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

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 nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and an infant daughter called Margaret, and in their opinion, there were no two finer children anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters or the Evans. Mrs. Potter and Mr. Evans were Mrs. Dursley's siblings, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she was an only child, because her siblings and their spouses were all four good-for-nothing, in her mind, and were unDursleyish as possible. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Evans or the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that they both had young children, but they had never seen them. These children were another good reason for keeping Petunia's siblings away; they didn't want Dudley or Margaret mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside that 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 while holding a hand over Dudley's mouth to get him to stop screaming, as Margaret was still half asleep in her arms.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window, besides Margaret, who could not communicate what she saw, being only about a year old.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, kissed Margaret, 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," 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 peculiar- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat sitting on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map 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 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- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat 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 usually morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley 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 wearing an emerald green cloak that clashed with his bright red hair horribly! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was obviously some silly stunt- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in 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 the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though 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 nightimt. Mr. Dursely, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important phone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He soon noticed the owls, as one of them dropped its dropping over his head. Disgruntled, he continued onwards. He forgot about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. HE eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they 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 donut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potter's, that's right, that's what I heard-"

"-and the Evans, too. Don't forget them-"

"-yes, and the three children, Harry, Lily, and Petunia-"

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

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name... Nor was Evans. He was sure there were lots of people with children named Harry, Lily, and Petunia. In fact, Petunia had mentioned that in secondary school, there had been another girl named Petunia Evans. He wasn't even sure he had a nephew called Harry- maybe his name was Harvey, or Harold. Why his sister-in-law or brother-in-law would name their daughter after his wife, he couldn't imagine- they were the ones who stopped speaking to the Dursleys. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got upset at any mention of either of her siblings. He didn't blame her- if he'd had any siblings like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem upset at all. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

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

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He 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 into his driveway, the first thing he saw-and it didn't improve his mood-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.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into his house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley 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 and Margaret had been put to bed, he went into the living room to watch the evening news. He caught the last report:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, 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 allowed himself a grin. "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 weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters and the Evans...

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 either of your siblings lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she was an only child.

"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... their crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the names "Potter" and "Evans". He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "The boy, he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly. "In fact, his cousins would be too."

"What're their names again? Howard, Lily and Polly, aren't they?"

"Harry, Lily, and Petunia. Harry's nasty and common, if you ask me. Lily- I'd never name my daughter Lily. As for that last one- Petunia. Why would they name their child after me? I say they are crazy, and it is good we didn't keep in touch when our parents died."

"Oh yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "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 waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with Petunia's family? If it did... If it got out that they were related to a bunch 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 they were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters and Evans very well knew what he and Petunia thought of 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 signs of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a cat door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

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.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen before on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, both of which were long enough to 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 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 realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging through his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize 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 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 on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out 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 toward 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 was 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."

"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. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursley's 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 eleven years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out in the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledpre 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 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 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 the moment for lemon drops. "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 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 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 this much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors 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 lemon drop 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 rumor is that Lily and James Potter, and Harold and Ana Evans are- are-that they're - dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... Harold and Ana... 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 McGonagalls voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying that he tried to kill the Potter's 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 shook his head. "My dear Minerva, that is not all. As you know, you are able to cast more than one spell at a time, if you are fast enough. He shot the Killing Curse not once, but thrice. It rebounded off of all three of his victims- Harry Potter, Lily Evans and Petunia Evans. He did disappear, true. But think of it- he has killed people in this way before."

"It's-it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill three small children? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did they 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 a 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 the children to their aunt and uncle. They're the only family they have 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 less like us. And they've got this son- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street screaming for sweets. The daughter seems to be too young to do much, but I believe that she will turn out just like her brother. Harry Potter and the Evans girls come and live here!"

"It's the best place for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they're 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? These people will never understand them! They'll be famous- legends- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Evans day in the future- there will be books written about them- every child in our world will know their names!"

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

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"You think it was 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 motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle and sidecar weren't huge, it was nothing compared to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal 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 trashcan lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. After he bent over into the sidecar, there was, in his vast, muscular arms, a bundle 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 him, sir. The girls are still asleep in the sidecar."

"No problems, were there?"

"No sir- house was almost destroyed, but I got 'em out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They girls were asleep t' begin with, an' 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 forhead 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 forever." Dumbledore moved over to the sidecar and picked up the other two babies. One was red-haired and the other blond-haired. He smiled, remembering Lily and Harold Evans. They were twins, although Harold was often mistaken for Petunia's twin. It seemed his daughters matched him and his twin sister perfectly. They also both had a scar from the curse that rebounded, although the red-haired baby's scar was shaped like a curlicue, on the back of her hand, and the blond one had a leaf-like pattern on the back of her neck. "As will they."

"Couldn't you do something about it, 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 him here, Hagrid- we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore balanced the three babies in his arms and turned towards the Dursley's house.

"Could I- could I say good-bye to them, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over the three children, and gave them each what must have been a very scratch, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-c-can't stand it- Lily' an' James an' Harold an' Audrey dead- and their poor little children 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 the three children 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 three little bundles; 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'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, causing a baby to waken on the street.

"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 blankets holding the three babies on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry, Lily, and Petunia," 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 still sounded with noise of an infant crying. The light in Margaret's room turned on, and the crying soon quieted. 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, not knowing that he and his two cousins would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley, not even knowing that his two closest cousins laid on either side of him, sleeping just as soundly as he did... 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, Lily Evans and Petunia Evans- the children who lived!"

I know that this isn't my usual H2O story or anything, but I have been working on this for a while, and so I decided to post it...

I plan on, after I finish the whole original series, making it a cross over as well, with Percy Jackson (although they will obviously never meet Percy Jackson, as he was after their time...)

And, I have never, nor will I probably ever, own the copyrights to this story, or at least, the parts that you recognize... Those that you don't, you either have yet to read the amazingness of Harry Potter, or I made it up.

Please review, and tell me what you would like to see. I have up through the Sorting done, and I sort of know where I want it to go, BUT I am open to changes to things that I have yet to write...