Yes, it is another Hogwarts Reads Harry Potter… But I hope mine is better. I'm not just writing this because I want to put the story online or none of the bullshit people come up with. I've wanted to do this for a long time. There will be changes. The characters aren't just sitting in the Great Hall listening for shits and giggles. You all know how it goes: Umbridge with her toady self, wants to find a way to put down Harry. She gets the books somehow, people we want there are there, blah, blah, blah. But this is not why I'm doing it. Harry, Dumbledore and Moody realize that this is a good way to figure out Voldemort's weak spots, Harry grows a backbone, he gets a girlfriend (or two) and Ron and Hermione will not be together . And no, I am not putting Uzumaki Roku on hold; I probably won't post on schedule (if I had one) but I am still writing it. I am doing this as a… way of cleaning up my writing. Plus, it's fun. So, with further ado… Hogwarts Learns About Harry, Part One.
In Scotland, in a great ancient castle full of magic and mysteries, in a disturbingly pink and fluffy office was Delores Umbridge.
At this moment (noon on Saturday), she was quickly looking through all the records she could get her hands on from the school to incriminate Harry Potter. Obviously, this was a pointless goal. Right…? Umbridge huffed as daintily as a toad could and stormed out of her office. Maybe giving students detention for no reason could lighten her mood.
Students parted like the Red Sea to give her room and were determined not to give her any reason to talk to them. One third year Hufflepuff covered his face up with his History of Magic textbook while a fifth year Ravenclaw tucked his wrinkled shirt in with haste. Others walked in her opposite direction, keeping their eyes trained on their shoes.
She was slightly disappointed when most of her reasons for violations were countered. She kept walking anyway until she made it to the seventh floor. Umbridge paced up and down a certain hallway and past the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry attempting to train trolls to perform ballet.
'I need a way to prove Harry Potter's delinquency…,' she thought. Without noticing, a door materialized on the stone wall. It opened, alarming Umbridge when it creaked. 'When did this door get here?' Her curiosity taking over, she opened it the rest of the way and walked in.
The room was small; the walls were a neutral egg white, had a singular blue rug in the center of the floor and on top of the rug were a cherry wood table. On the table, were seven books. Next to them was a note.
Umbridge hesitantly finished her walk to the table. She picked up the note and grinned.
Dear Delores Umbridge,
If you are reading this, then the history and future happenings of Harry Potter's school days has reached you.
Each book goes over all seven years; up to today's date and forward.
Be advised that everything in these books is one-hundred percent true. If you have any doubts, simply cast the truth spell, Veritatem Annunciabo. If the books glow green, it's true; if the books glow red, it's false.
You cannot skip ahead or pass over anything. And you are not allowed to read these alone.
If you want Harry Potter's misdoings known, these books are to be read to the students of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in the Great Hall and to these guests:
Amelia Bones
Cornelius Fudge
Rita Skeeter
Lucius Malfoy
Narcissa Malfoy
Molly Weasley
Arthur Weasley
Charles Weasley
William Weasley
Percival Weasley
Fleur Delacour
Nymphadora Tonks
Alastor Moody
Remus Lupin
Sirius Black
Jonathan Granger
Samantha Granger
Happy Reading,
J.S.P, A.S.P and L.L.P
Umbridge made a disgusted face at most of the guests on the list. She realized that she had to follow through otherwise she wouldn't be able to fan out Potter's dirty laundry. She braced herself and snatched the books off the table, trotting out of the room with a satisfied grin.
Monday Morning…
Harry Potter made his way to the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, clenching his jaw at the staring eyes he felt on him. He felt one of his best friends, Ron Weasley, pat him on the back. Harry turned to him and gave him a half-hearted smile. Sitting at their usual place was Hermione Granger, his other best friend.
