**Disclaimer: Fanfiction [fan'fikshun]**

Author's Note: I took this story down a few years ago now intending to repost it after a few small amendments, but then my hard drive packed in. I thought the story was lost forever, but thanks to a very kind Private Message, a chance google, and the wonders of internet archiving, I found it again.

Whilst I have taken a few liberties here and there, the story is more or less canon-compliant with the books. I have not, however, attempted to make it canon-compliant with Pottermore, interviews or Cursed Child.

'I've never even seen a picture of them.'

Rubeus Hagrid sat in front of the fire in his cabin, holding a toasting fork speared with an enormous hunk of bread, and keeping one eye on Fang, who was enthusiastically tearing into a dragon steak that was supposed to have been his master's dinner. Hagrid was mulling over Harry's words, spoken to him in Diagon Alley; words which had haunted him for months. During the war, he had heard Lily speak of her sister's family in exasperated and less than flattering terms; but fond as he had been of Lily, he had always imagined that she had exaggerated the Dursleys' awfulness somewhat. In Hagrid's black and white view of the world, any sister of Lily's had to have her merits; and he had known for a fact that the sisters had continued to exchange Christmas presents. It had certainly never occurred to Hagrid that Petunia would treat her orphaned nephew with anything other than love and compassion. After all, Dumbledore had said that number 4, Privet Drive was the best place for Harry, and Dumbledore was, of course, infallible.

So it had been something of a shock when Hagrid, eleven months earlier, had had to chase the fleeing Dursleys half way across the country to deliver Harry's Hogwarts' letter; and it had been even more of a shock to discover Harry to be completely ignorant of the wizarding world. But that, Hagrid could, at a push, have justified: a loving aunt and uncle, mindful of the fate that had befallen Lily as a consequence of her involvement with magic, fearful and desperate to protect their nephew from the world that had killed his mother. Such an attitude would have been understandable. Misguided, of course; but understandable.

However, such an interpretation of the Dursley's actions would have been generous beyond belief. The Dursleys had not just hidden the magical world from Harry, they had hidden his parents from him. How could a woman never show her nephew photographs of his own parents; her own sister? Never speak to that child about them? Never tell that child stories; fill in the gaps of his personal history? How could a woman not make sure that her own orphaned nephew was told every single day how much his parents had loved him, and how proud they had been and would have been of him? Even Hagrid's own father had spoken to him kindly and generously about his mother; and the giantess had certainly not been someone to be proud of; at least not in the conventional sense. Not to mention that anyone who had seen Harry that night in the Hut on the Rock could have been in no doubt that the child had been neglected.

The Dursley's actions were unimaginable. They were cruel. They were wrong. But now Hagrid had a plan; a plan so simple he couldn't believe that it had taken him nearly a year to come up with it. He would write to James and Lily's old school friends with a plea for photographs, and he would present Harry with an album. It wouldn't make up for that lost decade, it wouldn't bring James and Lily back, but it would, at least, ensure that Harry would know who his parents were, and how much they had meant to so many people. It would ensure that Harry understood that the Dursleys were an anomaly rather than the norm.

Or at least Hagrid had thought that his plan was simple. He had, however, discovered the flaw in the aforementioned plan as soon as he had started to compile the list of people to write to.

Dorcas Meadowes: Dead.

Marlene McKinnon: Dead.

Peter Pettigrew: Dead.

Benjy Fenwick: Dead.

The Prewett twins: Dead.

Frank and Alice: worse than dead.

Sirius Black. Well, Hagrid didn't want to think about that traitor; suffice to say he hadn't been the Potters' friend at all.

He could always try Mad Eye, but it wouldn't have surprised Hagrid if Mad Eye had such elaborate security charms in place that he had made himself unplottable, and unsolicited owls would be forced to return to sender, unable to find their destination. Hagrid wasn't sure if such magic was possible, but there was little that he would put past Mad Eye. Nor would it have surprised Hagrid if Mad Eye had burnt any photographs in his possession. He had never exactly struck Hagrid as the sentimental type, and he probably considered keeping records a security risk, even if those records were only photographs of the dead. Perhaps he could write to little Dora to see if she considered approaching Mad Eye worthwhile, and of course she was so much better placed to speak to Mad Eye than he. But then, Dora would probably tell him to stop being such a filthy coward and ask Mad Eye himself. Hagrid sighed; it seemed it was back to the drawing board.

The other person that Hagrid had considered was Mrs Pettigrew. Surely she had kept some of her son's old school things? But Hagrid was loath to approach her; anyone who ever mentioned Mrs Pettigrew spoke of a woman completely consumed by grief after the loss of her son. Judging by what he had heard, Hagrid suspected that the only way Mrs Pettigrew would part with anything that had once belonged to Peter would be if Hagrid prised it out of her cold, dead hands. This photograph album really wasn't getting off the ground.

In fact, Hagrid's list, which he had sweated and puzzled over for days, so far consisted of lots of crossings out in thick black ink, lots of blank space, and one name: Remus Lupin. Hagrid hadn't heard from Remus in years; he had no idea where he was living now. After the war, the werewolf had seemed to vanish off the face of the earth. But Hagrid could think of no other lines of enquiry, and after all, the school owls, proud and skilled creatures that they were, didn't seem overly bothered about whether an address was provided with a letter or not. So Hagrid sat down, and started to write.