A Quiet Street
Bouquet of Begonias & White Heathers:
Beware & Protection
Rubeus Hagrid was proud that he was often sent by Albus Dumbledore himself on various tasks, had done so since he was just a lad and trotting after old Ogg. It had been simple things at first, he still remembered the first time he had asked him: He had been sitting nervously at the staff table for the first time, Ogg drinking his Irish coffee and eatin' his hash. Hagrid had been starin' at his hands, tryin' to ignore the fact that people were starin' at him. His cheeks had been ruddy and red, and he had tried to be as small as possible. A hard task when y're taller than most at the table. The then Head of Gryffindor house had startled him and called out from the other end of the table:
"Rubeus, my dear boy can you pass me the gooseberry jam?"
Dark red and stumblin', he had taken the small crystal jar up to the Headmaster, hands tremblin' as he had passed it into delicate, veined hands. Things had only gotten grander and better since then. He tried not to build himself so much, boast 'bout the fact that such a great man trusted him. Now, as he was handed a hastily made portkey, his stomach turned and he blinked rapidly at the appearance of his dear Headmaster. The pounding on the door had woken him up, made the newborn Cerberus pup he had won off some greek chap snarl and bark: two heads standing at attention while the other whined at him, fur standing on end at being woken up so early in the morning.
He had gotten up, and opened the door to see Albus, all mussed up and wild, still in his night clothes. Now, the man was pale, blinkin' rapidly as he pushed his way in and threw Hagrid's coat at him, on his head, and his boots knocked against his shins as he tossed 'em at 'im as well. Hagrid himself dragged it on, stuffed the portkey into the front most pocket and was already reaching from his boots.
"One minute Hagrid and this portkey will take you to Godric's Hollow. Bring Primrose to this address." said Professor Dumbledore, and even in these troubled times, he had never heard him sound so urgent, so hoarse. Dumbledore gave him a slip of parchment, his hands tremblin'.
"But Headmaster why- "
"The Potters are dead, and Voldemort is gone." Hagrid as always, Dumbledore ignored the flinch of anyone around him when he spoke that dreadful name, " Rubeus, we have to get the girl out before anyone else arrives."
"Lil' and Ja-"
"Hargid", please, get in and out, there's no time to explain. The Fidelius Charm was broken. All of my spells were broken." he cried, and he looked up at Hagrid, blues eyes piercing,
"They're gone."
Hagrid blinked, shook his head, Ther's no bleedin' way tha' Lily and James- And with that a sharp tug at his navel made the Headmaster fade away in spinning mess of colors.
Hagrid landed in an empty, dark street.
Hagrid had never had been very graceful when it came to Magical transport, he liked the local trains well enough, and of course the Night Bus was always good for a laugh. But 'ports and Floo always made him sick to his stomach, turned him 'round. So his landing was not good, he fell on his backside and cursed up a storm. When he had finished, both the dark and the alarming quiet of the street in the early morning crept up on him. His spinnin' head settled, and he looked up.
In front of him, was the Potter house.
Or really what was left of it, which was not much at all. He felt his eyes fill as he stood, large hands trembling and knees knockin' together. He stumbled forward, blinking and breath harsh. He had not been 'round to the Potter's much, just for lil' Primrose christening and for tea now and again since Lily had moved in. That had stopped once they had gone into hiding, but he knew his way 'round it, and he took out his pink umbrella, teeth clenched and ready for anything that awaited him inside. He walked room to room, checking each and everyone on the ground floor before he started to make his way upstairs.
He found James first.
Still, face down, near the foot of the stairs. Arms sprawled and glasses knocked far away. James 's blin' as a bat with'ot his glasses. Carefully, knowing that he had little time, Hagrid rightened James, sobbing. Turned him 'round and closed glassy eyes. He stood and went further, room to room. He found the cat next, a small lil' thing that had been Lily's since her Hogwarts days, spooked and meowing at the sight of him. Hagrid scooped the thing up, stuffed it into an inside pocket to keep the tiny thing warm. It curled and whined into him as he went to the second floor, ever mindful of the creaking and chared steps as he went up.
Room from room, charred and broken was what met 'im on the second floor. It was in the nursery that he found both Lily and Prim. Lily was slumped in front of the crib. Arms reaching. Green eyes so beautiful once still and grey. She had tears tracks running down her pale cheeks, and lil' Prim was tuggin' at her red hair, cryin'. Hagrid swallowed thickly before he stumbled forward. Prim looked up at his clumsy and thunderin' steps, she pointed to her mother:
"Ma. Ma!" in a wailing voice, tears running down her face from her great eyes.
"Shhh. 'S gonna be 'right." he said soothingly to the crying babe.
He moved Lily, closed her flat eyes and laid her down, settled sprawled arms 'cross her chest in a relaxed position. Carefully, he tugged at Prim, and brought her close, blanket's and all.
