Disclaimer: No, I don't own Harry Potter or any related franchises.

Mister and Missus Dursley, of Number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly smart, thank you very much. They were the first people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they were always the first to investigate such mysteries.

Mr. Dursley was the director at a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. This year, though, he had signed up for a special project - a research project about computers. He had earned a promotion, too. This project was designed to see whether more drills could be needed for more screws in computers, which would give Grunnings more money.

He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. 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 peeking around the walls, making sure Dudley was reading his books. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no smarter boy anywhere.

The Dursleys never had everything they wanted. Petunia was convinced that Dudley would grow up to become a doctor, though Dudley always preferred reading history books. Vernon wanted Dudley to understand computers and become a computer scientist, though even enticing Dudley with video games never seemed to work.

Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met in a whole year. The last time they had met, Lily had tried convincing her to be 'less nerdy'. Mrs. Dursley had been so very offended by that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, 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 a nice tie for work and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a reading Dudley into his high chair.

"Hey look!" Vernon said. "It's an owl!" Petunia turned away sadly. "Oh, Pet, I didn't mean it like that!"

"She hasn't responded to me," Petunia murmured. "What if...what if she's dead?"

"No, no," Vernon said. "Don't think like that! Thoughts like that are depressing!"

Petunia sighed. "I'm just so worried."

"I know, Pet. I know."

At half past eight, Mr Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs Dursley on the cheek and kissed Dudley goodbye. Just like normal, Dudley didn't even notice the kiss, engrossed in his little book like normal.

"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 interesting – a cat reading a map.

For a second, Mr Dursley didn't realise 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. 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.

Mr. Dursley jumped out of the car, walking to the cat. "Hi cat!"

The cat gave him a look, as if saying 'I have a name, you know.'

"You know who would love to meet you? My son! He's always interested in smart animals like you."

The cat turned away. Mr. Dursley sighed. "There's always next time, I guess." Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards 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 cloaks.

If Vernon wasn't almost-late, he would have jumped out of his car to talk to them. That darned cat...

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these people in standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on computers and drills.

Mr Dursley always sat looking through the window in his office on the ninth floor. He claimed it was because the calm blue skies calmed him down.

He saw the owls swooping past in broad daylight, just like the 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 night-time. Mr Dursley almost sped outside to gawk at the owls, though his project was still more important.

His day had been going pretty well, to be honest. He hadn't yelled at anyone today (yet), and work on the project was getting faster and faster.

Just then, his stomach rumbled. All around him, people began to whisper and stare and point. "Oops," he said. "I'll be getting my lunch, then." Someone snickered. Vernon shot a glare at the man and walked into the elevator. Meanwhile...

Hey!

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. This lot were whispering excitedly, too. 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.

Fear flooded him. Had Petunia's worries proved right?

"Excuse me!" he called. The cloaked people ignored him, continuing to talk amongst themselves. "EXCUSE ME!"

"Huh? What?" one man said dumbly.

"Harry Potter?" Mr. Dursley asked. "You were talking about Harry Potter?"

"Yes! You ought to be delighted, muggle-"

"The son of Lily Potter?" Vernon asked, feeling sick.

"Yes, that's the one! Hey, how does a muggle-"

"What happened to them?" Vernon shot back.

"Hmph, manners! Er, well...You-Know-Who went to their house in Godric's Hollow and...er...well...only little Harry survived..."

"WHAT?" Vernon shouted. The man flinched. "I'm sorry, I have to go."

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone and finished dialling his home number.

"PET!" he roared, not caring about the looks he was getting. "PET!"

"Y-yes, Vernon?"

"Your sister...and your in-law...they're dead..." Vernon said, a tear leaking out of his eyes. Irritated, he closed his eyes. He might not have liked them and their wand-waving (he preferred solid things like computers, thank you very much!), but they were family. And Petunia was bound to be sad.

"WHAT?"

"Lily...James...they're dead..."

"WHAT?"

Vernon opened his eyes, looking at the room. Everyone had stood up in their own little cubicles, staring at him. Almost all of them had tears in their eyes, too. "They were killed-"

"WHAT?"

"Pet...I think I'm going to have to take leave today. I can't...can't work like this."

"Yes, Vernon. Please, do come home safely. Should I pack my things? What if they come after us and Dudders?"

"Prepare yourselves," Vernon said. "It can't hurt to be safe. I love you, Pet."

"I love you too, Vernon."

