Chapter One
Vernon and Petunia Dursley were no-nonsense city suburban sorts of people. They valued tradition and did not put up with abnormality in the slightest. Their greatest fear was being gossiped about by the neighbors. This must be understood from the beginning, because nothing the Dursleys went through in this story tallied with their beliefs in the slightest.
Vernon Dursley was a corporate firm director, Petunia Evans Dursley a housewife. Vernon was a large man, a rugby player gone to seed, with balding black hair and a black mustache; he wore black or grey suits and extremely boring ties. Petunia Dursley was a slim blonde woman with a chiffon of hair, lace gloves, pristine makeup, flowery perfume, and a lovely printed house dress who had tea with the neighbors and played bridge with the other women and was in the garden club; the flower bed on the front lawn was her pride and joy, and she enjoyed gossip almost as much as she feared being the subject of it. They lived in one of those places that had lawn inspectors, in a neighborhood full of rows of boxy, spacious white houses that all looked the same. They had a one-year-old son named Dudley and though they disapproved of the term "thinks the sun shines out his ass," that is essentially how they felt about him.
The Dursleys were one of those rare sorts of people who had everything they wanted out of life. They wanted a simple, normal, peaceful existence, and they had it. They had enough money to afford a nice house and a nice car. Vernon was content with his job yelling at people in an office and making financial deals all day. His company made drills, a sufficiently inoffensive and masculine enough sale to suit him. Petunia found great pride and joy in her role as a mother and housewife. Petunia gossiped about the neighbors, Vernon complained about the bills and what he read in the newspaper, and they were happy.
But the Dursleys harbored a secret. Their fear of being gossiped about was tied in with an even greater fear - that people would find out they were related to another family called the Potters. Lily Evans Potter was Petunia Evans Dursley's sister, but they hadn't seen each other face to face in several years. They sent each other Christmas cards and birthday gifts by mail, keeping up a semblance of ordinary politeness. But there was resentment there, festering underneath the surface. Petunia pretended she didn't have a sister; none of their neighbors knew she had any surviving relatives at all.
The Dursleys' chief beef with the Potters was this: Everything that had just been said about the Dursleys? Flip that all around and you had the Potters. They reveled in imaginative nonsense, were comfortable being strange, lived away from the city in a tiny little country cottage, eschewed tradition, were the very picture of abnormality, cared nothing for what others thought, and they never settled - not for anything. The Dursleys were deeply suspicious of this. On top of everything else, the Potters never even looked normal. The Dursleys had never invited them over mostly because they were afraid of what everyone else they knew would say if the Potters suddenly arrived at their doorstep one day.
The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a one-year-old child, too - a daughter. Like the Dursleys in at least one respect, the Potters had married and had a child quite young. But the Dursleys had never even met the girl. They had not visited for her birth, not for her time as an infant, not ever. They'd received the card with a birth announcement and a name Vernon Dursley had never bothered to remember, and that was the extent of their interaction with the Potter girl.
It was not like they'd ever need to know anything about her. The Dursleys were firmly resolved to keep any bad influences like the Potter girl as far away from their Dudley as possible.
November first was a Tuesday.
It was cloudy outside that morning, threatening a rainfall that had been widely reported on but never came. Vernon hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work. Petunia was chatting with Yvonne over the phone about Samantha two doors down, at the same time trying to shove by force a screaming, tantruming Dudley into his high chair in the kitchen. They always catered to his tantrums, trying to give him anything he wanted, with the perhaps predictable result that he was almost impossible to force into anything and cried almost constantly - and thus physical force was used.
A large tawny owl fluttered past the living room window, but nobody inside the Dursley house noticed it.