She gave him a small smile and he returned it before sitting down and looked up at the Head Table where Umbridge was standing at the podium with more satisfaction than normal. Umbridge caught his eyes and her toadish eyes lit up. From his side, Ron narrowed his eyes suspiciously but turned to his plate and picked up a piece of toast.
As the students of Hogwarts finished their breakfast and were getting up to leave for their first class. Umbridge decided to make herself known.
"Hem, hem," she coughed.
The student body groaned in unison — yes, even the Slytherins, who were getting tired of her and her domination over the school. The students sat back down in their respective places and waited impatiently.
"Thank you. Now, the reason I am keeping you all here is to read a book," she smiled.
Exclamations of "Is she mad?" and "She can't be bloody serious!" rang through the Great Hall.
"I wasn't finished. This isn't just any kind of book. In fact, there are more than just one; there are six more included, adding up to all seven years. This is a biography of the school years of our very own: Harry Potter," she simpered.
The Great Hall was stunned into silence. A seven book biography on the Boy-Who-Lived? Even the years that haven't happened yet?
Albus Dumbledore sat up in his chair and raised a white eyebrow. "And just where did you get these books, Delores?" he asked apprehensively.
"I was on the seventh floor, in a room, where they were sitting on a table," she answered briskly.
Harry glared up at the fluffy pink toad before looking back at Ron and Hermione. 'Room on the seventh floor? That's the Room of Requirement! But books from the future just don't appear. And how would anyone know about everything we've done?' Hermione asked with her eyes. 'Yeah… I'm worried. They're gonna find out everything,' Ron casted a nervous look at Harry. "Magic works in mysterious ways," was all Harry answered out loud, facing turning to the Head Table.
"Albus, surely you won't let her go through with this?" Minerva McGonagall asked indignantly. "'On the seventh floor, in a classroom'?"
"I disagree, Minerva. I, for one, would love to hear about all the adventures Mr. Potter had under Albus' nose," Severus Snape smirked.
The Headmaster stroked his lush, white beard absentmindedly and nodded. "Continue, please, Delores."
"Thank you, Headmaster," she gave a fake smile and turned back to the students. "Before I begin, there was a list of guests included…" As she said this, a familiar ex-Professor walked through the doors of the Great Hall.
Scruffy as always, but with better clothing, was Remus Lupin. Next to him was a healthier Sirius Black, his now shiny black hair pulled into a ponytail. Harry stared in awe and jumped up, tackling the two into a hug, ignoring the shocked looks of the students for seeing the notorious mass-murderer. Harry pulled the two to the Gryffindor table as Neville — who was still staring at Sirius — and Ron moved over to make room.
No less than a minute later did Molly and Arthur Weasley walk in with Charlie and Bill Weasley — who was also holding Fleur Delacour's hand. Naturally, the group went to the Gryffindor table as well and Ron, along with Ginny, Fred and George, tried to make room for their family. Already, the Lions struggled to stay off of the floor.
Dumbledore quickly realized there wouldn't be any room, so he clapped his hands twice and the Great Hall transformed into a giant sized family room covered in large, soft couches, comfy chairs and big, plush pillows perfect for laying or sitting on. The crowd hurriedly acclimated.
After the Weasleys and Fleur, came Amelia Bones — just as stern as McGonagall — with Nymphadora Tonks and Alastor Moody. Amelia went to sit with her niece Susan and the rest of her old house with Tonks on her heels, while Moody decided to sit with the Lions.
Next, Hermione's parents, Jonathan and Samantha Granger, strolled in looking around the Great Hall in awe. Our genius bounded towards her parents and leaded them to the group of Gryffindors.
After the Grangers, entered Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, agitated by being in the same place as a pair of Muggles. As expected, they sauntered over to the Slytherins, who quickly made room for the Malfoys. Draco swiftly nodded to his father and sent a soft smile towards his mother. Lucius returned his nod with one of his own and Narcissa sent back a smile as well.
