P R O L O G U E
There was still smoke rising from the ashes of number four, Privet Drive, on the 2nd of September - one day after being totally destroyed. To any regular bystander - that is to say, any Muggle - it would seem the tragic result of a particularly vicious house fire, little knowing the truth. The truth about an evil so great that an entire, powerful world dared not speak its name.
Having heard the screams from within they all knew that the family of number four, the Dursley's, had not escaped. They had stood at the front lawn of the house, listening to the cries for help, but no one dared move. No one was willing to risk his or her own life for the family, even for the boy, Dudley.
No bodies were ever recovered, having been burnt to ashes. It seemed remarkable to the police and fire department that a regular home could produce the amount of heat required to do so. It seemed, observed one detective, that the Lord Himself had destroyed the house. The Dursley family was gone; dust in the wind.
* * *
On the night of the 2nd of September, Albus Dumbledore stood, head bowed, where he had some sixteen years before. Gaze fixed on the remains of the Dursley home he forced his feet forward, to perform his unpleasant task. Harry Potter, the boy he'd brought to this very place, had failed to reach the Hogwarts Express. It had become obvious, then, what had happened, but Dumbledore refused to lose hope.
"Glaciate," he murmured, flicking his wand. Instantly the site cooled, and Dumbledore moved himself to the middle, surveying the ground for the simplest clue that would answer his one question. He found it. A pair of small, round glasses, in oddly perfect condition amongst the devastation.
Dumbledore sighed, feeling older and wearier than he ever had. He picked up the glasses and, with it, a handful of ash, placing both in a small sack to take with him to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His duty here was done.
The last Potter was dead.
There was still smoke rising from the ashes of number four, Privet Drive, on the 2nd of September - one day after being totally destroyed. To any regular bystander - that is to say, any Muggle - it would seem the tragic result of a particularly vicious house fire, little knowing the truth. The truth about an evil so great that an entire, powerful world dared not speak its name.
Having heard the screams from within they all knew that the family of number four, the Dursley's, had not escaped. They had stood at the front lawn of the house, listening to the cries for help, but no one dared move. No one was willing to risk his or her own life for the family, even for the boy, Dudley.
No bodies were ever recovered, having been burnt to ashes. It seemed remarkable to the police and fire department that a regular home could produce the amount of heat required to do so. It seemed, observed one detective, that the Lord Himself had destroyed the house. The Dursley family was gone; dust in the wind.
* * *
On the night of the 2nd of September, Albus Dumbledore stood, head bowed, where he had some sixteen years before. Gaze fixed on the remains of the Dursley home he forced his feet forward, to perform his unpleasant task. Harry Potter, the boy he'd brought to this very place, had failed to reach the Hogwarts Express. It had become obvious, then, what had happened, but Dumbledore refused to lose hope.
"Glaciate," he murmured, flicking his wand. Instantly the site cooled, and Dumbledore moved himself to the middle, surveying the ground for the simplest clue that would answer his one question. He found it. A pair of small, round glasses, in oddly perfect condition amongst the devastation.
Dumbledore sighed, feeling older and wearier than he ever had. He picked up the glasses and, with it, a handful of ash, placing both in a small sack to take with him to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His duty here was done.
The last Potter was dead.