The moon hung high over Little Whinging and light clouds flitted across the growing moon, if anyone had been observing they would have seen a lone tabby winding its way among the houses and leap over the garden wall at number 4 Privet Drive. The grandfather clock in the sitting room had just chimed 12p. It was the 31st of July 1982, and the world was quiet. The cat swished its tale, looking to the left and right as it made its way through the garden, there was one light on in street, in a window of the house belonging to Arabella Figg. If anyone had been observing, the cat would have appeared to be wearing a smirk. Then, suddenly, the cat was gone and in its place stood a rather stern looking woman, wearing a long, green cloak and a tall pointed hat. She waved her wand, and the door to the house opened silently.
She stepped through, and the door closed behind her just as soundlessly as it had opened. She crept without a sound up the stairs and opened various doors, pausing once with a look of quiet disapproval to gaze on a beach ball shaped child lying in a crib in a large room. After searching the upper floor, she made her way down the stairs, looking through various rooms, carrying on a rather severe monologue under her breath. Finally, she opened a small door under the stairs, and a soft, sad look appeared on her face. Inside lay a small boy with a crop of wild black hair on top of his head. She brushed the hair back from his forehead, where a lightning shaped scar stood out starkly on his forehead. She lifted him tenderly in his blankets and carried him to a rocking chair where she sat, and arranged the boy and his blankets comfortably in her lap. He sighed contentedly and snuggled against her, as she began to croon softly.
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
Thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady,
Both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens,
From the towers which we see,
They all are belonging,
Dear baby, to thee.
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
Thy sire was a knight,
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
So bonnie, so bright.
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
Thy sire was a knight,
Oh, hush thee, my baby,
So bonnie, so bright.
She sat like that, rocking him gently, crooning soft lullabies to him, until the light outside began to fade from the dark greys and blacks of night to the cold blue of morning. She rose from the chair when she noticed the sky beginning to lighten, she carried the small boy back to the cupboard and tucked him in gently, whispering, "Good Night Harry." Then she left the house quickly and transfiguring herself back into a cat. The milk man, noticed the strange cat on his route, and when he returned home that evening, he told his wife that he was absolutely certain that he'd seen a cat crying and reading a map on his route through Little Whinging that morning. Much to his chagrin, she took his bottle of whiskey from him, and told him that it was high time he went to bed.
Every year, until the year he turned 7, on his birthday and on Halloween, Harry woke up feeling more rested and peaceful than any other day of the year. He never awoke during the night, and always felt warmer than at any other time of the year. As a child, he often dreamed that his mother had come and held him while he slept. On his 5th birthday, Minerva was later than usual, and while she rocked him she was silent as tears poured down her faded cheeks as she thought of Elphinstone, who had died only a few weeks earlier.
"I'll see you in four years Harry, at Hogwarts." She whispered, the last time she left. "You're getting too big for this, or perhaps I'm getting too old. Be brave, my dear boy, be brave." And then she patted his shoulder and left the house for the last time. On his 8th birthday, Harry woke up with a strangely empty and lonely feeling, as though something was missing. He wished he had someone to talk to, and he was so sad at breakfast that Uncle Vernon sent him straight back to his cupboard for the rest of the day.