Finally, Cornelius Fudge walked arrogantly and promptly to the Head Table in the company of Rita Skeeter, who smirked greasily at the money she was going to draw in, and Percy Weasley, trailing pompously after the Minister.
Satisfied that all the guests on the list were in attendance, Umbridge picked up the first book.
"Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," she read out loud. Turning the first page, she announced the first chapter then began to read. "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.
"You are so welcome," Fred said haughtily.
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.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.
Many tilted their heads or arched their eyebrows. Drills? Taking the incentive, Hermione explained what such a thing was. "Drills are tools that Muggles use to put things together." A majority of the people nodded in consideration while the purists — not just the ones in Slytherin — raised their nose.
He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blond 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. The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley —
Harry snorted loudly. "If Dudley is small then how small is a baby killer whale?"
Fred and George snickered at Harry's cousin's first name. "Why would they name him Dudley? Poor lad," George chuckled.
— and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but 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.
The same thought went through mostly everyone's minds. 'What's wrong with the Potters?'
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 good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.
"Well, who would want to be related to them after what I've heard so far? Lily and James were a million times better than these dull losers," Sirius grumbled.
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 noting 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, —
Sirius, Fred and George snorted loudly. 'That explains so much.'
— 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.
Lucius shook his head agitatedly. 'Muggles… They don't even notice the simplest of things…'
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-by but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
Molly and every other mother figure in the room shook their heads disappointedly.
"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.
The students looked up to Professor McGonagall skeptically but then thought nothing of it. What would their Transfiguration Professor be doing there?
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.
"No surprise there. Uncle Vernon can only think of one thing at a time," Harry scoffed. Remus choked back a laugh while Fred, George and Sirius had no such filters and laughed out loud. The other members of Gryffindor chuckled quietly to themselves.
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.
"What's wrong with cloaks?" asked a second year Hufflepuff. "Muggles haven't really worn cloaks for the past few centuries," Hermione answered patiently.
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 together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that mad had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him!
"Such nerve that one, right, George?" Fred laughed. "Yeah! Green? A daredevil! Everyone knows that red is the best," George agreed.
"Oh, I don't know guys, green happens to be my favorite color…," Harry smiled.
But then it struck Mr. Dursley —
'Hopefully on the head,' Harry thought.
— 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.
Mad-Eye Moody grunted in displeasure. "Never have your back against a way for a possible surprise assault."
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.
"W-what's a t-telephone…?" a first year Hufflepuff asked shyly.
"A telephone is what Muggles use to talk to each other from long distances," Harry answered kindly. The first year blushed from Harry answering her question and snuggled into the couch she and her friends were sitting in as they giggled.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs —
At this, Harry gasped out loud in shock. "Unbelieveable!"
"What? What's wrong?" Ron asked, trying to hide his grin, knowing why Harry was acting like this.
"My whale of an uncle thought and stretched his legs? What is the world coming to?" He exclaimed. Ron and Hermione burst out laughing as the occupants of the Great Hall watched as the Golden Trio acted like the fifteen year olds they were supposed to be.
— and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
"Oh, false alarm, everyone. The world isn't ending…," Harry placated. Hermione and Ron snickered softly.
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 was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past him, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potter, that's right, that's what I heard —"
"— yes, their son, Harry —"
'It's that day…,' Remus and Sirius thought in unison.
Mr. Dursley stopped dead.
'If only…,' Harry thought wishfully. He shook his head quickly, getting rid of the dark thought.
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.
Harry raised his eyebrows. "You mean he knows it?"
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 Harry. He'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…
"Like what exactly?" Sirius asked, gritting his teeth.
— …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, —
"You mean he actually apologized to someone?" Harry grabbed onto Hermione's arm in shock while Ron laughed again.
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 mad 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.
"His arms fit? Will the surprises never end?" Harry pretended to faint.
"Mr. Potter! If you interrupt me one more time…," Umbridge trailed off.
"It's a story about me, remember? I can say whatever I want," he frowned.
