NOVEMBER 1ST, 1981
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
As the director of Grunnings, a firm specializing in the production of drills, Mr. Dursley exuded an aura of authority that permeated every aspect of his demeanor. Standing tall and proud, his broad shoulders squared and his chin held high, he projected an image of unwavering confidence and self-assurance.
A thick, meticulously groomed mustache adorned Mr. Dursley's upper lip, a symbol of his granular attention to detail and penchant for precision. Each strand of hair was carefully tended to, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dursley, whose unwavering standards ensured that not a single follicle was out of place. Her diligent supervision extended beyond Mr. Dursley's grooming routine, permeating every aspect of their meticulously curated existence.
Mrs. Dursley, though appearing delicate in comparison to her husband's imposing figure, possessed a quiet strength that belied her outward appearance. Her gentle demeanor masked a steely resolve and a keen intelligence, qualities that complemented Mr. Dursley's assertive nature. While her husband immersed himself in the cutthroat world of business, Mrs. Dursley found solace and fulfillment in the simple pleasures of gardening. Her green thumb and keen eye for detail transformed their modest backyard into a vibrant oasis of color and tranquility.
Yet, her interests extended beyond the confines of their property, as she eagerly craned her neck over garden fences, listening for morsels of gossip from the neighbors on Privet Drive. With an insatiable curiosity and a keen ear for juicy tidbits, Mrs. Dursley navigated the social landscape of their suburban community with finesse, always staying one step ahead of the latest news and rumors.
Each of the Dursley pair had complimented the other, and their time together had been happy—at least, if you were either Mr. or Mrs. Dursley. From the start of their settling down came The Dursleys’ son, a small boy they thought could exist no finer anywhere else. His name would be Dudley, after Mr. Dursley’s father who had served in the army—highest commendations from the crown, thank you.
Dudley had been a year old on the day that everything had changed for the Dursleys—but they had not yet known just how much that would be so. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. With it revealed—there would be no end to the talk that would result of their family—their reputation. It would all be up in tatters and that would simply not do. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Queen forbid the rumors that would spread around Grunnings.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, a familial connection fraught with tension and estrangement that spanned decades. In the Dursley household, the mere mention of Mrs. Potter's name was met with a palpable sense of discomfort, as if acknowledging her existence threatened to unravel the carefully constructed facade of normalcy that the Dursleys worked so hard to maintain.
In truth, Mrs. Dursley preferred to pretend that she didn't have a sister at all, such was the depth of her disdain for Mrs. Potter and her unconventional lifestyle. The contrast between the two sisters could not have been more stark: while Mrs. Dursley embodied all the qualities of propriety and conformity that the Dursleys held dear, Mrs. Potter seemed to revel in her nonconformity, flaunting her disregard for societal norms with reckless abandon. Their strained relationship was rooted in childhood grievances that festered and grew with time. Mrs. Dursley, then known as Petunia Evans, harbored deep-seated resentment towards her sister Lily, whom she perceived as always being the cause of trouble and discord within the family. To make matters worse, Mrs. Potter had chosen to marry a man whom Mrs. Dursley deemed wholly unsuitable, a brutish individual whose uncouth behavior only served to reinforce her disdain for the Potter family.
The mere thought of the Potters setting foot on their doorstep sent shivers down the Dursleys' spines, igniting a sense of dread and apprehension within their hearts. They feared the judgment of their neighbors, who would undoubtedly recoil in horror at the sight of the Potters and their perceived lack of manners and decorum. To the Dursleys, the Potters were nothing short of an embarrassment.
Mrs. Dursley had known that the Potters had a small son of their own—younger than The Dursleys by a month and change. She could have sworn her sister was obviously rushing to try to match their Dudley—it was as obvious a ploy as any. Lily being the younger sister—it was obvious when her antics were in attempt to draw attention to herself. Mrs. Dursley had let Mr. Dursley know of the Potter child in an offhand comment—and he most assuredly agreed they would not let their Dudley associate with a boy like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on that fateful Sunday morning—the overcast clouds seemed an omen for their normalcy. Mr. Dursley would have considered it a perfectly average November morning, as omens and anything like them were strictly UnDursley and not to be followed. Of course, this would blind him and Mrs. Dursley to the strange and mysterious things that would soon be happening all over the country.
Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his tie—the colors coordinated perfectly for his work attire. To anyone else it would have seemed the most boring tie imaginable, but to Mr. Dursley, it was as Dursley as could be. Mrs. Dursley, on the other hand gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. Each of them focused in their own perfectly decorated worlds—none of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At precisely half past eight, Mr. Dursley meticulously adjusted his tie before reaching for his briefcase. With practiced efficiency, he pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, his gesture perfunctory yet tinged with a hint of affection, before turning his attention to Dudley.
However, his attempt to bid farewell to his son was met with chaos, as Dudley erupted into a tantrum, hurling cereal in all directions with reckless abandon. Undeterred by the commotion, Mr. Dursley chuckled indulgently at his son's antics, though inwardly he couldn't help but feel a twinge of exasperation.
"Little tyke," he chuckled, his voice laced with amusement as he made his way towards the door. His steps were measured, a careful balance between restraint and exuberance, mindful of the eyes of the neighbors that loomed nearby. A full-on skip would surely attract unwanted attention, but a subtle spring in his step served as a silent proclamation of his contentment.
As he stepped out of the door, Mr. Dursley cast a final glance over his shoulder, his confidence evident in the set of his jaw and the gleam in his eye. If he were to be stopped for an impromptu interview on the state of his lawn, he had no doubt that he would be able to flash a winning grin, effortlessly deflecting any inquiries with his trademark charm.
With a sense of purpose, Mr. Dursley made his way to his car, the sleek vehicle gleaming in the morning light as he slid into the driver's seat. With practiced precision, he backed out of number four's drive, the engine humming softly as he navigated the familiar streets of Privet Drive.
It was at the corner of the street that Mr. Dursley's routine was abruptly interrupted by the first sign of something peculiar. His keen eyes caught sight of a cat perched on a nearby stone, its gaze fixed intently on a piece of parchment spread out before it. At first, the sight seemed innocuous, easily dismissed as a trick of the light. Yet, a nagging sense of unease crept into Mr. Dursley's mind, urging him to slow down and take a closer look.
The tabby cat was standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but it had now been looking at him. He caught the glint of the cat’s eyes and could have sworn it was looking directly at him. Where had the parchment gone? That voice that rang at the back of his mind tried to tell him that the cat had been looking at a map of all things, but here, clear as day there was no map in sight.
Of course not, Mr. Dursley thought. Cat’s do not read maps, and nor do they stare at people in cars. They mind their business just as he should. It must have been a trick of the light—surely it was nothing more than that. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, looking at the sign. Cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, where the looming presence of Grunnings began to fade into the backdrop of his consciousness, Mr. Dursley found his thoughts momentarily diverted by something altogether unexpected. As he sat ensnared in the all-too-familiar clutches of the morning traffic jam, his keen eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the peculiar sight unfolding before him.
Amidst the sea of mundane vehicles and monotonous routine, Mr. Dursley's gaze alighted upon a gathering of strangely dressed individuals, their attire markedly out of place amidst the urban landscape. Cloaked figures moved with an air of mystery and intrigue, their presence casting an otherworldly aura over the mundane surroundings.
Mr. Dursley, ever the epitome of conformity and conventionality, felt a surge of disdain rising within him at the sight of these peculiarly attired individuals. He couldn't bear the thought of people dressing in such outlandish garments, the very antithesis of the sensible attire he held in such high regard. To him, such eccentric fashion choices were nothing more than a symptom of the frivolous whims of youth, a trend likely propagated by some vapid music sensation or other.
With a derisive snort, Mr. Dursley dismissed the spectacle before him as nothing more than a passing fad, an inconsequential blip on the radar of societal norms. What would their parents think, indeed? The very idea of such sartorial extravagance would surely elicit a disapproving shake of the head from any respectable adult.
He let his confusion and frustration spill out as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close on the street nearby. They were whispering excitedly together. The colors adorned in the group seemed to have no restraint whatsoever—something Mr. Dursley couldn’t even begin to imagine. He then noticed as a few of them turned his way that a couple of them weren’t young at all—one even looked to be even older than he was! The rage that boiled in Mr. Dursley’s gut had gone past the point of being stunted by steering wheel drumming. The oldest of the group was wearing an emerald green cloak that seemed to reflect the sun’s light itself! The absolute nerve—if Mr. Dursley were not on a very strict time table he would give the man a piece of his mind. The accidents that could be caused by that nonsensical garb.
