Harry Potter and the Trouble With Neurotypicals 1

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is a young and abused Black boy with Asperger's syndrome, and is hated by his guardians, the Dursleys. A little over a week before his birthday, he discovers that he is also a wizard, and the Dursleys knew all along. Not only is he a wizard, but he's also famous in the wizarding world! An AU fanfic.

(Transgender character introduced in chapter 7)

Harry Potter and the Trouble With Neurotypicals

Author's note: Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's work, not mine. I only wish I'd written it so I could be wealthier than the queen, but alas, such is not the case.

Year One: The Philosopher's stone

Chapter One: Little Whinging

Little Whinging, Surrey was what Americans would call the suburbs, inhabited by upper middle class people, most of them white, so boring and normal looking that all the nearly identical houses lacked was white picket fences. What was more, the residents of number 4 fit in well, one could even say abnormally well. Which, given that Petunia Dursley's sister (whom she kept secret) was anything but normal by the standards of the town, meant Petunia was probably overcompensating. Or maybe not. Be that as it may, the town didn't have a single abnormal bone in its metaphorical body.

So it was probably good that the most abnormal-looking man imaginable that appeared (at least by the poor imaginations of the neighborhood's residents) had come by dark of night. Looking like something out of a King Arthur movie, Professor Dumbledore magically made the area even darker with his silver, cigarette-lighter shaped Deluminator, and went over to number 4. When he got there, he was met by a cat.

Professor Dumbledore smiled. “Fancy seeing you here, Minerva.”

The cat changed into a rather austere woman, whose expression was of shock. “How did you--”

“--know it was you? Yes, well, I did read the Animagus registry after all. And even if I had not, you were far stiffer than any cat I have ever seen.”

“You'd be stiff too if you were sitting on a brick wall all day.”

“What, no parties for you on this frabjuous day?”


“Pardon me, I have been reading books by the muggle author Lewis Carroll, and I rather forgot you would not get the reference.”

Professor McGonagall blinked at him. “Anyway, Albus,” she said, recovering her composure, “is it true about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Yes, he really does seem to be gone. I do think he may return, but for now his power is broken.”

“And Lily and James?”

Dumbledore hung his head, his eyes behind their half-moon spectacles watering. “Both dead, I am sad to say.”

Her voice cracking with emotion, Minerva struggled to speak more. “And Harry?”

“It appears he did indeed somehow manage to survive the killing curse Voldemort aimed at him. How, we may never know.”

“All those people he killed, Albus, and he couldn't kill a little boy?” Dumbledore did not know what to say to that, so he decided to treat it as a rhetorical question and ignore it. Anyway, McGonagall was struggling to cry silently. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder for emotional support, but continued to say nothing.

When she once more regained composure, McGonagall asked, “So... so where is Harry? Is he with you?”

“Oh no, no no no. Harry is with Hagrid.”

“Do you think that wise? Hagrid--”

“Has my complete confidence. I would trust him with my life.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but the silent night was suddenly assaulted by the roaring of a motorcycle engine. The motorcycle generating the sound soon crashed onto its wheels from the sky; given the enormous size of the man riding it, no doubt magic prevented it from breaking apart under him.

“What the devil? Hagrid? Where did you get that motorbike?”

Hagrid turned off the bike and walked over to the two Hogwarts teachers. “Young Sirius Black lent it ter me, ter get young Harry here.”

“Is that him?” McGonagall asked. “The Potters have been in hiding so long, I don't think I've ever seen him before.”

She looked into the basket and saw a small black boy with bright green eyes and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was lighter in color than the rest of his skin.

“Yes,” she said, “I know he's only a baby, but I can see James in him. And of course, Lily's eyes. Yes, that has to be Harry.”

“Aye, Professor McGonagall ma'am, tha's Harry alrigh. I seen him meself tha day he was born, long with Sirius an' Peter an' Remus.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Yes, and a magical scar forever marking him. I wonder if it will be as useful to him as the one I have, of the London Underground.”

McGonagall looked at Dumbledore with an expression of confusion, but said nothing.

“Well,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, “give Harry to me, Hagrid, so we can leave him here.”

McGonagall blanched. “Here? Albus, you cannot seriously think of leaving him here , with these... these people . They're horrible! Worse muggles I doubt I've ever seen. And that bratty son of theirs was kicking his mother down the street, screaming for lollies. Harry Potter, come to live here ?”

“I have set up old magic here that will protect him for as long as he can call the place home. I have corresponded with Petunia in the past, and thus I have no doubt she will care for the boy. He is, after all, her sister's son.”

“Dumbledore, I don't think--”

“It is already done, Minerva. I am an excellent judge of character, I do know what I am doing. It may not be an ideal life, but he will be fine, I am certain.”

Though she still had her doubts, Professor McGonagall did not argue further. Dumbledore got out the letter for Petunia, putting it in the basket next to Harry, and Hagrid gave the small black boy a very whiskery kiss goodbye, before bawling his eyes out. While McGonagall shushed him, Dumbledore set Harry's basket down on the stoop. McGonagall noticed this and frowned.

“You're not leaving him out in the open, are you, Dumbledore? I mean to say, anybody could snatch him up. Or he might catch a cold or worse.”

“Relax, Minerva. Along with the old magic I told you of, I have placed a warming charm on the blankets, and I will be casting a spell that will keep him hidden from all eyes but ours and Petunia's until she lifts the basket up. He will be fine.”

“Well, it just seems odd to me, you going to all that work to protect him and then just leaving him on the stoop like a set of milk bottles.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Do you think me incapable of protecting him? Or unwilling to protect him?”

The austere woman looked uncertain. “Well, no. Of course not.”

“Then trust that he will be fine.”

She still looked uncertain.

“If it would put you at ease, Minerva, you could continue to stay here as a cat, and watch over him until the morning?”

She considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I think I will do that, Albus.”

“It's settled, then. Until later, Minerva.”

McGonagall nodded back, morphed once more into a cat, and retook her previous position on the wall, while Hagrid flew off on that noisy motorcycle, and Dumbledore returned the lights from his Deluminator, then disappeared with a small pop.

And so Harry lay in his warm basket, not knowing he was famous, not knowing that he and Professor McGonagall would soon be shocked awake by Petunia Dursley screaming like she'd been murdered when she found him on the doorstep, not knowing that a very tired McGonagall would reluctantly leave him to be pinched and prodded by his cousin Dudley, unwittingly leaving him to a life of abuse and neglect.

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