Vernon Dursley's entire life was set to the exact minute hand on the clock. At exactly 8:30 AM, on the dot, he picked up his briefcase, went into the kitchen, and gave Petunia a quick, dry, chaste kiss goodbye on the cheek. (The Dursleys were almost as suspicious of too much overt physical affection as they were of nonsensical imagination.) He then tried to kiss Dudley goodbye, but Dudley was not having any of this. He ducked his face away, screaming and kicking, refusing to be pacified. Even as Vernon watched, he began taking fistfuls of cereal and chucking it at the kitchen walls.
Vernon Dursley laughed, fondly called his son a "little tyke" - boys would be boys, after all - and he left the cleanup of the kitchen to his wife, walking out the front door. Petunia could handle it. Vernon refused to be late for work.
Vernon got into his car and backed out of the driveway of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. He made it all the way down to the end of the neat, paved street, saw a cat reading a map on the corner, glanced around to see if there were any cars coming, and - wait a minute.
Vernon whirled his head back around. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but it most certainly was not holding a map. Vernon refused to believe he held even a spark of imagination, and also refused to believe he may be going insane or in need of any sort of medical assistance, so instead he decided the sunlight that was nonexistent today had made him see a map in a cat's paws where none in fact existed.
He stared suspiciously at the cat. The cat stared almost equally suspiciously back at him.
Vernon drove around the corner and up the road. It was a good thing no cars came along, because he was watching the cat in his rearview mirror. As it fell behind him, he saw it gaze into the rearview mirror solemnly, unblinkingly, almost eerily, for a moment. Then it turned around to read the sign that said "Privet Drive" - no, to look at the sign.
Vernon was quite exasperated with himself. He sighed, shook himself a little, and decided to stop thinking about stray cats. It was quite unhealthy.
He got caught in the daily morning traffic jam on the edge of town. He looked around, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about - people in colorful cloaks. They gathered in groups on the sidewalks, whispering excitedly with one another. Vernon was first irritated - he hated new trends, young people's attire, and old people who tried to look young, on an essentially equal level - and then exasperated with himself as he saw the obvious answer. Either there was a convention going on or this was some sort of gimmick for a charity. There would probably be collecting tins somewhere for the act. Vernon stopped thinking about the cloaks after that.
The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Vernon had arrived in the Grunnings Co car park. His mind was on the day ahead of him. Vernon was always chasing some new, large order and shipment of drills - his doggedness in always finding a new and better deal was what had gotten him continuously promoted in spite of his short temper, constant grumbling, and "complete lack of interpersonal skills."
Vernon Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. He did not like city views or overmuch reflection, and saw no point in being distracted by sights out the window when there was important work to be done. Therefore, he never noticed the hordes of owls flying past his window in broad daylight all afternoon. As he had wanted to be, he was completely free of any distractions, even important ones. He made important telephone calls that day even when no one else did. He did yell at five different people that morning - everyone who came into his office began staring out the window behind him emptily with their jaws hanging open, for some reason. Vernon found it quite irritating. The drug problem in this country really was astounding.
Nonetheless, venting his irrational rage and anxiety at the world at large always made Vernon feel better about his day, so he was quite cheerful by lunchtime.
He decided to stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks, until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. There they were, colorfully cloaked, whispering excitedly together, no collecting tin in sight. They made him nervous, as an unknown, which in turn made him angry. He gave them a dirty glare as he passed. He went into the baker's quite distracted, bought a doughnut instead of a bun to make himself feel better (this habit contributed somewhat to his ever distending belly), and then as he walked back out of the baker's he listened hard to overhear what they were whispering, an action that was usually reserved for his wife.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard -"
"- yes, their daughter, Stella -"
Vernon Dursley stopped dead, scared stiff. He looked back at the whisperers and considered saying something to them, but thought better of it. He sprinted back across the road, punched the elevator button several times, was anxious all the way up to the ninth floor, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, grabbed his telephone in his office, and was almost finished dialing his home number - when he changed his mind.