His initial surge of anger ebbed slightly as a flicker of rationality penetrated Mr. Dursley's thoughts. Surely, this peculiar gathering of oddly dressed individuals could only be part of some frivolous prank or publicity stunt, he reasoned. There was simply no other explanation that made sense to his pragmatic mind. They must be collecting for charity or participating in some obscure performance art piece—anything to justify their outlandish appearance.
Though the notion of being left out of the loop on such a joke irked him, Mr. Dursley found a modicum of solace in the belief that this was all just a harmless jest. While he had little patience for frivolity on such a grand scale, it was the only logical conclusion that he could draw from the absurdity of the situation.
As the traffic began to inch forward once more, Mr. Dursley's thoughts gradually returned to the comforting familiarity of his daily routine. The looming presence of Grunnings beckoned to him like a beacon of normalcy amidst the chaos of the morning commute, its parking lot a sanctuary where the concerns of the mundane world took precedence once more.
With a resigned sigh, Mr. Dursley steered his car into the Grunnings parking lot, his mind once again consumed by thoughts of drills and deadlines. As the familiar surroundings enveloped him, the bizarre encounter with the oddly dressed strangers faded into the recesses of his memory, dismissed as nothing more than a momentary aberration in an otherwise ordinary day.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime.
Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted more than he thought he would get the chance to do. It helped that the ninth floor had been more open—it meant that his voice would carry down the halls past his office—and there was something about hearing the remnants of his voice that eased the little voice in his head that previously nudged what little of his curiosity remained.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. There was a sickening feeling that sunk in his stomach at the very sight of them. It wasn’t one aspect in particular—but a culmination of their most unDursleyish traits. Their clothes were unsightly—garish to the eyes in public. They whispered excitedly like unmannerly children and—they even seemed to walk with a skip in their steps he would not dare attempt.
Just what could have them so irritatingly excitable? He tried to push it out of his mind once more as he stepped in for his lunch, but his curiosity was absolutely piqued when he was walking back to his office when he came across a separate group of robed hooligans yet again whispering their excited shenanigans. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry."
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him as his blood ran cold. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, like he wanted to grasp their ruddy cloaks tightly in his fists, but he thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind.
He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her—if he'd had a sister like that...but all the same, those people in cloaks...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground.
On the contrary, his countenance transformed into a radiant grin, stretching across his features like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His voice, unexpectedly high-pitched and filled with exuberance, caught the attention of those nearby, drawing curious glances from passersby. "Don't trouble yourself with apologies, dear sir," he exclaimed, his words laced with an infectious joy that seemed to defy all odds. "For today, nothing could dampen my spirits! Let us revel, for the dark shadow of You-Know-Who has finally lifted! Even Muggles such as yourself should join in the jubilation of this momentous occasion! Oh, what a day of jubilant celebration it is!"
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood—was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.
When Dudley had finally been coerced into bed, Mr. Dursley made his way into the living room just in time to catch the tail end of the evening news broadcast. The familiar voice of the newscaster filled the room, delivering the day's headlines with a practiced air of authority.
"And finally," the newscaster intoned, his voice tinged with an air of intrigue, "bird-watchers across the nation have reported a most peculiar phenomenon today. It appears that the normally nocturnal owls have taken to the skies in broad daylight, their presence observed in every corner of the country since the break of dawn. Experts remain baffled by this sudden deviation from their natural behavior."
A fleeting smirk crossed the newscaster's lips, a hint of amusement evident in his demeanor. "Most mysterious indeed. Now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Any chance of more owls making an appearance tonight, Jim?"
The camera switched to the weatherman, who wore a bemused expression as he addressed the audience. "Well, Ted," he began, his tone laced with bemusement, "while I can't say for certain about the owls, it seems that today has been a day of peculiar occurrences. Reports have flooded in from across the country, with sightings of shooting stars replacing the predicted rainfall in areas as distant as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee. Perhaps an early celebration for Bonfire Night, though it's worth noting that the official date isn't until next week, folks! As for tonight, expect another wet one."
