Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No Money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended
*Dumbledore POV*
The headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was just finishing a rather tall pile of paperwork when he heard a knock on his office door. He called for the person to come in and was moderately surprised that he did not recognize the girl who entered, but what surprised him more is how she looked. Long, uneven, curly, brown hair, hazel eyes that seem hard and cold, and, most surprisingly, was the confident air and presence she carried. She was at most nineteen years old, yet she projected as someone with many more years of wisdom.
She walked straight to Dumbledore’s desk and placed a letter down in front of him before she took a seat in the chair across from the desk. Dumbledore tested the letter for dangers before picking it up carefully. His name was written on it in familiar hand writing, and it was closed with an official Order of the Phoenix seal. He quickly opened the letter, and was truly surprised by the contents.
Albus,
It should be December 1976 when you read this letter, unless something has gone horribly wrong. The young women who delivered it is my most trusted student, and an very valuable member of the order, is named Hermione Granger. Ms. Granger, and this letter, have come from the year 1998. She has been sent with detailed knowledge of the future that will help win the war. She has been sent to share this knowledge with a select group of people. If you so choose to use this knowledge after hearing it then Miss Granger will remain and aid in the war effort . If after hearing the knowledge you decide to allow the future to take its course then Miss Granger will alter your memories of the time she was in the past. However I must stress that the choice is not yours alone to make and must be decided upon by the group as a whole.
Minerva McGonagall- 1998
“The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise.”-Order of the Phoenix
After reading this letter Albus knew that it was indeed true, for only the loyalist members of the order knew of the code. If the letter was the truth, then the young women held the key to winning, to stopping the war.
“So Dumbledore, what do you say? Will you allow me to share this knowledge I have?” Ms. Granger said with her eyebrows raised and a smirk on her face.
“Of course. If you give me the list of people who you wish to be there I can gather them and we can start as soon as possible.” Albus replied. Hermione gave him the list of people and told him to have everyone meet her by the tapestry of ballet dancing trolls on the seventh floor. As she left Albus realized how odd a situation they were in. He put it aside as he started contacting the people on the list. He was lucky that all the students on the list were staying at Hogwarts this holiday.
***ARIS***TCGD***ARIS***
Thirty minutes after she left Dumbledore’s office Hermione found herself standing in front of the Room of Requirements, invisible, and surrounded by a very odd, very confused, group of people. When everyone from her list was there she walked back and forth in front of the wall three times before pulling of the invisibility cloak. The group of people stared at her, but all she did was smirk.
“After you.” She said to the group as she opened the door. They filled in slowly staring as they passed her. When everyone was in the room and the door was locked tight she turned to the group.
“My name is Hermione Granger, and I am from the future. I was sent on a mission to deliver knowledge I have with you. The information I have is what is needed to stop Voldemort, and it relates to all of you somehow. It is in the form of seven books, that we are to read. This room that we are in will provide anything we need, except food, which it will have a house elf provide. Time outside this room is stopped, so none of you will be missed. ” She pulled out the first book and put it on the table before going to sit in the only open seat, next to Regulus.
“How do we know we can trust you?” Snape snarled. Hermione had already prepared for this.
Looking Snape strait in the eye she said, “Well you don’t have to… but I would advise it. Tell me now if you don’t agree, Half-Blood Prince.” Turning towards the three Marauders, “Padfoot, Prongs, Moony? I must comment on how accurate your names are especially Moony, and his furry little problem.” The four boys looked at her in shock for her knowledge, and lack of prejudice against Remus.
“How do these books connect to Frank and I?” Alice asked? Hermione turned towards the dark haired girl and smiled. She really did look like Neville.
“In the future you and Frank are married and you have a son. He is one of my best friends.” Hermione turned to Lily before saying, “You and James also are married with a son. His name is Harry, he is my best friend and brother, and the books are in his point of view.” At this James and Lily looked especially happy.
Hermione turned towards Moony and McGonagall, “Do you believe me?”
“If Albus trust you, so do I.” McGonagall said, and Moody agreed.
“But that doesn’t mean we aren’t keepin’ an eye on ya.” Mad-Eye Growled.
With a small laugh Hermione replied, “I would expect nothing less.” She turned towards Regulus but before she could say a word he said. “I would rather figure it out in the book.”
“I think I will start now Ms. Granger.” Moody said as he took the first book from of the table.
The Boy Who Lived
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.
“That’s no fun!” Sirius pouted.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.
“What are drills?” James asked the room.
“I’ll tell you later James.” Lily said.
He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors.
“If I am correct the Dursleys would be my sister Petunia, and her fat oaf of a husband Vernon.” Lily said.
The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE POTTERS?” James yelled.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.
“That is not even a word.” Remus stated.
Lily felt sadden at her sisters behavior.
“Hey, James is not good-for-nothing, and Lily is amazing!” Sirius shouted at the book.
