Harry Potter and The True Story Re-Write
By J.K.W.M.P.Y. Trolling
CHAPTER THE FIRST
The Boy Who Existed
Mr. and Mrs. Drubblesnort lived at number four hundred and eight, on a Private Drive, and were proud to say that they were perfectly normal thank you very much and have a cup of tea. They were the last people you'd expect to be caught up in any ongoings that were strange or mysterious, because they just didn't take kindly to such nonsense.
Mr. Drubblesnort was an executive of a firm called Gunnings, which made automatic hunting rifles. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, huge hands and a very large... well, let's not go there. Mrs. Drubblesnort was thin and pale and had nearly thrice the usual amount of neck, which had a lot of usefulness as she spent so much of her time peering over garden fences, spying on the neighbors and over stalls in public restrooms. The Drubblesnorts had an obese toddler called Bubba and in their estimation there wasn't a tubbier boy anywhere across Europe. All of the doctors they had visited were really concerned.
The Drubblesnorts had everything they ever wanted however, but they also withheld confidential information about their family, and their greatest fear was that somebody would uncover their secrets. If someone where to find out about the Potters, then that that someone would have to be killed off. Mr. Drubblesnort didn't think of himself as the murdering type and would prefer his family secret remained secret, but his acquaintances might say otherwise. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Drubblesnort's sister, but they hadn't chanced a meeting for quite a few years. In fact, Mrs. Drubblesnort pretended she didn't have a sister because her sister and her good-for-nothing hooligan of a husband were as un-Drubblesnort-ish as it was conceivable to be. The Drubblesnorts trembled to think what their peeps would say if the Potters arrived on the street. The Drubblesnorts knew that the Potters had a little rascal, too, but they by no means had ever seen him. This demon child was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Bubba mixing with a little terror like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Drubblesnort woke up on an uninteresting, gray Tuesday our story launches. There was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be afoot.
Mr. Drubblesnort sang to himself the theme song from The Sopranos as he picked out his most boring tie for work, "You woke up this morning, Got yourself a gun. Mama always said you'd be the Chosen One…."
Downstairs, Mrs. Drubblesnort gossiped away happily on the phone as she wrestled the hefty baby Bubba into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large pig flutter past the skylight.
At half past ten, Mr. Drubblesnort picked up his briefcase, smooched Mrs. Drubblesnort, and tried to give Bubba a big wet good-bye too but missed, because Bubba was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.
"You little monkey…" chortled Mr. Drubblesnort as he left the house still singing The Sorpranos theme to himself with a skip to his step: "You woke up this morning, The world turned upside down. Thing's ain't been the same, Since the Blues walked into town..." He got into his Humvee and backed out of number four hundred and eight unbeknown how true those words would be.
It was on the corner of the street that he first detected a sign of something abnormal — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Drubblesnort didn't realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head out the window to look back behind him now. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of his Private Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. Where his eyes playing tricks on him as they do tend to do more often than he would like? It must have been a deception of the light, he thought. Mr. Drubblesnort blinked and continued to stared at the cat behind him. It stared back. Just then, BAM! Mr. Drubblesnort had smashed into a stopped car in front of him, completely crunching the trunk like an aluminum can. Of course he was just fine in his Humvee, but the poor little old woman needed an ambulance as her journey to the local grocery was cut short. The crash had shaken Mr. Drubblesnort and the cat was the last thing on his mind. After the police report, he drove onward toward downtown and thought of nothing except a large pile of bills he had yet to pay off at work. His company recently had a terrible quarter and there wasn't much money left to keep things afloat.
But on the outskirts of his private community, the bills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual mid-day traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed citizens about. People in cloaks. Mr. Drubblesnort couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He imagined this was some sort of stupid new fashion. He started singing to himself again and slapping his hands on the steering wheel, "But baby I'm one in a million, I've got that shotgun shine. Born under a bad sign with a blue moon in your eye." Honking the horn every so often to the tune. But his eyes continued to fall on these weirdos now standing quite close by. They were murmuring to each other. Mr. Drubblesnort was infuriated to see that some of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! How dare he! But then it struck Mr. Drubblesnort that there must have been some old rock & roll band in town —these people were obviously here for that… yes, that would be it. "Go back home you hippies!" he screamed out the window. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Drubblesnort arrived in the Gunnings parking lot, his mind back on his dreaded bills and at times, Tony Sorprano.