With a sense of incredulity lingering in the air, Mr. Dursley found himself pondering the strange events of the day, a nagging sense of unease creeping into his thoughts. Yet, even as the news segment came to a close, he couldn't shake the feeling that something truly extraordinary was afoot.
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Petunia, dear—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" His voice was almost that of a squirrel—a far cry from the tone he used when shouting at work. He handled delicate subjects with the subtlety of a jackhammer.
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
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"No," she said sharply. "Why?" Her neck craned in a concerned state.
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled, coughing to get a hold of the increasing tension in his throat. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."
"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
"Well, I just thought...maybe it was something to do with...you know, her crowd." He had avoided looking at her directly, now.
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."
He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden.
The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it. The talk that would rumble through the town like an active volcano spilling its contents through the earth.
As Mrs. Dursley drifted off into a peaceful slumber, her mind unburdened by the day's peculiar events, Mr. Dursley found himself plagued by a restless wakefulness, his thoughts consumed by the enigmatic occurrences that had unfolded. Despite his efforts to rationalize away his concerns, a nagging sense of unease lingered, casting a shadow over his otherwise tranquil bedtime routine.
As he lay in the darkness, the weight of the world pressing down upon him, Mr. Dursley sought solace in the belief that the Potters, if involved in anything untoward, would have no reason to involve him and Petunia. After all, the animosity between their families was well-known, and he clung to the notion that their paths would never intersect. With this comforting thought lingering in his mind, Mr. Dursley allowed himself to succumb to the tendrils of sleep, his eyelids growing heavy with fatigue.
Yet, little did he know, his sense of security was built on shaky ground.
As Mr. Dursley drifted into an uneasy slumber, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing just beyond his doorstep, the cat perched on the wall outside remained vigilant, its watchful gaze fixed upon the far corner of Privet Drive. Unmoved by the mundane noises of the night, it remained as still as a sentinel, its eyes ablaze with an otherworldly intensity. Not even the distant slam of a car door or the graceful swoop of owls overhead could rouse the feline from its silent vigil. Time seemed to stand still as the minutes ticked by, the midnight hour drawing ever closer.
And then, at long last, as the clock struck midnight, the cat stirred, its movements deliberate and purposeful. Whatever silent vigil it had been keeping had reached its conclusion, and with a graceful leap, it vanished into the night, leaving behind nothing but the lingering echo of its silent watch.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching—appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something hidden from plain view. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it once. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness just like the first. Twelve times he clicked the device, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.
If anyone had peered out of their window at that moment, even the ever-watchful Mrs. Dursley with her keen eyes, they would have been met with a scene obscured by an inexplicable veil of invisibility. Dumbledore deftly concealed the device he had been holding within the folds of his cloak, his movements swift and practiced as he prepared to embark on his clandestine mission. With purposeful strides, he made his way down the quiet street toward number four, where a wall awaited him as a makeshift perch.
Seated beside the enigmatic cat, Dumbledore addressed the creature in a manner befitting their peculiar encounter. "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall," he remarked, his voice carrying a note of amusement.
The cat had vanished without a trace, replaced instead by a stern-faced woman whose austere demeanor mirrored the feline's unyielding composure. Professor McGonagall, clad in a cloak of resplendent emerald, exuded an air of disheveled elegance, her tightly coiled bun lending her an aura of scholarly authority.
"How did you know it was me?" she inquired, her tone laced with curiosity.
Dumbledore's smile widened as he offered a whimsical response. "My dear Minerva, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly," he remarked, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
The professor's retort was swift and pragmatic, reflecting her no-nonsense approach to the situation at hand. "You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," she quipped, her words tinged with a hint of exasperation.
Dumbledore chuckled softly at her candid response, acknowledging the gravity of their mission while maintaining a sense of levity in their exchange. "All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here," he remarked, his words tinged with a playful sense of irony.
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. "Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls...shooting stars...Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Daedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," Dumbledore offered in a soothing tone, his gaze reflective. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
Professor McGonagall's response was tinged with frustration, her words laced with a hint of exasperation. "I know that," she interjected sharply. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."
