A lot of this story is going to seem pretty dega vuish. thats because i took a lot of it almost word for word from the books.

I OWN NOTHING!!!! all creadit goes to the brilliant and amazingly spectacular J.K. Rowling. Enjoy and review please!!:) again:I OWN NOTHING (except copies of the books:D) remember padfoot loves you

In number four Privet Drive Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were very proud indeed to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious for they just didn't hold with such things.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. 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 an unusually long neck which was about twice as long as usual. This was very useful as she spent so much of her time craning it over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy in the world.

In number twenty-two Moonstone Lane, on the other side of the city were the Mecnares. The Mecnares were almost exactly opposite the Dursleys. Mr. Mecnare was the director of the firm Sting Automotive, which you hopefully noticed, builds cars. They were opposite the Dursleys in that they loved to have fun. The Mecnares had a very small daughter named Rachelle, who was to them, the most beautiful gift they could ever ask for. Mr. Mecnare was a tall man with a horse like smiling face while Mrs. Mecnare was a caring, short, plump woman with silvering hair.

Both families had everything they wanted, possibly even more. But the Dursleys also had a deep secret. And they wanted to keep it that way for it was their greatest fear that someone might discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's younger sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister. This was because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as anyone could be. 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 and daughter, too. But they had never seen them. These children were another reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When the Dursleys and the Mecnares awoke on the dull, gray Tuesday our story begins, there was nothing 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, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. Neither of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past their window.

Twenty miles away Mr. Mecnare was trying to tie his brightly colored tie, and failing miserably, and Mrs. Mecnare struggled to put a squirming Rachelle into her high chair. Neither of them noticed a beautiful snowy owl pass their window.

At half past seven, Mr. Mecnare picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Mecnare on the cheek then kissed Rachelle on the top of her head. "Have fun!" Mrs. Mecnare called after him as he left the kitchen. He got into his car and backed out of number twenty-two's drive. On the corner was the first sign of something strange- a cat reading a map. Mr. Mecnare didn't realize what he had seen for a moment and jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Moonstone Lane, but there wasn't a map anywhere. What was he thinking? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Mecnare shook his head and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Mecnare drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Moonstone Lane- no, it was looking at the sign; cats did not and could not read maps or street signs. Mr. Mecnare shook his head again and pushed the cat out of his mind. As he drove down the road toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of Stingray cars he was hoping to get that day so that he could finally afford that vacation he had promised his wife years ago. He had no idea that at half past eight, on the other side of the town Mr. Dursley would have the same in counter with the tabby cat as he did.

On the edge of town, drills were driven out of Mr. Dursley's 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 around. People in clocks. Mr. Dursley couldn't stand people that dressed in weird cloths- the get ups you see on young people! He supposed it was some stupid new fashion thing. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing close by. They were whispering excitedly to one another. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a few of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older then he was, and he was wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! Right then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some stupid stunt- these people were obviously collecting for something… yes that had to be it. The traffic started moving once more and a few minutes later Mr. Dursley pulled into 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. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see all the owls swooping around in broad daylight, though everyone on the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl speed and swooped overhead. Most of them had never seen one at night. Mr. Dursley, however, had had a perfectly owl free morning. He yelled at five different people, made several important phone calls, and yelled a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunch, when he thought he would stretch his legs and walk to the bakery across the street and buy himself a bun.

He'd completely forgotten about the people in clocks until he passed a group of them next to the backer's. He eyed them angrily as he passed them. He didn't know why, but these people made him feel uneasy. This bunch was whispering excitedly to each other also and he couldn't see a single collecting tin among them. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large bun 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 twin children, Harry and Arrow-"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead in mid step. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as though he wanted to say something to them, but then he thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to bother him, seized his phone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he thought better of it and set down the receiver. He stroked his mustache, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had twin son and daughters named Harry and Arrow. In fact he wasn't sure if his niece and nephew were called Arrow and Harry. He'd never seen the twins. They might have been Harvey and Alice, or Harold and Annie. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got very upset at the slightest mention of her sister. He didn't blame her- if he'd had a sister like that…but all the same, those people in cloaks…

Mr. Mecnare was having no such troubles. At four o'clock he got to his drive at twenty- two and found the tabby cat sitting on the fence staring at the house. He frowned and went into the house and asked Mrs. Mecnare about the cat. She said it had been there for a while and that no matter what she did it wouldn't leave or come up to lap some milk she had put out to tempt it, but when they looked out the window the cat had vanished.

Mr. Dursley had a hard time concentrating on drills the rest of the afternoon. In fact he was so worried when he left the building at five o'clock that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell over. It took a couple of seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem upset in the slightest about being almost knocked to the ground. Actually his face split into a very wide smile and said in a vary squeaky voice that made passerby stare, "Don't be sorry sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this very happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had just been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because the Dursleys didn't approve of imagination.

