Chapter Text
The Dursleys of Number Four, Privet Drive, were a perfectly normal, thank-you-very-much kind of family. They were the last people you'd expect to find involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. Which made the arrival of a small, green, vaguely humanoid creature on their doorstep one chilly November morning all the more perplexing.
This creature was not Harry Potter. Harry Potter, a one-year-old with a lightning bolt scar, had been there a moment before, sleeping peacefully in his basket. Then, with a faint pop and a smell of swamp water and felt, he was gone. In his place was a small green being with wide, unblinking eyes, flailing arms, and a distinct lack of hair.
Professor Dumbledore, having just placed the basket there, peered down over his half-moon spectacles. "Well," he said, his long white beard twitching. "That's new."
Minerva McGonagall, a tabby cat moments before, transformed back into her stern form. "Albus! What is that? Where's the boy?"
Dumbledore prodded the small green creature with his wand. It let out a startled "Yeeeep!" and flailed its arms more wildly. "Hm. Appears to be some form of amphibious homunculus. Fascinating. The magical signature is still identical to Harry's. The scar is even there." He pointed to a faint, zigzagged mark on the creature's green forehead. "The prophecy must hold. The magic of Lily's sacrifice is anchored to this vessel."
"So... that's Harry Potter?" McGonagall asked, aghast.
"So it would seem," Dumbledore replied cheerfully. "I'm sure it will all work out for the best. Now, about these lemon drops..."
Inside the house, Vernon Dursley opened the door to see what the racket was. He saw the old wizard, the stern woman, and the green thing in the basket. He promptly shut the door, counted to ten, and opened it again. It was still there.
"What is that?" he bellowed, his face turning a shade of purple that clashed horribly with the creature's skin.
"Our nephew, Harry," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye.
Vernon Dursley's brain, a small and delicate thing, made a sound like a kettle boiling dry. Petunia shrieked.
For the next ten years, Kermit the Frog, who had been enjoying a relatively quiet afternoon of banjo practice on a log before a sudden, inexplicable detour through reality, lived in the cupboard under the stairs. He didn't understand it. One minute, he was tuning his G-string, the next he was being shoved into a dark space by a large, angry purple man and told to "shut his green gob."
Kermit, being Kermit, tried to make the best of it. He hummed show tunes. He tried to befriend the spiders, who were surprisingly unresponsive to his renditions of "Rainbow Connection." He occasionally stared at his reflection in a puddle of mop water and wondered what the hell a "Dursley" was and why he had hands instead of flippers. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead sometimes tingled when his cousin Dudley tried to kick him, which usually resulted in Dudley tripping over absolutely nothing and landing face-first in a bowl of custard. Kermit would just blink slowly, utterly baffled. It wasn't magic, he assumed. Just clumsy kids.
The day the letters started arriving, everything changed. Letters addressed to "Mr. K. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs." Kermit was excited. Mail! He hadn't gotten mail since... well, ever. Vernon, however, went into a state of apoplectic rage. He burned the letters. He nailed the mail slot shut. He fled the house in a panic, dragging his family and a very confused frog-boy to a rock in the middle of the sea.
That night, as a storm raged, the entire hut shook. The door blasted off its hinges. Standing in the doorway was a giant of a man.
"'Ello, Kermit," said Hagrid, beaming. "Finally gettin' ter meet yeh. Happy birthday."
Kermit stared. "Yeeeeeeep?"
Hagrid walked in, sat down, and the hut groaned. He presented Kermit with a slightly squashed chocolate cake. "I'm yeh're guardian, see. Sent by Dumbledore."
Kermit, who had no idea who any of these people were, politely took a piece of cake. "Uh, thank you. It's lovely. But... who's Kermit?"
Hagrid's face fell. "Yeh are, o' course. Kermit Potter. The boy who lived."