Her pointed remark was met with a knowing look from Dumbledore, as if she were silently beseeching him for answers. However, Dumbledore remained enigmatic, his expression inscrutable as he chose not to divulge any further information.
"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all," McGonagall continued, her tone laden with concern. "I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore affirmed, his tone thoughtful yet resolute. "We have much to be thankful for, that much is to be certain. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
McGonagall's incredulous response betrayed her bewilderment. "A what?"
Dumbledore's offer remained unchanged, his demeanor serene as he extended a gesture of simple hospitality. "A lemon drop," he repeated with a hint of amusement. "They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of. I hear they don’t even have to grow them on trees."
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to not fear something so simple as a name. You can call him what he was—Voldemort."
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying his name.”
"I know you haven't,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," Dumbledore replied with a serene demeanor, his voice carrying an air of quiet confidence. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
McGonagall's response was swift, her words edged with a mixture of admiration and reproach. "Voldemort had powers you’ve chosen not to have. And the only reason is because you're too—well—noble to use them."
A hint of levity danced in Dumbledore's eyes as he quipped, "It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
But McGonagall's expression remained stern as she redirected the conversation to the pressing matter at hand. "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
It was evident that McGonagall had reached the crux of her concerns, the underlying reason for her steadfast vigil on the cold, hard wall all day. Her gaze bore into Dumbledore with an intensity that betrayed her determination to uncover the truth. Whatever "everyone" was saying, she awaited Dumbledore's confirmation with bated breath, unwilling to accept any explanation until it came from him.
But Dumbledore's attention seemed elsewhere, his focus momentarily diverted as he contemplated the array of lemon drops in his hand. With a nonchalant demeanor, he selected another sweet from the assortment and popped it into his mouth, choosing to remain silent.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are...are—that they're dead."
Dumbledore bowed his head somberly. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James...I can't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. Oh, Albus..."
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know. I know..." he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But—he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and that's why he's gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"It's—it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done. The time that has gone into this long fight...all the people he's killed...he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding...of all the things to stop him...but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" He had turned to McGonagall and cocked his head slightly.
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less fit. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here?!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter explaining everything pertinent."
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future—there will be books written about Harry—every child in our world will know his name!"
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. He had enunciated every syllable of the word firmly. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! You see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
"Hagrid's bringing him."
"You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
“I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore. “There is not a question of it.”
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"
A low, ominous rumbling reverberated through the silent streets, stirring Harry and Hagrid from their quiet contemplation. The sound grew steadily louder, like an approaching storm, prompting them to scan the deserted street in search of its source. Their eyes darted nervously, seeking any sign of headlights piercing the darkness, but found none. As the noise reached a deafening crescendo, they instinctively turned their gaze skyward, only to witness a breathtaking sight unfold before them.
From the heavens above, a massive motorcycle descended with a thunderous roar, hurtling toward the ground with breathtaking speed. The vehicle crashed onto the road before them, sending plumes of dust swirling into the air in its wake. If the motorcycle itself was awe-inspiring, the figure astride it was downright astonishing.
The man seated atop the motorcycle defied all conventional notions of size and proportion. Towering over the street, he stood nearly twice as tall as an average man, his imposing figure dominating the scene. With a wild, untamed appearance, his unkempt mane of bushy black hair and beard obscured much of his face from view, lending him an air of mystery and intrigue.
But it was not just his towering stature that set him apart; it was the sheer magnitude of his physical presence. His hands, each the size of trash can lids, hung at his sides like formidable weapons, while his feet, encased in sturdy leather boots, resembled those of mighty sea creatures. Despite his intimidating appearance, there was a gentleness in the way he cradled a bundle of blankets in his massive arms, a tenderness that belied his formidable exterior.
"Hagrid," Dumbledore's voice rang out, infused with a palpable sense of relief. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," the giant replied, his words carrying a hint of pride as he carefully dismounted from the motorcycle. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. It rides well enough to get us both here. I've got him, sir."
"No problems, were there?" Dumbledore inquired, his brow furrowing with concern.