Umbridge gave him a scathing glare but continued reading.
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.
It was Fred and George's turn to faint.
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.
'Markings…?' Harry and Mad-Eye thought in harmony. It wouldn't have been mentioned if it wasn't important, right?
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look.
Most of the students, plus Sirius and Remus, shuddered. If cats were giving people stern looks, then it could only be a certain cat, right? The Gryffindors looked up at the Head of House and wondered.
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.
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!").
"What a charming child…," said Molly Weasley sarcastically.
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 owl have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly even seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying 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?"
"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."
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. "Er — Petunia, dear — you haven't heard from your lately, have you?"
As he 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."
"'Her crowd'? What does he mean by that, Mr. Potter?" asked Rita Skeeter, slightly offended but her self-writing quill was positioned to write on her notepad.
"Er… well, my relatives…. kind of… hate magic…," he answered nervously, watching as Skeeter's quill scribbled away quickly.
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."
"I like the name Harry…," said a fifth year.
"But not the boy with name, right?" asked her best friend.
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."
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?
"That shouldn't be possible; he doesn't approve of imagination," Sirius said.
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 as a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead.
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 thought it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Cheers erupted throughout the Great Hall. The students' — plus Sirius' raging applause shook the painted windows. Fudge and Umbridge made disapproving frowns as the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs stood and stomped their feet.
Up at the Head Table, in the middle, Dumbledore was sitting with a kind smile until he raised his hand to stop the applause until it slowed down to a stop, but the students were still grinning. "Now, now please. Delores, if you could continue reading…" Umbridge cleared her throat daintily and began to read again.
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.
"Oh, I knew… I just didn't care."
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.
A "Whoa…" escaped from the first and second years. Dumbledore decided to indulge the students and rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the same item, raising it in the air and clicked it. The lights of the room were sucked away and the only sign of brightness was the daylight of the sun pouring through the stained glass windows. The youngest students cheered while the older students — and Hermione's parents were just as amazed but kept themselves quiet. He clicked it again and the light was put back, his eyes twinkling at the amazed faces of the kids.
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."
"I knew it!" rang from the first and second years again while the Lions cheered for their Head of House. Hermione pulled her wand out and waved it from left to right, the sound of a lion roaring rang through the Great Hall. McGonagall blushed slightly from the cheering. Umbridge's eye twitched and started to read again over the noise. The Gryffindors quickly quieted when she did, wanting to hear more about their Professor.
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.
The Gryffindors — and even some of the Slytherins gaped at Professor McGonagall. She was wearing green? "It happens to be my favorite color, as well… Is there a problem?" she raised her brow and gave them her infamous stern gaze. The students diverted their eyes and trained them on the book Umbridge was holding.
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."
Afraid to catch her gaze again, the students stayed silent, although some of them had small smiles from the comment.
"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. Shooing stars down in Kent — I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"Yeah, but he was great at parties," Sirius said. Remus laughed softly.
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
The war-worn adults shook their heads sadly while Harry clenched his jaw.
"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."
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as thought 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: V-v-v-vold-e-e-m-mort." Professor McGonagall flinched, — as did the rest of the room — excluding Harry, Hermione, Moody and the Grangers (who didn't know what they were so afraid of) — and Umbridge as she struggled through the name — 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 V-v-v-v—" Umbridge stopped, too afraid to say it again, her stomach tightening in fright.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Voldemort!" Harry shouted. "It's just a bloody name! If you don't mind, Professor Dumbledore, I'll have to one up you. Just call him Tom! That's his real name!" Everyone stared at him in shock. Tom? That was the all feared Dark Lord's first name?
Lucius gripped his cane tightly, almost snapping the snake head off it. There was no way his Lord would has such a mundane and common name…
Umbridge shivered but continued reading.
"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, Vold-d-d-e-m-ort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "V-v-v-volde-m-m-ort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too — well —noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
The students shuddered. The images…
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 everyone's 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 V-v-v-v-ol-d-d-de-m-m-ort 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."
