CHAPTER TITLE: Chapter One-The Boy Who Lived
GENRE: Alternate Universe
RATING: M (violence, language, drug usage, adult themes)
SUMMARY: A world where there are no wands, only guns…
SPOILERS: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone
AUTHOR'S NOTE: (none)
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly, perfectly normal. Vernon was the director of a drill company called Grunnings and was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck and a very large mustache. Petunia was a house wife, thin, blonde, and full of spiteful gossip about the neighbors. Together they had a young son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
As far as everyone could see, the Dursleys had everything they ever wanted. But what they kept hidden from the world was both their biggest secret and darkest fear: the Potters. Lily Potter was Petunia's sister, but they hadn't been in contact with one another for several years, which was fine with Petunia as she liked to pretend her sister and her sister's good-for-nothing husband didn't exist. The thought of the Potters showing up at their house was enough to make Petunia and Vernon sick to their stomachs. And their son? He was no doubt the last thing they wanted around their Dudley.
When the Dursleys awoke on the dull, gray Tuesday that would be the last day of the normal life they had known, the cloudy sky outside had nothing to suggest other than rain—certainly not that anything unusual would soon be happening all over the country. Vernon hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Petunia gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them heard a streetbike race down the street.
At half past eight, Vernon picked up his briefcase, pecked Petunia on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
"Little tyke," he laughed 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 beside the abandoned lot that was for sale that he noticed the first sign of something strange—a well dressed, severe-looking woman standing beside a racing motorbike while looking at a map. For a moment, Mr. Dursley didn't realise what he had seen and began to turn on the radio to listen to the morning news—then he jerked his head around to look again. There was indeed an older woman standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a motorbike 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 woman. She stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the woman in his mirror. She was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the woman 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.
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 black leather and spikes and articles of clothes in various states of disrepair. Vernon hated people who dressed in funny clothes—honestly, the way young people dressed! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion, part of the rebel movement. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these punks standing quite close by, whispering excitedly together. Vernon was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and he had tattoos covering his arms! The nerve of him! But then it struck Vernon that this was probably some silly stunt—these people were obviously collecting money for something or raising awareness for some cause…yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, he arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Vernon always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor and if he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on his work that morning. He didn't see the dozens of motorcycles mobbing the street in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as biker after biker sped past. Many of the riders looked intimidating and the nervousness washed through the people watching from the sidewalks and shop windows.
It wasn't until lunchtime that Vernon thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in their leather and helmets until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. They weren't acting aggressive, but they still made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry."
Mr. Dursley stopped dead in his tracks, his heart thumping loudly. He looked back at the whisperers, disjointed thoughts racing through his head as often happened when the name 'Potter' was mentioned, but instead of saying anything he turned back towards his office, almost running.
Once he was locked safely behind his office door, he began to dial his home phone number, desperate to speak to Petunia when the nagging seed of doubt began to sprout. He was being stupid. How many Potters could there be? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Surely such a common name would have to come up at some point in the discussion of people. And what was the likelihood that they were the Dursleys' unfortunate relatives? No, no, he was being irrational. He wasn't even sure if his nephew was named Harry—he and Petunia had thrown the birth announcement out as soon as they realised who it was from. And was it worth upsetting Petunia over something that was probably nothing? He could only imagine the stress she felt knowing she was had a sister like that…
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was so distracted by worry that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the old man stumbled back and almost fell.
It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a black leather vest and had various piercings on his face. 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 gruff voice that made passersby stare,
"Don't be sorry, mate—nothing could upset me today! You-Know-Who is dead at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
And the old man clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder and walked off.
Vernon stood rooted to the spot. He had been touched by a complete stranger who'd also called him a Muggle, whatever that 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.
As he pulled onto Privet Drive, the first thing he saw—which only added to his anxiety—was the woman he'd spotted that morning. She was now sitting on the garden wall of the abandoned lot. Vernon slowed his car down and gave her a rather stern look, which the woman returned. Should he call the police? he wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Unlike Vernon, Petunia had had an incredibly normal day. Over dinner she happily informed all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"); Vernon tried to act interested. 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, citizens everywhere have reported that the nation's streets have been unusually full with motorcycles today. Although most rallies and enthusiasts stick to the warm summer weather for safe driving conditions, there have been hundreds of traffic jams due to the quantities of motorcycles in every direction since sunrise. Police are unable to explain why the bikers have suddenly appeared in full force on the streets today, but they assure the public that there hasn't been any acts of violence."
Vernon sat frozen in his armchair. Bikers all over Britain? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...
Petunia came into the living room carrying two cups of tea which she set out their conservative coffee table before sitting on his armchair's armrest. He sighed heavily, realising he was going to have say something to her.
"Petunia, dear—have you—well—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry, her head snapping to look at him.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Vernon mumbled. "Motorcycles and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."
"So?" she snapped.
"Well, I just thought…maybe…it was something to do with…you know…her crowd."
Petunia crossed her arms tightly across her chest, slender fingers clutching at her upper arms; the tea was obviously going to be forgotten. Vernon wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Potter'. Judging from the look on her face, he decided against it. However, there was still a nagging question he needed answered and as casually as he could, he asked,
"Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said his wife replied tartly.
"What's his name again?"
"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."
"Oh, yes," said Vernon agreed, a horrible feeling in his stomach. "Yes, I quite agree."
He didn't say another word on the subject as Petunia took their cold tea into the kitchen to pour down the sink drain and went upstairs to bed. While his wife was in the bathroom, he crept to the bedroom window and peered down the street. The woman was still there, her high-heeled feet crossed at the ankles. She was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? 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—the thought made his stomach churn.