The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that. When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
“Brat!” Lily, Hermione, Alice, and McGonagall said.
"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map.
"Professor McGonagall," Lily said smiling at her professor. “It must be you.”
For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. 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, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks.
“That’s not strange.” Regulus said.
“It is for muggles.” Sirius said. Many people stared at him in shock.
“I took muggle studies!” he replied annoyed.
“We didn’t think you paid attention!” Remus told him.
Sirius laughed before saying, “Of course I did. It pissed of my mum.”
“Language Sirius!” Lily scolded him. Moody decided now would be a good time to start reading again.
Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly . Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt —these people were obviously collecting for something… yes, that would be it.
The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills. 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 a bit more.
"Isn't he a pleasant bloke" Sirius said sarcastically.
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.
This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. 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. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but 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 '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 face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last!
Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
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.
"MINNIE!" the Marauders shouted.
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.
“Wimp!” Alice said.
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 been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
“He must be a Squib or muggleborn.” Frank said.
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
“I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense” McGonagall said.
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. "Err — Petunia, dear — you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "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."
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."
“I love the name Harry, and Petunia knows that.” Lily said sadly.
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 Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind… He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn't affect them…
How very wrong he was. Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness.
It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
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.
Everyone chuckled at the mention of their headmaster.
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.
“I think he would know.” Frank said.
“I believe I indeed would know, Mr. Longbottom.” Dumbledore replied.
He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. 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. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop.
He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, 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 looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
Yells of Minnie, McGonagall, and Minerva, were heard though out the room.
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled. "How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
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 Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
The room laughed at the now blushing McGonagall.
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
“It really last that long?” Frank asks.
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "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."
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "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. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore.
We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"Dumbledore," nearly everyone shook his or her head in amusement.
"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 call him by his proper name: Voldemort."
Snape, and Regulus flinched in pain, but it went unnoticed by all except Hermione.
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 Voldemort's 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," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Yeah well he's just too noble to use them!" Hermione said.
"Only because you're too — well —noble to use them."
“You’re like Minnie, Hermy.” Sirius said.
“Do not call me Hermy, and there are a lot of people who are much worse to be like!” Hermione said.
It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
“Too much Information Headmaster.” Remus said.
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"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."
“What! We are dead.” Lily cried out. James pulled her in to his arms and tried to calm her tears.
“That bastard how dare he hurt you guys!” Sirius exclaimed. Everyone was much too upset to reprimand him on his language. Many people in the room agreed with him completely. Everyone had their heads bowed, and many eyes were filled with tears. Hermione could hear the sickening growl coming from Remus, and motioned to Moody to continue. It would be best to finish this chapter as quickly as possible.
Dumbledore bowed his head. 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.
“Poor Harry!” Lily cried.
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."
“What?” Frank asked confused, as were most of the people in the room.
Dumbledore nodded glumly. "It's — it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done… 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?"
"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."
“Please don’t leave him there headmaster. They are horrible people, who hate magic.” James said, “Why don’t you give him to Sirius or Alice?”
Albus just gave a small shrug, but his eyes twinkled as he thought.
"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 like us. 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."
“A letter? Really Albus? A letter?” McGonagall exclaimed.
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter?
“Guess you don’t change much professor.” Snape said with a smirk.
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. "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! Can 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,” Hermione said, “just not my secrets.” Many laughed at the last part.
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
“Guess you also think like Dumbledore, Mione.” Sirius said. Hermione’s eyes darkened slightly at this.
“I do not think like Dumbledore.” Hermione said in such a calm, but threatening voice that everyone in the room flinched. Many thought, Why did she not like Dumbledore? What did she have against him?
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 rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
“AWESOME! I want one!” Sirius said excitedly.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."
“YES! It’s mine!” Sirius cheered.
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir — 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."
“Awww!” The females in the room, minus Hermione, cooed.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
"Is that where —?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. 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."
“Do you really professor?” Remus asked.
Dumbledore replied, “Indeed I do, and it has come quiet in handy.”
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Hey! I ta…” Sirius started by stopped when James smacked him in the back of the head. Everyone but Hermione, and Remus gave the duo curious and confused looks.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it —Lily an' James dead — an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two.
“You left my baby on a doorstep, in the middle of the night, when it was supposed to rain!” Lily screeched at Dumbledore, and with each word she became madder. “Not to mention you did it right after freaking Voldemort was defeated, and his followers were properly out looking for the one who did it!”
“Ms. Evans I have not yet done so, and would appreciate it if you could calm down.” Dumbledore said. Lily set back down even though it looked like the last thing she wanted to do. James rubbed circles in her back as the story went on, trying his best to keep the redhead from exploding on the Headmaster.
For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
As did the eyes of the Dumbledore in the room.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
“He needed it.” Hermione mumble angrily but was only heard by Regulus, who threw her a confused look.
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!"
“That’s the end of the chapter.” Moody announced.
“I’ll read next.” Frank said.
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