He hung up the phone and 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. The name Stella was more unusual, but there was no proof that Stella was his niece - he seemed to vaguely remember something being tagged onto the end of his niece's name. She'd been Stella-something-or-other. Not just "Stella." And anyway, Stella could be another girl's name. He'd heard the name Stella before.
He didn't want to worry or upset Petunia. It was best not to mention Petunia's sister unless Petunia herself brought up her sister. It was a touchy issue, and he could understand why. Petunia's relationship with her sister had not exactly consisted of normal sibling resentment and rivalry. Vernon had always taken Petunia's side, and not just out of bias - Lily Potter had always struck him as a bit of a freak, her husband James only worse.
But then he thought about the people in cloaks and still, despite himself, felt the strange need to warn Petunia about something. About what, he had no idea.
Vernon Dursley didn't believe in intuition, so he dismissed the thought.
He was distracted all afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock on the dot, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the vast corporation double doors.
"Sorry," said Vernon shortly - he did not like apologizing, but felt not apologizing would look out of place. He made no move to help the tiny, frail, stumbling old man, staring flatly as he waited for the man to right himself. It was a few seconds before Vernon realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak.
The old man looked up at him, and smiled. He spoke quite kindly, but Vernon barely heard what he said. All he could register in mortification was that a tiny, strangely dressed old man with a high, squeaky voice was speaking to him, and passersby - coworkers and employees alike - were stopping to 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!"
The old man hugged Vernon around the middle - Vernon stood there stiffly in shock - and then walked right away like nothing had happened. Vernon stared after him in disbelief.
Vernon wasn't sure which was worse: That a complete stranger had hugged him, or that he had been called a "Muggle" - whatever that was. Anxious and shaken, he walked rather quickly to his car and set off for the relative safety of his own home. He hoped he was - well, not going insane, but perhaps just imagining things. He had never hoped this before, because he didn't approve of imagination, but there was a first time for everything.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, his mood worsened. The tabby cat from this morning - square markings around its eyes and all, Vernon with an eye for detail noticed - was now sitting on his garden wall. He got out of his car and waved, shouting at it, trying to get it to go away. It could freeze to death for all he cared, but it didn't belong on his property. The cat didn't move a muscle, but it did give him a stern, disapproving glare.
This struck Vernon as odd, but after the day he'd had, Petunia making an unusual dinner could have struck him as odd. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Petunia's day had been normal. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door's problems with her daughter, and how Dudley had learned a new word. (The fact that this word was "Won't!" did not detract in the slightest from their overall pride and pleasure.) Vernon tried to pretend nothing was wrong.
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room and sat down in his usual armchair. He grabbed the television remote and turned on the telly just 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 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." Vernon found the newscaster's bright smile extremely insolent. "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."
The newscasters were very wrong, of course. And not just about the fact that it wasn't going to rain that night.
Vernon Dursley sat there in his armchair for a while, the television off, staring at the blackened screen, stunned. 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…
Petunia came into the living room, carrying biscuits and tea on a tray. Vernon decided with not much enthusiasm that he had to risk saying something to her. Vernon may have been the traditional male breadwinner in the house, and he may have had a short temper and enjoyed complaining, but Petunia could be far more frightening than he could when she wanted to be. Vernon shouted, but Petunia could be cold and intimidating.
He cleared his throat nervously.
"Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
Petunia, used to pretending she didn't have a sister, looked shocked and angry.
"No," she snapped, already irritable. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news…" Vernon was already losing confidence, speaking quieter. "Owls… shooting stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…"
He was not doing a very good job of explaining himself, so Petunia never took him seriously until it was too late.
"So?" she asked scathingly instead.
"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her crowd."
Petunia didn't dignify this with an answer, and she sipped her tea through pursed lips, her back stiff and straight and her head held high, dangling pearl earrings clinking. Vernon pondered mentioning the name Potter, but decided there were more noble ways to die. Instead, he tried for a casual tone as he asked, "Their daughter - she'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't she?"
"I suppose so." Petunia's tone was stiff and high-handed.