"No, sir," Hagrid responded confidently, his deep voice resonating with assurance. "His house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leaned in, their expressions solemn as they gazed upon the bundle of blankets. Nestled within was a baby boy, his features serene in slumber. Amidst a shock of jet-black hair, a distinctive mark caught their eye—a lightning-shaped scar etched into his forehead.
"Is that where...?" Professor McGonagall whispered, her voice barely audible as she clutched her hand to her chest.
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed, his tone grave as he nodded. "He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" McGonagall pressed, her concern evident in her furrowed brow.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't," Dumbledore replied, his voice resolute. "Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore cradled Harry in his arms, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing heavily upon him. With a determined stride, he turned toward the Dursleys' house, his expression grave yet resolute.
"Could I—could I say good-bye to him, sir?" Hagrid's voice trembled with emotion as he leaned in closer to Harry. With a tenderness belied by his rugged appearance, he planted a whiskery kiss on the baby's forehead. Then, overcome by grief, Hagrid's anguish burst forth in a howl that echoed through the night.
"Shhh!" Professor McGonagall hissed urgently, her eyes darting nervously toward the neighboring houses. "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," Hagrid sobbed, his massive frame shaking with emotion as he fumbled for a large, spotted handkerchief. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily an' James dead—an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—it just ain’t right."
In the stillness of the night, the air was heavy with solemnity as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid stood on the deserted street. Shadows danced across the houses, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Professor McGonagall's voice was barely above a whisper, her words carrying a weight of urgency as she sought to console the distraught Hagrid, her slender fingers offering a gentle reassurance as they brushed against his arm.
With measured steps, Dumbledore crossed the threshold of the low garden wall, his imposing figure silhouetted against the faint moonlight. Carefully, almost reverently, he placed Harry on the doorstep, the small bundle cradled in his arms like a fragile treasure. From within the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a letter, its parchment crisp against his fingertips as he tucked it into the folds of Harry's blankets, a silent message for those who would find him.
A heavy silence settled over them as they stood in quiet contemplation, the gravity of the moment palpable in the stillness of the night. Hagrid's broad shoulders trembled with silent grief, his sorrow echoing in the empty street. Professor McGonagall, usually composed and unflappable, blinked back tears, her usually sharp gaze softened by the weight of their shared sorrow. Even the twinkle that typically danced in Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have dimmed, replaced by a somber reflection of the burden they bore.
Breaking the solemn silence, Dumbledore's voice cut through the night like a knife, his words carrying a sense of finality. "Well," he said softly, "that's that. We've no business staying here any longer. We may as well go and join the celebrations with the rest of them."
With a heavy heart, Hagrid muttered his goodbyes, his voice thick with emotion. "Yeah," he managed, his words muffled by his grief, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Hagrid's departure was marked by the thunderous roar of the motorcycle's engine as it surged into life, its powerful vibrations resonating through the night air like a symphony of farewell. Tears still glistened in his eyes, remnants of the emotional turmoil that had gripped him moments before, but determination now burned bright in his gaze as he mounted the bike with practiced ease.
With a deft twist of his wrist, Hagrid revved the engine, and the motorcycle surged upward, casting a fleeting shadow against the moonlit sky before disappearing into the darkness. The sound of its departure lingered in the air, a fading echo of farewell that seemed to hang in the stillness of the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore's voice broke the silence, his tone carrying a sense of quiet assurance as he nodded in acknowledgment. Professor McGonagall, her eyes still watery from tears, offered a muted reply, her nose reddened from the strain of emotion.
Dumbledore turned away, his footsteps echoing softly against the pavement as he retraced his path down the deserted street. Pausing at the corner, he withdrew a gleaming silver device from the folds of his robes—the Deluminator. With a practiced motion, he clicked it once, and the darkness that had cloaked the street was banished as twelve balls of light streaked back to their rightful place atop the street lamps.
In the newfound illumination, Privet Drive took on an otherworldly glow, the houses bathed in a warm orange hue that lent an ethereal quality to the familiar surroundings. At the other end of the street, a tabby cat slinked into view, its movements graceful and purposeful. Dumbledore's gaze lingered for a moment before drifting to the bundle of blankets nestled on the doorstep of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. “I wish you nothing but the best.”
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen.
Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:
"To Harry Potter—the boy who lived!"