He hung up, sighing softly, before realizing that everybody had heard him. "Don't worry," his boss, Angus Madison, said. "You can have the whole week off. Paid vacation. And it won't count for your vacation days, too."

Vernon sniffled. "Thank you so much. It's a hard time for us, now. Thanks again."

"Don't worry about it," Angus said. "Just go home and relax. Take some time off."

"Thanks," Vernon said again, before walking away and waiting in the elevator. His drive home was plagued by thoughts about his poor sister-in-law.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw 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.

"Hey, kitty kitty!" Vernon said, trying to smile. The cat must have known that he was feeling down and walked over to him. "I guess you're feeling a bit sad too, right?"

"Meow."

He sighed. "Today, at work, I ran into this fellow who said that Lily was dead. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Meow." Vernon looked up just in time to see the cat shake her head.

"I suppose not," he said. "It's just...so...sad..."

"Meow." The cat's paw grasped his beefy arm, as if she was trying to comfort him.

Vernon sat down in the grass, right next to the cat. "Heh," he snorted grimly. "Look at me, talking to a cat. I'm sorry for taking my frustration out on you."

"Meow."

"I'm really hoping that the man was lying, though. I mean...Lily was such a nice person..."

"Meow."

"Hey! I know! Maybe you could spend some time with Dudley and me and Pet?" Vernon asked, brightening up.

"Meow." The cat shook her head. "Meow, meow."

"Er...okay...Oh, wait, I've been talking to a cat!"

"Meow." The cat's paw hit her forehead, almost like she was facepalming.

"Oh well...bye..." Vernon walked into the Dursley house and was immediately confronted by-

"VERNON!" Pet screamed as she flung herself at her husband. "TELL ME THAT IT'S NOT TRUE!"

"I can't," Vernon said. "I heard it from some person on the streets."

"Hopefully," Petunia murmured. "Hopefully they were wrong. Hopefully they were lying."

Vernon nodded into the hug. "Hopefully."

"Daddy?" Dudley asked, crawling towards the couple. He had just put up his book, likely, upon seeing his father return early. Those picture books were...interesting...though Dudley was still only a baby. He probably didn't understand it.

"It's fine, son."

The three of them sat on the sofa, brooding. They were in such an intimate three-way hug that neither Vernon or Petunia noticed that they had fallen asleep. Poor Dudley was trapped between the two as they took their rest from the day's events.

Outside the Dursley home (it was still afternoon), the cat watched the trio carefully.

'The man seems to care greatly for Lily, just like Petunia. That's strange, though. The last time I heard, they had been angry at Lily. And the boy might be a good role model for Harry.'

The cat stayed in the same position, reviewing her opinions of the Dursleys. It wasn't until midnight that the cat even moved, though she hardly noticed. Although she had been staring at the corner of the street, her mind had been elsewhere.

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 as she was shaken out of her thoughts.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in 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 which 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 though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome - except for one house.

Number 4 Privet Drive.

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise 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 had 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. He clicked it again – the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in 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 towards 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."

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. 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."

"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. I saw 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 eleven years."

"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 rumours."

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 sherbet lemon?"

"A what?"

"A sherbet lemon. 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 the moment for sherbet lemons.

"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: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, 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 half-exasperated, half-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 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."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing to the rumours 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 sherbet lemon and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they're – dead. That's what the Dursleys think, too."

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 Potters' 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, Voldemort'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?"

"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. 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 mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore – that's actually a pretty good idea."

"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?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses.

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.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"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'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 motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a al 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 dustbin 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. "At last. And where did you get that motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it me. I've got him, sir."

"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.

"Is that where –?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar for ever."

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

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which 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 towards the Dursleys' house.

"Could I – could I say goodbye 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. 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'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself on to the motorbike 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. 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. 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 was special, not knowing he was famous, 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.

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!"

Author's Note:

I hoped you enjoyed this story so far! It's my first, too.

Now this Author's Note is to clarify a bunch of stuff.

1. The premise of this story is that the Dursleys act like how normal families should act. If your sister and her husband just died, leaving their son behind, I know I would be more than glad to take him (the son) in, feed him, clothe him, and be super-duper-uber nice to him.

In fact, the Dursleys will be acting better than normal because Petunia isn't such a jerk.

2. While the Dursleys may very well be smarter than in canon, that doesn't mean that Harry is going to be the same Harry from Methods of Rationality. You'll see his character later, of course.

With that, let me repeat something! I hope you enjoy this story!