What If Harry Potter, The Chosen One, Had Turned Out To Be A Squib, How Do You Think History Would Have

What if Harry Potter, the chosen one, had turned out to be a squib, how do you think history would have turned out differently?

It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily… strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

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Every Version of You (Spideypool)

Uh yes. Tissues? Also, blame @paranormalmoonlight5 and THIS post for this whole thing. I didn’t have to write it angsty but I 100% did and I regret nothing.

Seriously tissues. TW Character (Wade) Death but since its a multiverse sort of thing, the ending is still okay

THERE’S MORE SPIDEYPOOL ON MY MASTERLIST!

*******************

The apartment building wasn’t as nice as the one Peter and Wade shared in their universe, and Peter looked around the lobby curiously.

It was the same building– same address, same double door entrance, the lady at the front desk was still blonde and sort of shockingly busty- but it just wasn’t as nice. The rich brown tone looked about fifteen years past needing a repaint and the tiles on the floor were cracked and dingy. More than a few lights were out, several of the mailboxes bent and busted open and the elevator made a truly terrifying screech as it came to rest at the bottom floor.

Peter got in the elevator car anyway, because it wasn’t every day he ended up blipped into a side universe and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity to explore. Mr. Stark would be furious when he found out Peter had tested the travel chamber on himself, but Peter had very carefully set the timer for no more than three hours before he faded back to his own timeline, and he was only walking the familiar parts of this version of New York, so realistically, he was being as safe about this whole thing as he could be, right?

Right.

Plus, he was curious about this version of himself, curious about this version of Spider-man and curious about whether this him had met and fallen in love with one loud mouth, spandex clad, disaster of a mercenary as well and the only way to satisfy all that curiosity was to go and find out.

So here he was in an alternate timeline, parallel universe, multi-something or other where apparently, the elevator button for the fifteenth floor had been so badly abused the entire thing fell right off and bounced on the dirty carpet when Peter pushed at it.

Alright, so this universe had seen better days. Noted and noted.

The hall of the fifteenth floor was dim, the numbers hanging haphazardly from various doors and the floor stained with something Peter wasn’t even going to begin to think about. He couldn’t help but wonder who owned the building and why it was in such bad repair, did this universe have different stands for apartment buildings? His own place wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but at least all the lights worked and there wasn’t –ick– rats in the hallway.

When Peter got to the apartment that was theirs in his own universe, his key slid right into the lock, but then caught and stuck as if it hadn’t been used for some time. That most likely meant this Peter and Wade didn’t feel the need to obsessively lock their doors like he did, which was…odd… considering how gross the building was.

Peter hadn’t actually planned this far ahead in his little jaunt through alternate timelines, he hadn’t thought about what he would do if he opened the door and Wade was in the apartment or he himself was in the apartment– what a weird conversation that would be.

Although, if they had figured out the whole multiverse thing on his end, surely other Peter Parker’s had figured it out too, so maybe he wouldn’t be as surprised to see himself standing there as he thought he would be?

The convoluted thought made Peter smile, so he opened the door and peeked his head around into the apartment, more than ready for a look at another version of his own life.

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genuinelysurpriseditsbutter

6 years ago

Not A Good Sign: This Kid Hasn’t Been Diagnosed With Anything Yet, But Chris Pratt Has Been Standing Outside Of His Room For 3 Days Straight

Until recently, 10-year-old Danny Franklin lived a normal life. He liked playing soccer, hanging out with his friends, and reading comic books. But then something happened that changed everything. He hasn’t been diagnosed with any sort of terminal disease yet, but Chris Pratt has been standing outside of his room for three days straight.

Well, that can’t be good. Read more

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genuinelysurpriseditsbutter

7 years ago

petition to rename the usa ‘south canada’

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genuinelysurpriseditsbutter

6 years ago

this was for an aquarium

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genuinelysurpriseditsbutter

5 years ago

Some days, you wake up and you’re content in life.

Other days you wake up and wish you had been thrown into the void during the night.

Please yeet me tonight

Shadowed Heart/Winter Souls (Chapter Twenty-Three)

MASTERLIST

*********************

“Signore Carbonell Stark.” The butler waved the footman away and opened the carriage door himself, bowing at the waist to offer a polite, “Welcome home to Italia, how was your journey?”

“Tiresome, thank you.” Tony smiled at the man, grateful he had been willing to travel from the Stark estate in Brescia to meet the carriage here at the home in the hills behind Chioggia. “It’s good to see you, Jarvis.”

“E ‘bello vederti, Antonio.” Jarvis broke into a smile and clapped Tony’s shoulder lightly, all the worry lines accumulated in the last year of hearing nothing from the young master washing away in mere seconds. “It is good to see you as well.”

Tony turned back to the carriage and held out his hand for Natalia. “This is my wife, the Lady Natalia Romanova-Stark. And our ward–” he tugged Natalia to the side and held out his hand for Wanda as she departed the carriage as well. “Signorina Wanda Maximoff, and her brother, Pietro Maximoff.”

“Welcome.” Jarvis bent low over Natalia’s hand to kiss her knuckles, and offered the same treatment to Wanda. “Benvenuta. I am most pleased to meet you all.”

Pietro came down the stairs stiffly, painfully, and Jarvis neatly side stepped the women to wrap his arm around Pietro’s waist and help him to the ground, not so much as blinking at the sight of bandages that covered most of Pietro’s head, or the gauze on his fingers and up along most of his arm.

“Be very careful, Signore Pietro Maximoff.” Jarvis said lightly. “I would be very disappointed if you spilt blood on my beautiful stone path, I finished scrubbing them this morning.”

Pietro blinked his one uncovered eye at Jarvis, and when the elderly butler only grinned, Pietro’s lips tugged up in a reluctant smile as well.

“What Jarvis means is that he found a local boy who wanted a few coins and was willing to scrub stones all day.” Tony informed them. “Since I am no longer home to cause mischief and earn my way into ridiculous chores as punishment, he has had to resort to hiring help for the more unpleasant cleaning.”

“Your butler made you do chores, Antonio?” Wanda wondered, hoisting her own small traveling bag and collecting Natalia’s as well. “And you obliged him?”

“Jarvis is much more than my butler.” Tony hooked Natalia’s hand through his arm, leaning into kiss her temple when she didn’t say anything. “He was my body guard, he kept me from trouble, drove me places when I was young, covered for my–” a quiet cough. “–indiscretions.”

“Taught the boy to hide love bites with a touch of powder and blush.” Jarvis continued, ignoring Tony’s embarrassed squawk and focusing instead of helping Pietro over the stones to the house. “Fixed clothing when Antonio ran off and got into a mess instead of sitting quietly in the parlor, ensured he could at least act the part of a nobleman even if he was truly a hellion. Taught him to handle a rifle, to assemble a pistol before famiglia Beretta took him into their work space.”

Jarvis sent Tony a smile over Pietro’s head. “Taught him to throw a punch, though he hasn’t used the knowledge near as often as I’d like.”

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genuinelysurpriseditsbutter

1 week ago