"Kermit Potter?" Kermit mumbled through a mouthful of cake. "That's... that's a heck of a name." He'd always just been Kermit. Potter sounded like a thing you cooked with.
The conversation that followed was a whirlwind of madness. Wizards, witches, magic, a dark lord, a curse that rebounded. Kermit nodded along, trying to process it all. It sounded like one of Gonzo's more elaborate pitches. A dark wizard named Voldemort? Killed his parents,s but couldn't kill him? It was all a bit much.
"So... I'm a wizard?" Kermit asked, his voice a high-pitched squeak.
"A great one, I'll bet," Hagrid said, pulling out a pink umbrella.
Vernon Dursley, who had been sputtering with rage, finally found his voice. "HE WILL NOT BE GOING!" he roared.
Hagrid pointed his umbrella at Vernon. "Don't you insult Albus Dumbledore in front o' me!"
A bolt of what looked like pure, untamed chaos shot from the umbrella tip. It didn't hit Vernon. Instead, it struck the pig's tail that Dudley was hiding behind. There was a squeal, and Dudley suddenly had a perfect, curly, pink tail sprouting from his trousers.
Kermit's eyes went wide. He didn't see a jinx. He saw a potential act for the show. "Wow! That's some special effects! How'd you do that?"
Hagrid just stared at him, then burst out laughing. "Yeh're a piece o' work, yeh are."
The next day was Diagon Alley. It was sensory overload for a simple frog from the swamp. Goblins, witches, wizards, shops selling everything from cauldrons to cursed amulets. Kermit just held onto Hagrid's coat, his wide eyes taking it all in. He was fitted for a wand. Mr. Ollivander, a strange, silvery man, went through dozens of wands.
"No, no, no... try this one, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Nice and supple."
Kermit took the wand. He felt a warmth spread through his hand. He gave it a tentative wave, like he was conducting an orchestra. Instead of a shower of sparks, a single, perfect rainbow shot out of the tip and arced over the shop, landing with a gentle ploomph of glitter on a grumpy-looking owl.
Ollivander stared, his mouth agape. "Extraordinary. Most extraordinary."
Kermit just shrugged. "I was going for more of a gold sparkle, but rainbow works. It's all about the presentation."
On the Hogwarts Express, Kermit sat alone in a compartment until a red-haired boy with a smudge on his nose asked to join him. "Anyone sitting there?"
Kermit shook his head. "Nope. Just me. Kermit. Kermit Potter."
"Ron Weasley," the boy said, sitting down. "Blimey, are you really...? I mean, they say you survived the Killing Curse."
Kermit blinked. "I guess? I don't really remember it. I remember a banjo, and then a cupboard, and now a train. It's all a bit of a blur." He wasn't lying. The timeline was fuzzy.
A bossy-looking girl with bushy hair poked her head in. "Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost his."
"No toads," Kermit said helpfully. "I'm more of a frog person, myself. The family resemblance, you understand."
The girl, Hermione Granger, did a double-take. "You're... you're green."
"Born this way," Kermit said cheerfully. "It's a whole thing."
The Sorting Hat ceremony was the peak of the day's absurdity. When Professor McGonagall called out "Kermit Potter," a wave of whispers swept the Great Hall. Kermit, feeling a bit like he was about to go on stage, hopped up to the stool, and the Hat was placed on his head.
Hmm, a voice said in his mind. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes. And a thirst to prove oneself. But where to put you?
Kermit thought, Well, I just try to keep the show running, you know? Make sure everyone hits their marks and gets along. It's not easy.
The show...? the Hat thought, confused. *You have a loyalty, a desire to bring everyone together... to belong... but to belong... but that raw power... that chaotic, swamp-born energy... It could be great in Slytherin...
Kermit's internal monologue was simpler. Slytherin? Sounds a bit snooty. I'm more of a 'rainbow connection' kind of guy. You know, somewhere everyone's welcome.