Mr. Drubblesnort always sat with his rear to the window in his office on the ninetieth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on the bills that morning. He didn't see the flying pigs swooping past in broad daylight, though some people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as pig after pig soared overhead. Yet still most of them had never seen the flying pigs and were not convinced when other pedestrians told them to look up. Mr. Drubblesnort, however, had a perfectly normal, pig-free morning. He fired five different people, he made several important telephone calls and shouted at his secretary when he ran out of coffee. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the street to buy himself a super-sized deluxe combo meal from his favorite fast food eatery.
He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a cluster of them. He eyed them crossly as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uncomfortable. These hooligans were whispering to each other, too, and he couldn't see a single band name. It wasn't until his way back past them, clutching a bag containing a triple-decker candied-bacon cheeseburger, extra large chili fries, and a peanut butter shake, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's correct, that's what I heard —"
" — yes, their young lad, Harry —"
Mr. Drubblesnort grabbed his heart. Was he having a heart attack? Fear flooded him. And then blackness...
He awoke an hour later to paramedics reviving him on the sidewalk. Once he became alert, he got up and 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 realized he had left his lunch on the sidewalk. He put the receiver back down and twirled his mustache, thinking. No, he wasn't going to go back for it. Now, should he ring up his wife? Potter wasn't such an atypical name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure what his nephew's name was. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Hussain. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Drubblesnort; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her — if he'd had a sister like that… but all the same, all those individuals in cloaks…
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on paying bills 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.
"Watch where you're going!" he grouched, as the tiny old man stumbled backwards and fell with his head smacking the pavement. Mr. Drubblesnort just then realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset for being knocked to the ground, even when blood started trickling down the right side of his head. On the contrary, his blood-soaked face split into a wide smirk and he said in a squeaky voice, "My apologizes, my dear sir, for nothing could stand in my way today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Perfectly-Well-Who-I'm-Talking-About has had his last birthday! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy new holiday!"
And then the old man hugged Mr. Drubblesnort around the middle, kissed him on the mouth and walked off.
Mr. Drubblesnort stood rooted to the spot. He had just been manhandled by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled, confused. He hurried to his Hummer and set off for home, hoping that the senile old man was suffering from a concussion. Hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four hundred and eight, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood — was that tabby cat he'd spotted earlier that morning. It was now sitting on his mailbox. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Drubblesnort loudly.
The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Drubblesnort wondered. He then picked up the newspaper lying on the driveway and swatted at the cat until it finally jumped off and scampered across the street. That'll teach you, he thought. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Drubblesnort had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Bubba had learned a new word ("Gimme!"). Mr. Drubblesnort tried to act normally. When Bubba had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, we've received several reports of flying pigs in the area today. Although pigs normally reside on farms and don't have wings, there have been hundreds of sightings of these flying pigs in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain what these so called 'flying pigs' in the sky could be." The newscaster did not sound convinced that he believed this report, but allowed himself a grin. "It is quite mysterious. But until there's an explanation, I guess Anne you'll have to fulfill your promise and go out with me for a drink!" He looked over to his fellow co-anchor while Anne looked back in disgust. "And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more pig storms tonight, Jim?"
Mr. Drubblesnort grabbed both sides of his armchair, frozen. Flying pigs? Bothersome cats? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And murmurs about the Potters…
Mrs. Drubblesnort came into the living room carrying two cans of beer and tossed one to Mr. Drubblesnort. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her, and thought it best if she were drunk first. He cleared his throat nervously as he opened his eighth one later in the evening. "Er — Petunia, dear — you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
As he had expected, Mrs. Drubblesnort looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
"No," she said bitterly. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Drubblesnort mumbled. "Pigs… flying around… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…"
"So?" snapped Mrs. Drubblesnort "Lots of funny looking people live around here."
"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… her kind."
Mrs. Drubblesnort chugged her sixth beer a little faster now. Mr. Drubblesnort wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare, she's not drunk enough yet. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their youngster — he'd be about Bubba's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Drubblesnort with a hiccup.
"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
"Harry. Nasty, awful name if you ask me."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Drubblesnort, 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. Drubblesnort was in the bathroom, Mr. Drubblesnort crept to the bedroom window and peered down into his front yard. The cat was back on his mmailbox. It was staring down the Drubblesnort's Private Drive as though it were waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn't think he could bear it.