"Shhh. I got yer. Shhh. Pretty, lil' babe." he rocked, voice hoarse as he brought her close to his chest.
He didn't look back at Lily, least he burst into sobs and collapsed, and fled the house. Sirius Black was running up the drive by the time Hagrid reached the door, still rocking the babe.
"Hagrid!"
"Sirius!" exclaimed the giant, blinkin' as he rocked, "O' Sirius, Lily and James!"
Sirius looked wild and had his wand in hand. His face crumpled, paled and his chest began to rise an' fall quickly. His eyes filled as he looked down at the tiny bundle in Hargid's arms.
"Why do you have Primrose?"
" 'M s'ppose to take her to Dumbledore." he said, and he rocked and rocked the babe.
Sirius's brows furrowed, and his arms reached out to Hagrid.
"Give her here, Hagrid, I'm her godfather."
Hagrid brought her closer to his chest and rocked and rocked the crying babe.
" Can' do tha', Sirius. Dumbledore said-"
"Right. You're right. Take my bike Hagrid." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
Hagrid stared at the massive vehicle, blinking.
"It can fly. Get her out of her. Quickly, Hagrid. Take her quickly before I changed my mind." his voice was quiet, fierce and thick.
In one quick move, before Hagrid could even open his maw ter protest, Sirius moved forward, gave the small babe a kiss righ' on her forehead and turned rapidly on his heel, disappearing with a crack. Hagrid hurried to the massive bike, still rocking lil' Prim, and took off into the night sky, leavin' Godric's Hollow behind.
OOOOOOOOOOOOO
The idea that Primrose Dorea Potter, the only child of Lily and James Potter, could not and was not a normal girl was the only truly coherent thought in Albus Dumbledore's mind. It was an abnormal morning, even if one took into account the normal going ons of Samhain last night. Last night. Last night he had retired with a heavy heart, mind full of Tom Riddle's rise in these Dark times. His concern for the Potters had been a minimal, fleeting thoughts- for while there was not much that he trusted in this world, he trusted magic and he knew that the Fidelius Charm was powerful and true.
He supposed that his greatest and firmest weakness was that he trusted in the bond of men.
He himself had made that mistake once. And would continue to make that mistake if he were to have any sort of faith in his species. James and Lily had made the same mistake, apparently, in trusting their secret keeper, and for him not to insist upon being said keeper had cost them their lives. But he cannot say he does not regret his foolish pride and mistakes. Now, as he looked out at the quiet street that was untouched by the Wizarding War, he thought of the tragedy of two people whom had been in his Order, his soldiers against the darkness that he had mistakenly not stamped out in its infancy, he wondered at the cause of all of this. Tom's certainty of the prophecy. Two lives lost and another babe without its parents.
More parallels, thought Albus Dumbledore, the same as a quiet, intense boy so long ago.
The man's very appearance on the seemingly normal street in itself was a mystery, as well as the thoughts of the infant he had in mind. From his long silvery beard and hair, long enough to tuck neatly into his belt, to his sparkling blue eyes behind their half-moon spectacles to the long and crooked nose they rested upon to the very robes and cloak he wore. All seemed to be signs that something strange was about to happen in Privet Drive.
And it had to do with the girl.
He shifted from foot to foot, eyes flickering about and paused at number 4 Privet Drive: looking at the shiny brass digit on the house and gazing serenely at the future home of the little Potter girl. Deep down in his heart, he knew that this would not be a good place for the child, despite what his mind told him would be for the best for the future for the Wizarding World. If he was correct, things with Tom Riddle were not done, nor were the people that followed him 'dead' as he, and he had many things to ponder and prepare for however long the peace that the apparent death of Lord Voldemort had brought.
He knew perfectly well, even after listening to the stern Professor McGonagall's protests that the Dursley family would not take a shine to having the girl in their household or her criticism about the spoiled family itself. But, even if she didn't know, Professor Dumbledore had no other choice. Petunia Dursley nee Evans, Primrose's aunt, was her only living relative and by default, the only one who could activate a proper blood ward for the girl.
In short, Petunia, a mere Muggle, was the only person in the world who could properly protect the child from Tom's followers until she turned seventeen and the protection of Lily failed forever. The irony was not lost on him, but at the moment he had no real heart to laugh it.
After giving a glance at his pocket watch, a curious little contraption that had twelve hands circling around it and tiny planets instead of numbers on it he sighed, blinking and clicking it quickly shut. It would have confounded any other Muggle who would have looked at it but Dumbledore had known nothing but that all his life, and he commented quietly:
"Hagrid's late," to the irate professor beside him, before he turned to gaze about the dark street. It was partly to make some sort of conversation in the quiet street and partly to distract him from his own mind.