Once in bed, Petunia fell asleep quickly but Vernon lay awake, uneasily contemplating the day. 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 his family. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind…Besides, he couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on—he yawned and turned over, draping one of his arms protectively over his wife—it couldn't affect them…
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the woman had been standing with the motorcycle was still sitting on the garden wall in the abandoned lot was showing no sign of sleepiness. She was sitting as still as a statue, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. She didn't move when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when a large owl swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the woman moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the woman had been watching, so suddenly and silently that one might have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The woman's eyes narrowed.
No one like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive; he was tall and thin, with long silver hair and equally long beard, and he was wearing slender denim jeans, a black leather jacket that had a large phoenix embroidered across the back, and large, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.
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. He was busy rummaging in his jacket, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the woman, who was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the woman seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered,
"I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. A single silver lock pick which he promptly slid into the lock on the street lights main control box, wiggling it around until the small door popped open. Running his fingers down the small switches inside, the street lamps along Privet Drive began to disappear one by one until they went out completely. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Petunia Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the tool back inside his pocket, though left the control box open, and set off down the street toward the abandoned lot, where he sat down on the wall next to the woman. Glancing behind him, he saw she had hidden her motorcycle by a break in the garden wall. He didn't look at her, but after a moment he spoke to her.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the woman who had a large tabby cat tattooed on the side of her neck; under normal circumstances, she kept it covered with a silk scarf or high necked sweater, but she had been in a rush when she dressed that morning and it was in plain sight. She looked aggitated.
"I've been sitting on a brick wall all day," she replied.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall made an irritated noise.
"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 pulled a small pocket radio out of her rather smart-looking sport coat. "I heard it. Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Large motorcycle rallies on the streets all over the country—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall, her voice rising an octive. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed to blend in, swapping rumors."
She glanced over at Dumbledore, 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 YouKnow-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really is dead, Albus?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
She stared at him in absolute shock and he held up the sugary treat in question. "A lemon drop. The sweet, Minerva, not the Candy kind."
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, finding the moment entirely inappropriate for sweets. "As I was saying, even if You-Know-Who has gone—"
Dumbledore held up a hand to stop her. "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: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, 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 Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding as though she was simultaneously exasperated and admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had resources I will never have."
McGonagall paused before she said the next part. "Only because you're too noble to use them."
"I'm lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The bikes everywhere are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's no longer a danger? About what finally stopped him?"
Professor McGonagall had reached the point of this roundabout discussion that she had been anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day; she wasn't going to believe a single thing she'd heard until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she continued, "is that last night Voldemort 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."
Dumbledore bowed his head and Minerva choked back a gasp.
"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 didn't. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he tried kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's was injured—and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded once more.
"It's—it's true?" McGonagall's voice faltered. "After all he's done…all the people he's killed…he dies trying to kill a little boy? It's just astounding…of all the things to stop him…but how on earth did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess for now," said Dumbledore.
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he looked down at the golden watch on his wrist; it was an actual Rolex that had been given as a gift to him many years ago by a student whom had admired him greatly. The small hands moved around the face silently and he noted,
"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?"
Dumbledore's placid smile returned. "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. Harry Potter come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" Professor McGonagall hissed, feeling faint. "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—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 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, but changed her mind because this was Albus Dumbledore—he didn't make decisions on whim. "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?"
"Hagrid's bringing him."
She gave him a sharp look. "You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore said without hesitation.
McGonagall quickly rephrased what she meant. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, but you can't pretend he's not careless. He isn't an actual member of the—"
She stopped talking as 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 to the west—and a huge, impressively chromed motorcycle came around the corner of Privet Drive and stopped in the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was large, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost two feet taller normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked impossibly massive and equally wild—long tangles of bushy black hair and beard that hid most of his face, gigantic hands that looked as though they could cover a dinner plate, and feet clad in the largest leather boots anyone had ever seen. Out of the vast leather jacket he wore, he removed a small bundle of blankets that had been tucked safely against his chest. Cradling the bundle is his muscular arms, he looked to Dumbledore and McGonagall.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved; in greeting, he steepled his fingers and brought his thumbs together so that his hands formed a triangle. "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."
He gave a nod. "Were there any problems?"
"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the cops started swarmin' around. He was cryin' fer a while and I didn' have nothin' to feed him…he fell asleep as we was drivin' through 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 burn, like a bolt of lightning.
"Is that from…?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
She studied it closely; the baby didn't seem to be in any pain from the burn, which was a relief as she didn't have a first aid kit with her. She also didn't have to be an expert to see it was a chemical burn, something that made her stomach churn.
"Shouldn't we do something about it, Dumbledore?" she asked softly, touching the baby's face gently.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above 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.
Dumbledore smiled and Hagrid 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 in front of the house and walked to the front door.
He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out from inside his jacket, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. 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. From within one of their jackets a small hiss of static indicated that someone was trying to make contact.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We have 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, he steepled his fingers into a triangle much as Dumbledore had before, then swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it took off down the street and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her.
Professor McGonagall blew her nose into a handkerchief as a reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and flipped all the switches in the street lamp control box. Almost immediately all twelve street lamps came alive again so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out McGonagall pulling her bike out from behind the garden wall, silently pushing it around the corner of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured as he pushed the control box's door shut once more.
A breeze moved through the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which was silent and tidy under the night sky, the very last place anyone would expect anything unusual to happen. Definitely not the place people who rode motorcycles visited. Certainly not the place where babies were left on front steps. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up; one of his small hands closed on the letter beside him, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by his Aunt Petunia's scream as she opened the front door to collect the morning paper for his Uncle Vernon, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. He didn'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!"