The Drubblesnorts got into bed. Mrs. Drubblesnort fell asleep quickly but Mr. Drubblesnort lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling and playing it all over in his mind. His final, comforting contemplation prior to falling asleep was that even if the Potters were caught up in all this nonsense going on, there was no reason for them to come in the vicinity of him and Mrs. Drubblesnort. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind… He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn't affect them…
Oh how very wrong he was…
Mr. Drubblesnort might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the mailbox outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of The Drubblesnort's Private Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor at first when two pigs swooped overhead, attacking the cat prey. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved to go to the bathroom on the Drubblesnort's flowerbed before heading back into its fixed position on the mailbox.
A man appeared moments later on the corner the cat had been surveying all night, emerged so abruptly and silently you would have figured 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 in the Drubblesnort's private community. He was tall, thin, very old, and near death, judging by his blank, tired stare and the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough that he tucked them under his rope-belt like a shirt. He was wearing lengthy robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and purple high-heels. His blue eyes were light and faded behind bunny-shaped spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked from when he had been punched in the face on two separate occasions as a child. This man's name was Schoolbus Dumbledoor.
Schoolbus Dumbledoor didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his name to his high heels was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something then suddenly looked up at the cat, which was 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, "Aha! Got you."
He found what he was looking for inside his cloak and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He cocked the barrel, aimed at the cat, and pulled the trigger. Of course, with his old eyes he wasn't a very good marksman and missed the cat by 10 yards at least. The nearest streetlamp went out with a little pop. He pumped the barrel and pulled the trigger again — another lamp smashed into darkness. Twelve times he pulled the trigger, and twelve time he mistakenly hit streetlamps instead of the cat due to his poor aim. By the end the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat still watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Drubblesnort, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledoor slipped the shotgun back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four hundred and eight, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat with a sigh. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"One of these days I'll get you, Professor Hardcastle McCormick."
He turned to look at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was staring at a severely old-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 hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, who said I did? I just never liked cats. I did not realize it was you until just before I sat down."
"Well I couldn't exactly watch the house all day as a human now could I? Someone would get suspicious." said Professor Hardcastle McCormick.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have stopped in on a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor Hardcastle McCormick 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 the goings on. It was on their news." She thumbed back at the Drubblesnorts' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of flying pigs… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Flying pigs down in Kent — I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledoor gently. "We've had nothing to celebrate for eleven years. Except of course when Pluto was demoted from planet status, obviously."
"I know that," said Professor Hardcastle McCormick irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being totally careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, some not even dressed, swapping rumors."
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledoor. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Perfectly-Well-Who-I'm-Talking-About died at last, the Muggles found out we've been lying to them all this time. I suppose he is really gone, Schoolbus?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledoor. "We had visual confirmation from one of our spies that he went into the house and never came out. We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a taco?"
"A what?"
"A taco. They're a kind of Muggle food I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you," said Professor Hardcastle McCormick coldly, as though she hardly thought this was the moment for tacos. "As I say, even if You-Know-Perfectly-Well-Who-I'm-Talking-About has died —"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Perfectly-Well-Who-I'm-Talking-About' nonsense — for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his self-appointed name: Voldémort." Professor Hardcastle McCormick cringed, but Dumbledoor, who was unsticking some taco meat between his teeth, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Perfectly-Well-Who-I'm-Talking-About.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying ol' Mort's name."
"I know you haven't," said Professor Hardcastle McCormick, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, our pal Mort was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledoor calmly. "Voldémort had muscles I will never have."
"Only because you're too — well —noble to use the gym."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pompom told me she liked my new recipe for clam chowder."
Professor Hardcastle McCormick shot a sharp look at Dumbledoor and said "The pigs are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what they're saying? About why he's dead and gone? About what finally stopped him?"
It seemed that Professor Hardcastle McCormick had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting in the cold all day. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledoor told her it was true. Dumbledoor, however, was choosing to eat another taco and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "Is that last night Voldémort turned up in God's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they're — dead."
Dumbledoor bowed his head. Professor Hardcastle McCormick gasped.
"Lily and James… I can't believe it… I didn't want to believe it… Oh, Schoolbus…"
Dumbledoor reached out and patted her on the head. "I know… I know…" he said heavily.
Professor Hardcastle McCormick's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying 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, Voldémort's back somehow broke — and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledoor nodded glumly.
"It's — it's factual?" hesitated Professor Hardcastle McCormick. "After all he's done… all the people he's killed… he couldn't even kill a little defenseless baby? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of Harry H. Potter did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess." said Dumbledoor. "We may never know."
