them, at their best, as elements that cheapen even the actually good stories they appear in.

So, I will not be using them. At all. And if a character appears in this story who has a generally accepted fanon portrayal, you can expect them to not be anything like that in this one. I'll draw on canonical information as my primary source and my own theorycrafting and imagination to fill in whatever blanks canon leaves if it turns out that I must fill them in for a particular story situation to work. If you are so attached to fanon that this is an immediate turn-off (or if you feel defensive in the face of my criticism of it), then perhaps this is simply not the story for you.

As for this prologue... well, I decided while thinking of how to start this story that I don't want to bog the early chapters down with the familiar slow burn of the original Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I love the first half of Book One, but since fanfiction is written for people who (presumably) have already read it, I figured it'd be more worthwhile to get into the Hogwarts school year and the main plot of the book quicker and focus more strongly on that than on spending multiple chapters treading the mostly-familiar ground of our female-Harry's oppressive existence under her vile relatives. So I decided this would be a story about a version of Potter who had learned she was a witch long before receiving her letter. I decided that Albus Dumbledore would most certainly put his foot down if he realized that the treatment our heroine was receiving was having an effect that defeated the purpose of leaving her with the Dursleys to begin with, causing her to run away and endanger herself. I also wanted to show Laurel's more Slytherin-aligned personality in a way that doesn't necessarily make her smarter than she should be at the age of eleven by having her hatch a kind of ill-advised scheme that only "worked" in a way she couldn't possibly have predicted and probably wouldn't have gone half as well otherwise.

That is all. For those of you who stick around... I hope that you enjoy the story!

— Lewis Medeiros,
November 13th, 2019 at 2:00 PM