Professor McGonagall gave him a stern look which he caught out of the corner of his eyes, one that had she had given to anyone else would have conveyed only the sheerest of disapproval. As it was, Dumbledore could only take it as annoyance, and restrain a light chuckle at her withering glance. As much as he respected her, part of him saw the student that he had taught. She had never lost that glare, even into adulthood, though it certainly was much more potent than a first year who had bluntly told him that of course she could turn a match into a needle.
"You think it... wise... to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" She asked, twisting her emerald robes irritably, no doubt a side-effect of having to sit on a brick wall all day, observing the Dursleys.
"I would trust him with my life." responded Dumbledore calmly, his light eyes piercing into the woman before him, and she was not so dense not to see the gentle reprim in that stare. McGonagall shifted a little in discomfort.
She loathed being stared at that way, especially by Dumbledore ... If she had to be perfectly honest, she would say exclusively by him. It had not changed since she had been his student, and honestly in her older life it seemed to cause more and more embarrassment and shame. The fact that it reminded her that her superior had taught her when she was in the Hogwarts robes as a child did not endear her to it, she was forty-six for Merlin's sake.
"I admit his heart is in the right place...But he does tends to be careless..." The Professor admits softly, trying to keep at least a bit of defense in her voice as she spoke to the older Headmaster.
Although she knew it was wrong to have a prejudice against the gentle but wild looking gamekeeper, she couldn't help but feel that maybe Dumbledore should have picked a more careful and wiser person to bring the child, perhaps even herself. She knew Primrose would have no fiercer defender, but her own worry for the child of her former students and the stress of their deaths ate at her. Hagrid was wonderful but he was reckless and to be frank she had been on the receiving end of more than one of his embraces. The gentle brute didn't know his own strength.
They both stood in silence after a beat, McGonagall pondering what Dumbledore had confirmed only a few minutes earlier, feeling the prickle of tears in her eyes at the loss of the Potters. Even with her shock at their deaths, she couldn't help but feel a small sense of wonder and confusion.
A small one-year-old girl had defeated the greatest dark lord of the century?
If anyone else had told her, she wouldn't have even begun to understand their madness, and sent them straight to Saint Mungo's. But it had been Dumbledore, who in truth was more than a little mad, to tell her. In anyone else, she would have believed it to be a sick joke. But he wasn't one to lie in a situation this serious, especially since it concerned three people he deeply cared about: the Potters. Two of the most brilliant and talented, and simply all-around good people she had the pleasure to know and to teach. They were gone now and their little girl had been able to do one thing to avenge them: destroy their murderer and avenge the murder of dozen, if not hundreds of people by an accident of faith or something else she could not understand. This bitter-sweet knowledge was almost worth their death.
Almost.
Professor Minerva McGonagall looked up in unison with Dumbledore as a large roar filled the air, eyes on the cloudy sky to see a giant of a black motorcycle clatter to the ground, skidding to a stop right before them. However, if the motorcycle was big, it had virtually nothing on the man that was riding it. Towering over even the abnormally tall Professor Dumbledore, he seemed to be several times as wide as the skinny professor:
His hair was a mass of wild, long tangles of bushy black hair that also covered his face in an equally as messy beard. His black eyes looked almost too small for his face but they alone showed his true nature, expressing the kindness and warmth that the giant man had to offer. In his large and muscular arms he held a tiny bundle that slightly smaller than a loaf of bread but he held it with a very strange gentleness, one that if judging by his almost feral appearance, would have seemed unnatural. He stepped off the bike carefully, holding the bundle in his arms gently. He glanced up at the professors with a bright smile, strained but there nonetheless, and nodded respectfully.
"Good evenin', Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, I've brough' lil Prim," he greeted in a rough but powerfully deep voice, his gentle expression completely at odds with it. He motions to the bundle in his arms.
"Ah! Hagrid, welcome, wherever did you get that machine?" questioned Professor Dumbledore, looking at the behemoth of a bike with what seemed like admiration and more than a bit of amusement.
"Young Sirius Black lent it to me, sir," responded the giant, smiling brightly underneath his tangled beard the implications of his words go over all their heads, confusion and urgency causing them to gloss over it completely.
He pats the handlebars of said bike with his free hand fondly though he kept a good grip on the blankets tucked into the crook of his arm.
"Of course. Only Black would enchant that metal death trap to fly!" huffed McGonagall scornfully, eyeing the machine with barely disguised disapproval. Her nose wrinkled in distaste as she gives the machine a sniff, shaking her head in disgust.
"Please, Professor it broug' me here didn' it?" commented Hagrid truthfully, giving the bike one last pat and moves next to them in an enormous, single step.
She sniffed once more in dislike, then turned her bespectacled eyes toward the bundle of blankets in Hagrid's hands.
"Is that her?" her voice was softer and gentler as she looked at the suddenly pooled in her green eyes and she forcefully coughed and blinked her eyes, composing herself, to peer at the bundle with a much calmer curiosity.
