A/N: Originally posted on ao3 under the pen name youngjusticewriter. Part six of the "The advantages of foreknowledge and the disadvantages" series.
"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried out 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 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. Harry Potter come and live here!"
Despite the years that have past Dumbledore can still remember that smile that never reached Harrison's Avada Kedavra eyes. Or, more accurately Harry's eyes when he had told Albus and Aberforth that he almost an Obscurus like Ariana was. The memory beings a potent mixture of sadness and relief on Albus' already heavy heart. He finally understands the tiredness he always saw in Harrison's- no, Harry's eyes now.
"It's the best place for him,' Dumbledore's voice was firm even though the man was not in this decision. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly in disbelief before she sat back down on the wall.
"Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous — a legend — I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know his name!"
He remembers learning of Grindelwald's death and instinctively knowing who did it. When he questioned Harrison on why he did it and why he never came forward for defeating the Dark Wizard the dark haired wizard's answer had been simple.
"I was delivering on a promise. I never want any more fame. I've had more than enough unwanted fame to last a lifetime," the older wizard had than given Albus that sad, tired smile of his that never fooled the Dumbledore siblings. Even Ariana had known it was a false thing.
"Exactly," Dumbledore solemnly said. He looked very serious over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn 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 that until he's 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 is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
"Hagrid's bringing him." Hagrid who Harrison had adored like his own son.
Till this day Albus believed that had been the main reason why Tom had framed his fellow student. Yes, Hargrid was easy to use as an escape goat but Albus knew how selfish, jealous, and spiteful Tom could be about what he thought was his. (Harry, and even Ariana, had been his family.) Albus had known this ever since he meet the orphan that Harrison had adopted. Albus believed the modern youthful saying was: it takes one to known one.
"You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" McGonagall asked with a raised thin eyebrow.
"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?l
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 that Dumbledore recognized as Sirius Black's fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
In the motorcycle sat Hagrid who was holding a bundle of blanket that was most surely Harry. It was a sight for Albus; to see a man he held in such high esteem (and will hold in high esteem) to be a infant.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, his relief in his voice. "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."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over Harry's forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
The scar was only familiar to Dumbledore even though Hagrid had been acquainted with Harrison; Harrison had grown his already grown out his mess of black hair (that the man swore had a mind of its own much to Ariana's humor) to cover the odd shaped scar when Tom had first started Hogwarts. After all these years Albus finally knew the story behind the scar. It was no wonder why Harrison hated it and had only told Ariana it's backstory.
"Is that where —?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," Dumbledore answered. "He'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 him here, Hagrid — we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore gently took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it —Lily an' James dead — an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —"
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.
He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have lost their twinkle for he knew the fate of Harrison Potter despite the fact the Harrison was just an infant. Despite it being for the greater good it was for some reason not easy on Dumbledore.
"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.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, old friend," he murmured quietly. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak he was gone like he was never there to begin with, much less once before.