The Hat was utterly bewildered. It had never sorted someone based on their preferred musical genre. But the core of its dilemma was this: the boy had the heart of a Hufflepuff, the nerve of a Gryffindor, the intellect of a Ravenclaw, and the raw, unbridled ambition of a Slytherin, all wrapped in a layer of profound confusion and politeness. It had never seen anything like it. Finally, it made a choice, one that felt right despite the magical paradox.
"GRYFFINDOR!" it bellowed.
The Gryffindor table exploded in cheers. Ron Weasley was thumping the table so hard his plate jumped. As Kermit hopped over to join them, he gave a polite little wave to the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy, a pale, pointed-faced boy, flinched as if the wave were a physical blow. There was something about that creature's wide, unblinking smile that was deeply, fundamentally unsettling.
~Timeskip~
Life at Hogwarts was a strange new song for Kermit. He was rubbish at Potions. Professor Snape, a greasy-haired man with a permanent sneer, seemed to have a personal vendetta against him.
"Mr. Potter," Snape drawled, looming over his cauldron. "Pray tell, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Kermit, who had been trying to stop his sleeve from dipping into the bubbling liquid, looked up. "Oh, uh, I think one is a bit more... wolfy? And the other is more... monkish? Are they related to the Muppets? I knew a wolf once. He was a drummer."
The class snickered. Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "Detention. And a zero for your complete and utter ignorance." But as he turned away, he failed to notice that Kermit's cauldron, which had been simmering a sickly brown color, had suddenly turned a vibrant, shimmering emerald green and was emitting a faint, pleasant smell of rain on lily pads. Kermit hadn't done a thing. He'd just been thinking about home. The potion was perfect, better than anyone else's, but Snape was too furious to notice.
It was during a flying lesson that Kermit's bizarre luck truly manifested. Madam Hooch had to take Neville Longbottom to the hospital wing after he took off too early. "No one is to move while I'm gone! Touch your brooms, and you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'!"
Of course, Draco Malfoy couldn't resist. He spotted Neville's Remembrall on the ground. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find." He mounted his broom and took off.
"Give it here, Malfoy, or I'll knock you off that broom!" Ron yelled.
"Is that so?" Malfoy sneered, flying higher.
Kermit, who had been quietly trying to balance on his broom, felt a surge of... something. It wasn't anger, not really. It was more like the feeling he got when Miss Piggy was about to karate-chop someone for messing with her props. A sense of 'the show must go on, and you're not ruining it.'
"Oh, for heaven's sake," he muttered, and kicked off the ground.
He didn't just fly. He soared. There was no wobble, no uncertainty. He shot into the air like a cork from a bottle, his little green body a blur against the sky. He didn't grab a broom; he just sort of... willed himself forward, his arms and legs dangling beneath him as if he were sitting on an invisible chair.
Malfoy stared, horrified. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm getting the Remembrall," Kermit said, his voice calm. "It's important to return borrowed props."
He zipped past Malfoy, snatched the glass ball out of the air with one hand, and then, as he started to fall back to earth, he simply... stopped. He hovered twenty feet in the air, looking down at everyone.
Professor McGonagall, who had witnessed the whole thing from her office window, came sprinting out. Her face was a mask of shock. "POTTER! COME DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
Kermit floated gently to the ground, landing on his feet with a soft thump. "Yes, Professor? Is there a problem?"
Instead of punishment, he got a seeker's position on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Oliver Wood, the captain, was practically weeping with joy. "The way you flew! It was like you were born on a broom! Or, well, born to fly without one!"
"I just wanted to make sure Neville got his thing back," Kermit said with a shrug.
~Timeskip~
The Halloween troll incident was another exercise in confusion. When they heard a troll was in the dungeon, Kermit's first thought was, "A troll? Like in 'The Muppet Show'? Did he sing 'In the Navy'?" He, Ron, and Hermione ran to warn Hermione, who was in the girls' bathroom.