"Quiet little thing, isn't she? Fell asleep as we' re flying over Bristol." commented Hagrid, holding the bundle gently in his oversized arms, as if he was worried about dropping the blankets onto the law.
All of the adults peaked at the small bundle that was Primrose Dorea Potter. She was a tiny little thing, small and delicate like her mother. But, not surprisingly, she had some of her father, which was was obvious as they looked at the wild looking tuft of black poking out of the very top of the blanket They had not seen her for the better part of a few months, and the girl had grown quickly from the infant they had know. Her eyes were closed and they wondered if her infant blue eyes had changed to look like her mother's or father's, her breath was going out in small, little puffs.
However, there was one feature of the little girl that she had not earned from her parents: a small cut over her left eyebrow, shaped like a bolt of was a vivid red, slightly swollen. It was a contrast to the delicately pale skin of the child. Stark and eye-catching.
"Is that where?" asked Professor McGonagall curiously. Her fingers reached for the little girl's head, as if to touch it, but instead they hovered over her bundle, not quite daring to.
"Yes. She will have that scar forever." responded Dumbledore calmly, giving the little girl a serene smile that did not match the set of his furrowed brow. From his sad expression, there was a strange reluctance to look at the little girl, almost as if it pained him to see her.
"You can't...?" McGonagall questioned softly, flickering fingers over the infant in emphasis, as if to magically remove the scar from the child's forehead.
"No. Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can be ever so useful; after all, I have one above my right knee that is in the shape of the London underground." He said with slight humour, smiling a bit at this.
Both Hagrid and McGonagall looked down at his legs, as if to try to see the mentioned scar beneath his robe, then shook their heads. Hagrid bent down and gave Primrose kiss on the forehead, then handed her into Dumbledore's waiting arms and gave out a sound like a wounded dog, his face wrinkled in pain.
"SHH! You'll wake the Muggles!" said McGonagall in alarm, giving the giant a strict look. She motions up the street as if to prove it.
"I'm 'orry...It just lil' Prim off to live with Muggles." said Hagrid in a slightly quieter voice, his gruff tone made even gruffer with suppressed tears.
McGonagall awkwardly patted his elbow, the highest part of him she could even reach. Dumbledore walked up to the front porch of the house, holding the little baby in his arm carefully. With the other two watching him in silence, he gently laid down the bundle to the porch, tucking a thick letter inside her blankets. The three adults stared at their saviour, the saviour of the magical world: a mere slip of a baby girl, who looked as if too deep of a breath could break her. A single tear slipped out of McGonagall's eyes, Hagrid's enormous form quivered as if he was about to run over to the bundle and run off with it, and Dumbledore's blue eyes seemed to have lost their famous twinkle.
"Well, best be off." whispered Dumbledore to the others, his eyes not leaving the bundle on the porch. He, too, looked as if he was restraining himself from picking up the sleeping infant and running off with it.
"I better return the bike..." mumbled Hagrid mournfully, nodding towards said machine and straddling it, flying into the air with a loud growl of the engine. He did not look back, though he continued to tremble.
"Must be going as well... Lots to do now." whispered McGonagall softly. She looked towards Dumbledore for a moment and reached out to him before changing her mind, instead disappearing with a wave of her emerald robe.
Dumbledore lingered still. Both his mind and heart argued about what to do. One, almost paternal part of him suggested that he pick up the girl and raise her himself, out of sheer respect for his former students and friends. The other part, soft and solemn, desperately wished to reverse this night. It wished for James and Lily to suddenly appear to take back their child, leaving him to never make such a choice again. He knew that neither was possible. He flicked his wand, sending warming, cushioning and notice me not spells as well as a water repellant spell over her. Ones that should last until morning.
With a heavy heart and an equally as tired mind, he flicked the putter-outer briskly, returning the lights he had put out. He gave one last look at the porch with the baby sleeping peacefully in it, feeling a twinge of paternal longing, the first part of him telling him to take her and raise her. He remembers James and Lily, knowing exactly what they would do in this situation. Instead of listening to this part, however, he disappeared with a flash of his robes. But not without a whispered:
"Good luck, Primrose."
Primrose Potter did not stir. Her small hand simply reached out to clutch the letter in her tiny fingers in reflex. She slept on peacefully, not knowing she was special. Not knowing what she had lost just a few hours before. She slept on without knowing that her life would take a turn for the worst when her aunt Petunia opened the door and screamed bloody murder when she went to grab the milk bottles that morning. She didn't know that she would be poked and prodded by her wailing cousin for the next several weeks. No, the little girl knew nothing of her future nor of the present, where all across the country wizards and witches were lifting their goblets and saying in hushed, solemn voices:
"To Primrose Potter; The Girl Who Lived!"
