A/N: This obviously does not belong to me. I came up with whatever plot and original content happens to be mine, and J.K. Rowling owns everything else. The universe is a pretty big thing to own, but here's one place where it applies.

A/N 2: This is my first non-one-shot work, and it looks to me to be pretty ambitious and intimidating. This will be a massive task that hopefully I'll come to enjoy even more than I do now, and I want to make this the best I can. If you think it's worth reviewing, anything you say is a great help. Thanks for reading.

Opening: The House at Number Four

Houses can think, you know.

It may not seem like much, but houses can form impressions of the people that live in them, can be warm and welcoming or cold and forbidding. You've seen those, haven't you? A scary-looking house at the top of a street, that you've never seen anyone live in and that the neighborhood kids make dares about? A nasty, dark, mean kind of house?

Well.

That is not a happy house. You can tell when you walk into one of those. Open, inviting, airy and well-lit, or cozy and comforting in winter. You'll see smiles and hear laughter and conversation from the people that live there. A happy house is, without a doubt, a lovely place to be.

Some houses can be happy, some can be sad. Most of them are pretty much normal, and many pick up the attitudes of the families who own them, who eat and work and play and live there. And some of these houses have seen very strange things.

The house in question can be found at Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, and when we begin our story we begin it on a warm day in early November - unseasonable weather for that time of year. The house had recently seen its tenth year, though only the third or so with the couple who now lived there with their baby son, and had contentedly settled in to enjoy the rest of the day.

It would prove to be an unusually interesting one.

The house and the morning together saw the man of the house, one Vernon Dursley, leave for his firm, which the house knew from all the papers on its rather ticklish second desk drawer was a boring one that sold drills. The house also witnessed Mr. Dursley kiss his wife as he stepped out the door, and the carefully orchestrated miss at the screaming toddler.

Mrs. Dursley (whose name was Petunia) went about her business, taking care of the baby (whose name was Dudley) and tidying up around the house (who had no name, but had recently decided that if anyone ever asked him, he would like to answer, "Steve.")

Over the course of the day, the house, and the neighbors, noticed many rather odd things that all three Dursleys were happily and conveniently ignoring. First, owls were out in full force. Wasn't it particularly unusual to see owls during the daytime? And in unusually large numbers? And in the middle of England? And landing on people with unusually funny hats and cloaks?

Don't even let Steve get started on the frogs. Those probably aren't important, anyway.

Of all the slightly strange and improbable occurrences that happened to occur over the course of the day, the house kept noticing one in particular. It was likely not connected to any of the other things that had been going on without the Dursleys' noticing (or so Steve tried to convince himself,) but the house, in all his years, had never seen a cat sit so stiffly.

A brown tabby with rather odd markings around its face, it was perched on a garden wall across the street, staring at Steve (and making him quite uncomfortable) and occasionally alternating glances at the street sign and the passersby in funny cloaks. (Steve thought these looks to be rather condescending. Evidently cats were not fond of happy people.)

Soon enough, Mr. Dursley was home, bringing with him a few more papers in his already overlarge briefcase and a faint air of panicky unease. Though trying not to listen in, the house was unable to keep from overhearing some choice snippets that would have increased anyone's curiosity. "Your sister, Petunia... their son, Harry... bit of odd weather, isn't it... people with funny cloaks... you know, her crowd." None of these alone would have been enough for suspicion, but in all ten years the house had heard not a peep from either Mr. or Mrs. Dursley about Petunia's sister.

In fact, the house did not recall ever having heard of such a sister. He scratched his head (this entailed a roof slate sliding off to crash in the garden below, and a couple of nesting pigeons taking flight) and tried to recall when middle age was for houses.

Soon enough both adults and their squalling infant were to bed, and though Mr. Dursley was in bed awake far longer than the other two, it was not much time before they all were fast asleep.

Outside was a click. Two. Three. Across the street the cat on the wall was visible, and then – quite suddenly – it was not. The streetlamps all along Privet Drive appeared, quite suddenly, to have gone out.

This was not particularly unusual, as even in such a well-maintained neighborhood as Little Whinging it is inevitable that occasionally such incidents do happen, but what made this occurrence odd is that it was preceded by the sudden appearance of a very odd man.

He was dressed oddly, carried himself oddly (though Steve did not know it, the man sported a name even more odd than these,) and even looked rather odd – sporting a rather magnificent flowing white beard and a tall, pointy hat reminiscent of those worn by – and here the house was struck with a flash of suspicion, for it would explain the entire day – wizards.

This suspicion hardened into certainty as the cat-on-the-wall-across-the-street revealed itself to be a stern-looking woman, and the two engaged in clandestine whispers in the near-total darkness of Privet Drive.

The discussion seemed to be in some heat, and though the distance made it hard to hear the house clearly made out, voice raised in exasperation, "You can't be serious, Dumbledore!"

A quieter reply returned, "Of course not. That unhappy misfortune belongs to another. Nevertheless, Minerva, here he is coming and here he shall stay."

The response to this was drowned out by the revving of a motorbike engine down the road somewhat, provoking a rather uncharitable thought from the house attempting to listen in on the odd couple across the street. The engine noise grew louder, until suddenly a motorcycle fell out of the sky.

Steve was very glad he could not jump in shock at this moment, as he felt certain he definitely would have at this rather unbelievable sight. And that would not have been good for anyone involved.

He had been somewhat distracted by this train of thought, and was jolted from it by the approach of the strange trio from across the street. Continuing up the front walk (and pausing a moment at the wilting agapanthus) they came right up to the front step, delivering a bundle of blankets on the porch, just in front of the door.

Why, thought the house in astonishment, that's a boy.

It was indeed a child that had been deposited on the house's front porch, and though he did not know it yet, this was a very important one.

On the walkway stood two wizards and a witch, all wondering what was to become of the boy they had entrusted to his only living relatives. Two of the three had tears streaming down their faces, and the third was lost in contemplation and thought. "Well – we had best get back now," he said softly. "No point waiting around here for the Muggles to wake up – or for their grass to grow."

The other two nodded, still weeping at their world's loss, and turned away to leave. The house was still caught up in what this all would mean – still occupied with the arrival of the boy, Harry Potter.

A/N: Whew, prologue over. I've already begun work on the next chapter, I think I've got some good bits and pieces that will fit it well. And there's big ideas up ahead, just you wait. Hold on to your seats!