They found the troll, a massive, smelly creature, wielding a giant club. It cornered Hermione. Ron and Harry froze. But Kermit, seeing a damsel in distress and a large, lumbering potential co-star, did what came naturally.
"Excuse me, sir!" he called out in a clear, friendly voice. "Hi-ho! I don't think you're supposed to be in here. This is the ladies' room."
The troll stopped, its tiny brain trying to process this. It had been expecting screams, not a polite greeting.
"We're putting on a show, you see," Kermit continued, walking towards it with his hands out, placatingly. "And we can't have any interruptions. It's just not professional. But maybe you could be in it? Do you have a particular talent? Singing? Dancing? Juggling?"
The troll, utterly bewildered, just stared. Kermit was now standing right in front of it. He patted the troll's giant, dirty leg. "You're a big fella. Strong. We could use you for heavy lifting. What do you say?"
The troll raised its club. Hermione screamed, "KERMIT, LOOK OUT!"
Kermit looked up at the club descending towards his head. He didn't move. He just flinched and threw his hands up. "Yeeeeep!"
The club stopped an inch from his face, as if it had hit an invisible wall of pure, unadulterated niceness. The troll grunted, confused, and pushed harder. The club wouldn't budge. It was like trying to punch a cloud made of rainbows and good intentions.
Frustrated, the troll swung the club sideways, trying to hit the wall instead. The impact was deafening. The whole room shook, and the troll, having put all its strength into the swing, lost its balance. It staggered back, tripped over its own feet, and crashed to the ground, out cold.
Ron, Hermione, and the arriving teachers stared at the scene: a twelve-foot troll unconscious on the floor, and a small green frog-boy standing over it, looking concerned.
"Is he okay?" Kermit asked. "He took a nasty fall."
Professor Quirrell, the stammering Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, looked more terrified than anyone. "M-m-m-m-monster! S-s-saved by b-b-b-by..."
"By a frog," Kermit supplied helpfully.
The mystery of the third-floor corridor and the three-headed dog, Fluffy, was next. Kermit wasn't scared. He was intrigued.
"Well, hello there, big fella," he said, as the monstrous dog growled at them through the trapdoor. "You're a very good boy, yes, you are! Are you a singer? You have the lungs for it, I can tell."
He started humming a soft lullaby. Fluffy, who had been about to tear them limb from limb, stopped. Its three pairs of ears perked up. Its growls softened to whines. Within a minute, all three heads were lying on the floor, fast asleep.
Hermione gaped. "How did you do that? Music's supposed to soothe the savage beast, but not that literally!"
"It's all about finding their key," Kermit said, stepping over a massive paw. "Every performer has one."
This led them to the Devil's Snare. While Hermione figured out the sunlight spell, Kermit was simply... not getting caught. The tendrils would wrap around his leg, and then, as if remembering they had something better to do, they would just... let go and retreat. He was too alien, too fundamentally other, for the plant's simple predatory instincts to comprehend.
The final obstacles were a cakewalk. They flew past the keys on brooms, with Kermit once again flying without one, just hovering beside Ron. The giant wizard chess set was solved by Ron's strategy, but when a giant stone rook was about to crush him, Kermit just looked at it and said, "Now, that's not very sporting." The rook paused, its stone fist inches from Ron, and crumbled into a pile of gravel, as if the very concept of unsportsmanlike conduct was anathema to its magical construction.
~Timeskip~
Finally, they reached the final chamber. There, standing before the Mirror of Erised, was Professor Quirrell. And for the first time, Kermit felt a chill that had nothing to do with the castle's drafty corridors.
"Harry Potter," Quirrell said, his voice suddenly smooth and free of its stammer. "We meet again."
Kermit tilted his head. "I'm sorry, have we met? I'm terrible with faces. And... well, heads." He pointed to the back of Quirrell's turban.
Quirrell laughed, a horrible, grating sound. "Clever. Very clever. But it is too late for you. The Stone is mine. And soon, the Master will be whole again!" He unwound his turban.