"What's her name again?"
"Stellaluna," said Petunia in contemptuous disgust. "Stellaluna Euphemia Potter. A completely nonsense name, but I suppose I should have expected it of them."
"Oh, yes - yes, I quite agree. They'd given her a nickname, hadn't they?" Vernon fished for information.
Petunia turned to him with sharp, canny eyes. "Yes," she said bitingly. "They decided to call her Stella." Vernon's heart sank. "Why the sudden interest?"
"Oh, just - just wondering," said Vernon feebly. He never mentioned the Potters again, and though she remained suspicious for a few minutes more, neither did Petunia. They were unspeaking as they went upstairs to bed.
While Petunia was in the bathroom, Vernon 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 were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? Vernon Dursley frankly didn't care much what happened to the Potters, but the idea that someone could find out he was related to a family like that was genuinely alarming. Was life worth living after such suffocating shame? Would he ever be able to go anywhere again without the fear that people were laughing at him behind his back?
The Dursleys got into bed. Petunia fell asleep quickly, but Vernon lay awake, thinking, thinking, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling… But then he had one thought that comforted him, and after it he was able to turn over and fall right to sleep. The thought was this:
Even if the Potters had become involved in something, there was no reason for them to bother him and Petunia with it. The Potters knew very well 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 wrong.
Vernon decided he didn't care, because whatever was going on couldn't affect him.
Still, the sleep he fell into was uneasy.
Out on Privet Drive, the corner the cat was watching was suddenly filled, with a little pop, by a man. Around midnight, he appeared suddenly on the far corner of the street, dressed in a long purple cloak, high-heeled buckled boots, and half-moon glasses, his long silver hair and beard flowing down to his waist, his bright blue eyes twinkling. He was tall and thin, with the sort of long, crooked nose that spoke of someone who'd been punched in the face but had decided not to have the break fixed in time to stave off permanency.
His name was Albus Dumbledore.
Dumbledore seemed completely uncaring of the fact that he had just appeared in a place where nobody wanted him. When he appeared, he was rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. Then, as if sensing it, he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street.
Dumbledore chuckled. "I should have known," was all he said to himself.
He took out a silver cigarette lighter, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. Twelve times he did this, until the only lights left on the whole street were the two tiny eyes of the watchful, suspicious cat. Dumbledore had done it this way on purpose - Petunia Dursley had sharp, beady eyes, good ears, and a nose for trouble, and he didn't want her knowing what was going on until it was far too late to take it back.
Dumbledore put 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 smiled, and as he looked over the cat transformed itself into a woman with a tight bun of black hair, square glasses, an emerald green cloak, and a strict, lined face. Dumbledore seemed completely unsurprised.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
Minerva McGonagall looked somewhat miffed. "How did you know it was me?"
"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."
"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating all right," said McGonagall shortly, impatient. "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. I heard it in those Muggles' living room. 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. We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that. 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 rumors. 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. 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, exasperated. She didn't seem to 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. Dumbledore, still snacking on lemon drops, pretended not to notice. He continued thoughtfully, "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. But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You Know - oh, all right, Voldemort - was frightened of."
"You flatter me. 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."
McGonagall at last lost her patience. "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?"
Dumbledore remained silent.
"What they're saying 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 are - are - that they're - dead."
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…"
It was just as hard in a way for McGonagall as it was for their friends. Professor McGonagall had taught James and Lily as children. She remembered them as eleven year olds with their entire future ahead of them.
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. He could say the same. "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 Potter's daughter, Stellaluna."
"Stella."
"Well, her proper name is Stellaluna, and -" McGonagall began, irritated.
"James and Lily preferred Stella," said Dumbledore quietly, and at this McGonagall paused.
"Stella," she continued, shaken. "They're saying he tried to kill Stella. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Stella 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 girl? Was it because - I mean -" McGonagall's tone had turned awkward.