Harry laid his head on Hermione's shoulder while she ran her fingers through his hair and Ron rubbed his back slowly. The room stayed silent and everyone — even the ones sitting the farthest away from him — could hear him crying. Everyone stayed silent and bowed their heads out of respect — except for Umbridge, Fudge, Percy, Rita, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and most of the Slytherin house — where four students bowed their heads as well. Rita Skeeter took this time to refill her quill's ink well and got ready. The remains of the occupants looked on in distaste until the pink toad finally decided to break the silence.
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. 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, V-v-volde-m-mort's power somehow broke — and that's why he's gone."
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?"
Everyone looked at Harry — who had stopped crying. Just how did he?
"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.
Hermione's parents and youngest muggle-born and half-blood students were confused by such a watch.
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."
"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.
The mothers in the room scoffed at Petunia's parenting skills.
Harry Potter come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly.
At this, Harry also scoffed.
"His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter? You thought a bloody letter would work?" But it didn't come from Harry, like most thought, no, it came from the girl sitting next to him.
Hermione was standing glaring at the Headmaster, her brown eyes lit with anger. Harry tugged on her arm, pulling her back into her seat. She sat down slowly, keeping her eyes trained on Dumbledore.
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? 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 —
Fred and George stared at each other with identical grins. "Absolutely not!" They looked up at Harry, who was glaring at them. They pouted and crossed their arms.
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't 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.
Harry shuddered at the thought at being under his cloak.
"Hagrid's bringing him."
"You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," Harry said truthfully.
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
Said half-giant beamed happily at the trustful claim.
"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.
The first and second years exclaimed with awe once again.
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.
The Gryffindores, Hufflepuffs and some of the Ravenclaws cheered for the jolly half-giant.
"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."
"Huh. Now, if someone was a mass murderer hell-bent on avenging their master, why would they help someone get away with their target?" Harry casually asked out loud. Amelia Bones gave a thoughtful look as she listened. 'Why, indeed…'
"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."
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.
"Aww…" cooed most of the females in the room — plus Ron, Fred, George and Sirius. Harry blushed and looked down at his lap.
"Is that where —?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
Everyone looked up Harry's scar briefly. He combed his hair over it with his fingers.
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself about my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well — give him here, Hagrid — we'd better get this over with."
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.
"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.
He just left him there? On a doorstep all alone? Skeeter's quill scribbled furiously.
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.
"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'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. 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 to 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.
"I'll bloody well need it," he muttered.
He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
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 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, —
"Not a pleasant thing to wake up to, I assure you." Harry made a face.
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!"
Umbridge set the book down and looked over the Great Hall into shocked eyes. It silent for well over a minute when Sirius stood up and said what everyone didn't have the guts to say. He was a Gryffindor after all.
"You left him on a doorstep in November, in the middle of the night. You left my godson on a bloody doorstep and you didn't seem to think how easy it would be for Death Eaters to kill him? For anyone to take him? Not only that, but you thought it well to leave him with a note?" said Sirius. His voice was low, but it rang throughout the room. Rita's quill raced across her notepad with fury, so quickly smoke rose.
Sirius Black was Harry Potter's godfather? Rita realized that the truth, in Potter's case, was a lot juicer. She saw galleons upon galleons.
At the Gryffindor group, Remus was gripping the arm of the chair he was sitting in so tightly, that his fingernails ripped into the upholstery. Harry noticed how angry the two of them were, so he motioned for Ron and George to get Sirius while he and Fred pulled Remus out of the room.
The red heads returned and sat down silently, refusing to make eye contact or say anything to anyone.
Do you love it or hate it? I could care less if you hate it but I love you forever if you like it. I love constructive criticism and I want to make this as realistic as possible, so if you have any, lay it on me. I also accept flames because I love roasting my marshmallows to a nice golden brown.