On the back of Quirrell's head was a face. A terrible, snake-like face with glowing red eyes. It was the most horrifying thing Kermit had ever seen, and he had once had to negotiate a contract with a talking cheese.
"Voldemort," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling.
"Yeeeeep," Kermit squeaked, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock.
"Kill him, my servant!" Voldemort commanded.
Quirrell lunged, his hands outstretched. Kermit, acting on pure instinct, held up his own hands to shield himself. Quirrell's fingers made contact with Kermit's green felt.
There was no scream of agony. There was a sound like bacon sizzling, but it was coming from Quirrell, not Kermit. Quirrell's hands began to smoke and blister, not from holy magic, but from something far more bizarre. It was as if he had touched a live wire of pure, concentrated niceness. The sheer, unadulterated wholesomeness radiating from Kermit was anathema to the twisted, malevolent soul of Voldemort.
"Aaargh! What is this?!" Quirrell shrieked, stumbling back.
"It's... it's just me," Kermit stammered, looking at his hands. "I don't understand."
"It burns!" Voldemort hissed. "It is like... like being forced to watch a telethon for eternity! The saccharine! The sincerity! IT IS UNBEARABLE!"
Kermit, trying to help, took a step forward. "Look, I'm sure we can talk this out. Maybe you just need a hug? It helps a lot of people."
"NO!" Voldemort screamed, a sound of pure existential terror. "NOT THE HUG! ANYTHING BUT THE HUG!"
Quirrell, driven mad by the pain, threw himself at Kermit again, grabbing his face. Kermit, flailing, pushed him away. The moment Quirrell's bare skin touched Kermit's, he didn't just burn. He began to... unravel. His skin turned to dust, his muscles to smoke, his bones to chalk. He was being disintegrated not by power, but by an overwhelming sense of being fundamentally inappropriate.
"Master!" Quirrell cried out as he dissolved into a pile of dust on the floor.
Voldemort's spirit form shrieked and flew straight through the wall, leaving behind a foul stench of fear and cheap cologne.
Kermit stood there, covered in dust, utterly bewildered. "Well. That was... dramatic."
Dumbledore found them moments later. He took in the scene—Ron and Hermione staring in awe, the pile of dust that was Quirrell, and Kermit looking like he'd just finished a particularly messy number with Animal.
"Professor," Kermit said, "I think I broke your teacher."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "On the contrary, my boy. It seems your mother's protection is more potent than any of us imagined. A shield of love, it seems."
Kermit blinked. "Love? I thought it was... I don't know, static cling? Or maybe he was allergic to felt?"
In the hospital wing, as Kermit was being checked over, Dumbledore explained everything. The Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort's quest for immortality, and how Kermit had saved the day.
"But why did he burn when he touched me?" Kermit asked.
"Because your mother died to save you," Dumbledore said gently. "She left a mark of love on you. A love so powerful, it is a torment to a soul as hollow as Voldemort's."
Kermit thought about this. It made a certain kind of sense, in a weird, magical way. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it. He felt... different. As if the swamp water in his very being had been charged with something powerful and strange, something he didn't understand and couldn't control.
Later that year, at the end-of-term feast, Gryffindor was celebrating its House Cup victory. Kermit sat at the table, a tiny, green figure amidst a sea of red and gold. He was happy. He had friends. He'd saved the school. He'd even gotten a handle on this whole "magic" thing, even if he didn't know how he was doing it.
As he looked around at the smiling faces, he couldn't help but feel a pang of homesickness. He missed the swamp. He missed his banjo. He missed Miss Piggy's dramatic entrances and Fozzie's terrible jokes. But for now, this was his home. This was his show. And as long as everyone was working together, he was happy to be the star.
"Hi-ho," he whispered to himself, and took a sip of pumpkin juice. It tasted strangely like swamp water, but in a good way.