It was the middle of the night. All of Pivet Drive were asleep, the street lit by the faint moonlight and the many glowing steetlamps. It was particularly quiet this evening, almost eerily so. An owl, perched apon a fence, hooted lightly, glancing around the street nervously. Suddenly, a tabby cat leapt from behind the fence, tackled the bird to the ground, and after a moment of screeches and struggles, the owl lay still on the pavement. They cat grinned, oddly enough, and dragged its meal back behind the fence. It ripped a wing off and carried it up to the top of the fence, chewing happily and looking around the dark street as though waiting for something.

Suddenly, a figure appeared at the end of the road. As it approached, it took the form of a man. This man was dressed in strange robes, with a pointed hat atop his silvery-white hair, which flowed down his back and matched his long beard. His half-moon glasses, resting on the tip of his crooked nose, shimmered in the street's dull lights.

From his robes he withdrew what appeared to be a lighter. Slowly, he held it up above him and flipped open the cap. Then, a nearby lamp's light seemed to fly from the bulb and into the lighter. One by one, the orbs of lamp light flew into the bizzare contraption until the street was completely covered in darkness. Satisfied, the man took the lighter down and held it. He reached into his robe and pulled out a large cigar, putting it to his lips.

The cat, sitting behind him with the owl wing dangling from its jaw, made a muffled meow. The man turned and grinned at the little tabby cat.

"I should have known that you would be here," he chuckled, igniting the end of the cigar with his magical lighter, "Professor McGonagall."

The cat made a sudden transformation. In what appeared to be a slow and painful process, the cat became a woman. She was old, like the man, and had glasses on the tip of her hooked nose. She wore a green robe and black pointed hat, and she reached up with bony hands to remove the wing from her mouth. She spat a feather on the asphalt and took another bite of the wing, chewing slowly.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," she said after swallowing.

The man took a drag from the cigar and began walking, motioning for her to follow, at which she scurried behind him and took another bite of the wing.

"Are the rumors true, Albus?" she inquired.

"I'm afraid so, Professor," he replied solemnly, taking another drag. "The good and the bad."

Her eyes widened. "So, he was pregnant?"

"Yes," he sighed. "After seven months of managing to hide it from the world, it turns out he was pregnant after all."

"And the mother?"

"He said that it was either the Italian stripper from the club or the mailman," he said.

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly, chewing the wing again. "Now, about tonight. Where is the boy?"

"With Hagrid."

"Hagrid?" gasped the woman. "But Albus, remember what happened last time?"

The old man put out a hand to silence her. "That was an accident, McGonagall. Accidents happen."

"He dropped the poor child!"

"He survived, didn't he?" said Dumbledore, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. "That's all that matters."

She nodded. "I just feel bad for the Longbottom child. First his parents, now this? Ah well," she said, licking the last feather in her hand. "You think Hagrid can do this one right?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," he said, then, after a pause, added, "Just so long as we weren't in a flying motorcycle hundreds of feet above the ground."

The two began laughing so loudly, one of the lights in a house's window turned on for a moment, then flipped back off. They tried to quiet eachother down with shushes, but they were already in tears. McGonagall began choking on the feather, falling on the floor in mad laughing gags, while Dumbledore held his cigar away from him, coughing and chuckling and bent over as though about to throw up.

Suddenly, the two stopped laughing completely and looked upward, for a sound like a motor was growing louder. They saw a headlight growing larger and brighter and falling closer to the ground. Finally, a motorcycle appeared from the light, and it stopped beside them on the street, the headlight flickering off. On the vehicle was a giant man with a long, tangled beard and a moleskin overcoat. He grinned and dismounted his flying machine.

"Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall," he greeted, nodding to each.

"Any problems, Hagrid?" asked Dumbledore.

"No, sir," replied the large man. "Little tyke fell asleep as we was flying over Bristol."

"Was?" hissed McGonagall.

"Er, sorry, I meant were," stuttered Hagrid, staring wide-eyed at Dumbledore.

The man had reached into his robe and pulled out a long whip. "Tsk, tsk, Hagrid," he said. "What have I told you about bad grammar around the headmaster?"

"I'm so sorry, sir," he muttered, tears forming in his eyes. "Please, I didn't realize. I'm sorry, sir." He fell to the ground, shaking the nearby mailboxes, and began kissing Dumbledore's feet.

He sighed and put the whip away. "Get up, you great brute," he snapped, kicking at Hagrid's face. "Don't you dare speak such foul grammar in my pressence again. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," he said, standing up and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"So, where's the boy?" asked McGonagall.

Hagrid hurried to the motorcycle and reached into the basket, pulling out a bundle wrapped in a thick blanket. He handed it to Dumbledore and stepped back.

McGonagall hovered over Dumbledore, trying to get a peek of the baby. He began walking, and she followed, Hagrid trailing behind.

"Is it safe, Albus?" she whispered. "Leaving the boy with these people? I've watched them all day. They're the worst sort of Muggles. The mother looks just like a horse and always wear these skimpy little black dresses and chains, a bit like what I wore to the dance club last Saturday, and the father is so horribly fat that he can barely move around the house without taking out a wall. And the little baby boy's room is covered with posters of naked women, Albus."

He chuckled. "I see why you were spying on them."

She blushed. "Really, Albus, there must be someone else."

"Sadly, they are the only family he has."

"He'll be famous," pointed out McGonagall. "Every child in our world will know his name. Drawings of him will be posted on stamps and holiday greeting cards."

"And it's better that he grows up away from all of that," he said. "At least until he is ready."

Dumbledore bent down and set the bundle on the welcome mat of the house they had stopped in front of. McGonagall resisted the urge to smack his rump as it rose before her. He stood up and looked at Hagrid, who was unsuccessfully trying to force himself not to cry.

"Now, Hagrid," said Dumbledore soothingly. "It's not really goodbye, after all."

The big man nodded and wiped his nose again. Professor McGonagall found it difficult not to let a tear escape as she watched Albus place an envelope on the blanket. It was addressed to the Dursleys at 4 Privet Drive. Dumbledore stood and began stepping back into the shadows.

"Good luck," he whispered, "Harry Potter."

As they were about to fade into the darkness and escape, the baby's eyes flew open and he began screaming and crying. In a panic, the three figures darted down the street, Hagrid hopping on his motorcycle and riding off while the professors flew into the woods. All through the street, windows illuminated and faces appeared at doorways as the child screamed on and on. The door the baby was before opened and a skinny, horse-faced woman in a red corset and panties stepped outside. She blinked sleepily at the howling child, kicked it, watched it roll over the step and land with a thud on the concrete, then slipped back inside satisfactorily as the baby quieted and silence resumed in Privet Drive.