Professor Hardcastle McCormick pulled out a hot pink handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledoor gave a great yawn as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had no hands but six numbers; instead, little turtles were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledoor, 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 Hardcastle McCormick. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to dump Harry off at his aunt and uncle's. They're the only peeps he has left now."
"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor Hardcastle McCormick, leaping to her feet and pointing at number four hundred and eight. "Dumbledoor — you can't. I've been spying on them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this horrid son — I saw him slapping his mother around all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter to come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledoor firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a memo."
"A memo?" repeated Professor Hardcastle McCormick unbelievably, sitting down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledoor, you think you can explain all this in a memo? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous — a god — I wouldn't be shocked if today gets designated as Harry Potter Day — there will be books written about Harry — every youngster in our world will chant his name!"
"Exactly." said Dumbledoor, looking very seriously over the top of his bunny-shaped glasses. "It would be enough to corrupt any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all the riches and glamour until he's ready to take it?"
Professor Hardcastle McCormick opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes — yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledoor?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry somewhere in it.
"Hagrid's bringing him."
"You think it —wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would never trust Hagrid with anyone's life Professor, but he was the only one in the area at the time," said Dumbledoor. "I had no choice."
Professor Hardcastle McCormick rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to speak again but then suddenly looked off towards the east, "— what was that?"
A high-pitched squeaky sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for the sign of the source; it swelled to a defanging tone as they both looked up at the sky — and a small tricycle, streamers and all, fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
But sitting atop the tricycle was a man almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed. But the ladies found him to be oh so wild — with long tangles of bushy black hair and beard that hid most of his face. He had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were made of full dolphin skins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledoor, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that child's tricycle?"
"Stole it, Professor Dumbledoor, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the tiny tricycle as he spoke. "One of der neighbor kids musta left it out in their front yard. I've got him, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir — house was destroyed, but I got him out all right prior to the Muggles swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledoor and Professor Hardcastle McCormick both bent forward over the bundle of blankets and banded heads in the process. Inside, just visible, was a baby gorilla, fast asleep.
"Hagrid..." Chirped Dumbledoor.
"Oh, er, sorry sir, wrong one. Thar' we are now," Hagrid said as he swapped little bundles of blanket.
Hagrid pulled aside the top layer to reveal a tiny baby boy. Under a clump of jet-black hair, they could see a strangely shaped cut, like that of a smiley face : )
"Is that where —?" whispered Professor Hardcastle McCormick.
"Yes," said Dumbledoor. "He'll have that smiley face scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledoor?"
"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."
Dumbledoor snatched Harry into his arms and turned toward the Drubblesnorts' house.
"Could I — could I say adios to 'em, 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, Harry threw up into his beard. Hagrid let out a howl like an injured wolf.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor Hardcastle McCormick, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"Sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, polka dot handkerchief and dabbing his beard. "I can't stand the smell. And with Lily an' James dead — an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —"
"Yes, yes, it's all very depressing, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be exposed," Professor Hardcastle McCormick whispered, patting Hagrid delicately on the arm as Dumbledoor stepped up 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 rang the doorbell. Dumbledoor then quickly pulled up his long cloak above his knees and ran back towards the other two. When he pranced passed them he bellowed, "Run, you fools!" as he made his way for the tree line across the street.
"Well," said Dumbledoor after the other two finally caught up, "That's that. We've no business hanging around this dump any longer. We may as well get drunk and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I best get this trike away, destroy the evidence 'n all. G'night, Professor Hardcastle — Professor Dumbledoor, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid walked back to the tricycle and started peddling down the street; with a squeaky squawk it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you again soon, I expect, Professor McCormick. Say 3am, my place?" said Dumbledoor with a wink. Professor Hardcastle McCormick nodded and smirked in reply.
Dumbledoor turned and skipped back down the street. When he got to the end of the Private Drive he looked back and could just make out the silhouette of a tabby cat in the street. He could also just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four hundred and eight.
"Superior luck to you, Harry," he murmured. "You're going to need it." With that, Dumbledoor rose up on his tippy-toes and with three clicks of his heels, he was gone.
A gust of wind ruffled the trees of the Private Drive, which lay hushed and orderly beneath the dark sky, the very final place you would anticipate astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter pooped inside his blankets without waking up. With one small hand closed on the letter beside him, he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he needed a change, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time when Mrs. Drubblesnort would trip over him with a scream as she opened the front door to throw out the trash, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Bubba… He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the realm were holding up their glasses and saying in thunderous voices: "To Harry Potter — the boy who existed!"