When he pulled into the drive for number four, the first thing he saw was the tabby cat he'd seen that morning. It was now sitting on the garden wall. He was sure it was the same one for it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move but it did give him a vary stern look. 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!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed for the night, 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 owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls usually hunt at night and hardly ever seen in the daytime, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster let himself smile. "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 weather man, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting differently lately. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in telling me that instead of the rain that I promised yesterday, they've had a down pour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise you a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley froze in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in the daytime? Mysterious people in cloaks every where? 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 sister lately, have you?"

As he expected, Mrs. Dursley looked both 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 crowed."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided not to. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "There son and daughter- they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so," answered Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What are their names again? Harold and Annie, wasn't it?"

"Harry and Arrow. Nasty, common names if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking. "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 was 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- 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 quite well what him 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 still as a statue, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as twitch when a door slammed shut, or when two owls swooped overhead. Actually, it wasn't until nearly midnight that the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching. He appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat twitched its tail and narrowed its eyes.

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 for him to easily 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 seamed to sparkle behind half-moon spectacles that sat on a very long nose that looked as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots were unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. Though he did seem to realize he was being watched, for he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him. 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 looked like 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 slight pop. He clicked it again and the next lamp blinked into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the street were two tiny dots in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat still watching him. If anyone looked out of their window right now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the street. Dumbledore put the Put-Outer back into his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather sever-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the same shape as the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, wore a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn back 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."

"You'd be stiff to if you'd been sitting on garden walls all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have past a dozen or so feasts and parties on my way hear."

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. Shooting stars down in Kent- 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 these past eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason for us to lose or heads. People are just being downright careless, out in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle cloths, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to say something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine day it would be if, on the same day that You-Know-Who seems to have finally disappeared, the Muggles found 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 like 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 though she didn't think this was a time for a lemon drop. "As I said, 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've been trying to get people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched at the name, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, didn't seem to notice. "It gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened to say Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding both exasperated and admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows that you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too- well- noble to use them."

"I'm lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she licked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing compared to the rumors that are flying around. Do you know what everyone is 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 sitting on cold, hard walls all day. For neither as a cat or as a woman had she fixed such a piercing star on Dumbledore as she did now. It was plain that what "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 didn't answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow, looking for the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are- are- that they're- dead."

Dumbledore sighed slightly and bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James… I can't believe it … I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…"

Dumbledore patted her lightly on the shoulder. "I know … I know…" he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she continued. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters children, Harry and Arrow. But- he couldn't. He couldn't kill them. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry and Arrow Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke- and that's why he's gone. And that his creature has just-disappeared."

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 and girl? Or the creature just evaporating into thin air. It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did the twins survive?"

"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 strange watch. It had twelve hands, and instead of numbers it had little planets moving around its edge. It must've made sense to Dumbledore, though, for he put it back into his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I would 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, and-."

"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 a couple more people more unlike us. And they've got this son," she gabbed her finger at number four. "I say him kicking his mother all the way down the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

Dumbledore was about to say something, but Professor McGonagall wasn't done.

"Now those other people, they are good people. Why are you separating them? Why not put them together with those other people? They're twins! "

"It's the best thing for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to Harry when he's older. I'm separating them for their own safety just in case others come searching for them. They are more powerful together. I've written both families a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all of this in a letter? These people will never understand them! They'll be famous- legends- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry and Arrow Potter day in the future- there'll be books written on them- every child in our world will know their names!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking firmly over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off they'll be, growing up away from it all until they're 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 are the children getting here, Dumbledore?" She suddenly eyed his cloak as though she thought he might be hiding Harry and Arrow underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"You think it- wise- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he isn't 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. As the sound grew to a roar they both looked up at the sky- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the sky and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the man riding it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at leastfive times as wide. He simply looked 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 two separate bundles of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "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 them, sir."

"No problems I hope?"

"No, sir- house was all most completely destroyed, but I got'em out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flying over Bristol, but," the giant laughed slightly, "she's to be a little hand full when she grows a bit older, didn't fall asleep until a little bit ago, she wouldn't stop wiggling."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the two bundles in Hagrid's arms. Inside, just visible in one, 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. In the other bundle was a baby girl in a restless sleep. When the girl turned her head to the left they could just see a white five pointed star shaped scar on her neck.

"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "They will have those scars forever."

"Couldn't you do something about them, Dumbledore?"

"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 the boy here, Hagrid- we'd mine as well get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house, leaving Arrow in Hagrid's arms.

Big tears leaked out of the giant's eyes and ran down his face into his tangled beard, as Dumbledore laid Harry down on the Dursley's doorstep.

Dumbledore took a letter out from inside his cloak and tucked it safely into Harry's blankets, then turned around and walked back to the other two and the little bundle of blankets. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, Arrow made a humming noise inside her blankets, 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. Give Arrow here Hagrid. I must take her to her new home."

Dumbledore toke the little bundle of blankets from Hagrid and said, "Then may as well go join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a 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 into 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 with Arrow, still humming slightly, in his arms. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light speed back to their lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could see 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. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, him and the bundle in his arms 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 was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be awoken in a few hours time by Mrs. Dursley's screams as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, not knowing that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley, nor that in the years to come he would forget all about his twin sister… He couldn't possibly know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the world were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry and Arrow Potter- the twins that lived!"