Dumbledore sighed. "People hear that a man couldn't kill a woman or a girl and they assume love or affection. No, I don't think Voldemort held any emotional connection to an infant girl he'd never met before in his life. She was a target, nothing more."
"Of course. Completely ridiculous," said McGonagall, recovering with dignity.
Dumbledore decided not to mention that this may not necessarily be the case now. Stella had fooled Voldemort, evaded his clutches, and Voldemort was all too much the kind of person to obsess over his losses and the people who escaped him. If he'd obsessed over killing a boy, it would have been one thing. A man obsessing over a girl created a whole different dynamic. Add in the prophecy, and the addendum that the girl would have a power Voldemort knew not, and add in Dumbledore's personal belief that this power was love… A very certain picture formed in the typical person's mind. Either that of a daughter, or that of a lover, depending on the age of the girl.
And he wasn't sure what to think. Tom was an older man, and he had most certainly never shown a capacity to love anyone, except perhaps for himself.
But if Dumbledore was correct… unbeknownst to Tom himself, Stella may have him from that angle as well. It was impossible not to see the odd connections.
McGonagall was still speaking. "It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him, he was stopped by a little girl…"
"Yes, it is rather mortifying," said Dumbledore musingly. "Especially for someone as caught up in power and self-image as Lord Voldemort."
That was most of the reason why Stella was being placed here, where blood magic could protect her. Wherever he was, Tom would not be happy that a little girl appeared to have bested him - and neither would his followers, who were still at large.
"But how in the name of heaven did Stella survive?" said McGonagall.
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."
It was technically true - he had guessed. It was just that his guesses were usually correct.
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Look underneath the cloaks and one would find robes designed to simulate Victorian era dress - bodices and skirts on women, pocket watches and waist coats on men. Often wearing Victorian era hats, witches and wizards also carried handkerchiefs, as a sign of times long past in the Muggle world.
Dumbledore 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. Dumbledore kept track of the time by making vast astronomical calculations; like most wizards and witches, he was deeply connected with nature, and besides it was a nice way to amuse his mind.
He put the watch 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. And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring Stella to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family she has left now."
"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" Scandalized, McGonagall had jumped to her feet and pointed at number four. "Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Stella Potter, come and live here!"
"It's the best place for her. Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter…? Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand her! She'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Stella Potter Day in the future - there will be books written about Stella - every child in our world will know the name 'Stellaluna Potter'!"
"Exactly. It would be enough to turn any girl's head. Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all of that until she's ready to take it?"
"... Yes. Yes, you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?"
"Hagrid's bringing her."
"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life."
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, 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. They were looking up and down the street for some sign of a head light, when a huge motorcycle fell out of the sky and landed on the road in front of them.
A huge man, a giant, with long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hiding most of his face, leather boots, and a leather jacket, was sitting atop the flying motorcycle. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. In this sort of treacherous environment, a late arrival could mean anything. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir." The giant, Hagrid, was holding the bundle of blankets deceptively gently, climbing with deceptive care off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. She 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 girl, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over her forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
Dumbledore knew then - it was as he had suspected.
"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."
"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 her here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Stella in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Wait." Dumbledore paused, and then turned back to McGonagall. "I want to write a letter." Minerva McGonagall lifted her chin. "As a woman, I want to write to an aunt about her orphaned niece."
Dumbledore paused, and nodded. "Very well."
And by the light of Dumbledore's wand, Minerva McGonagall scribbled out a letter with some parchment and ink taken from her cloak. She wrote using the garden wall.
Dear Petunia Dursley,
I have no business telling you how to raise your niece. But you should know, suppressing the girl and denying her things like imagination will not get you anywhere in destroying the magic within her. Try to be as understanding of her as possible.
Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Dumbledore was silent as McGonagall tucked the letter firmly inside Stella's blankets.
"Could I - could I say goodbye to her, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Stella and gave her what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl and burst into tears.
"Shh!" 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 Stella 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 patted Hagrid stiffly and begrudgingly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Stella gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Stella's blankets, and then came back to the other two.
The wizards and witches knew it wasn't going to rain, and any magical child would be protected from easy deaths like falls, cold, and sickness. Dumbledore was counting on the fact that no one would come along and steal a baby in the middle of the night, as he would rather do it this way than have to convince the Dursleys face to face. There were too many unknown variables there.
Still, it was a somber moment. None of the three looked happy to be leaving Stella Potter with the Dursleys, and when they all separated - Dumbledore to Apparate away, McGonagall as a cat, Hagrid on the flying motorbike - it was with heavy hearts.
Dumbledore looked back at the house, on the corner, just before he Apparated away. He'd turned the street lamps back on and could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four. "Good luck, Stella," he murmured. He turned on his heel, and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. A breeze passed through the street, ruffling the neat hedgerows.
Stella Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her, and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she was being toasted as "The Girl Who Lived" in hidden places all over the country.
Petunia opened the front door the next morning to put out the milk bottles, and shrieked loudly. A little girl was lying there swaddled in blankets.
"Vernon!" she called, as Vernon came thundering down the stairs with his tie half undone and Dudley began wailing. "There's a baby here."
Vernon swore, storming over. "I swear, if some miscreant has left a baby on our doorstep hoping we'll -!" He stopped. "There are letters."
"What?" said Petunia, caught off guard.
"There are letters with her. Get her inside." The door was hurriedly shut before the neighbors could see.
A few minutes later, they were sitting at their kitchen table, shell shocked. "He left me a note," Petunia was saying furiously, pacing up and down, tears in her eyes. "A bloody note."
"And what are we supposed to do now?" Vernon scowled darkly. "We either take her in with no compensation, or we -"
"We're not putting her up for adoption." Petunia's tone brooked no argument.
Vernon shot to his feet. "But -!"
"I said no, Vernon!" Petunia's eyes flashed as she glared at him.
"I am not having a freakish witch in my house! You heard that woman Minerva! Nothing can suppress the magic inside her!"
"Oh, for God's sake, Vernon, they're just like you and me!" The words came out of Petunia's mouth before she could stop them. Her eyes widened, and she looked away.
"... That's not what you told me when we were dating," said Vernon at last, standing back to stare at her.
"... That's because I hated my sister!" Petunia forced out, teeth gritted, tears in her eyes. "But they're just like us. Governments, school systems, prison systems, career paths. The only difference is that they do it all with some special inborn ability." Her tone was heavily bitter. "They're weird, but they're not… I mean, they're not animals." Her tone was pained.
Vernon paused, and sat down heavily. "We don't know how to raise her that way," he realized.
"So we hide the truth from her," said Petunia, lifting her chin. "We hide the truth from her until her Hogwarts letter comes. Treat her normally. It would be best for her, and you never know. It might crush the magic inside her anyway, having a normal, non magical family. Suppression won't stop anything, but… but care might." And here she sounded thoughtful.
"... We always wanted a daughter," Vernon pointed out. "And we already know we can't have anymore kids." He looked sideways at her. This was a risk, saying it out loud.
Petunia looked over the house: plush carpets, elegant furniture, polished mantel piece, redbrick fireplace, framed gleaming photographs, large television, vast gleaming kitchen, entrance hall and staircase, two extra bedrooms. It was perfect.
She walked over to the table, and looked down into the baby's face, reserved. Stellaluna Potter's green eyes had opened, and she was now looking up into Petunia's face, innocent. Lily's eyes.
"... I can try it," said Petunia. "It will be an effort, not resenting her. But I can try. For Lily." She was whispering by the end.
Suddenly, she walked over to baby Dudley and looked into his face. "Dudley," she said firmly. "This is your new sister Stella. You must protect her, take good care of her, and never harm her. Understand?
"We are all to be one completely normal family."