"Good luck, Harry," Dumbledore murmured, before he disappeared into the night...

Good job, Dumbledore.

You just left a toddler on a doorstep, in November, or, well, soon to be November.

The toddler stirred, the freezing air and new trauma rousing him. Jolting from his nightmare, he began to cry.

"Urrrr. Someone needs to shut their baby up," grumbled a half asleep Petunia, pulling the covers over her head.

"Awful parents, bringing their baby with them on a night out," agreed a mostly asleep Vernon.

"WAAAAA!" Screeched Dudley a few minutes later. Vernon ground his teeth while Petunia rushed to her little Dudders.

Harry, frightened even more by the sound of wailing, wrestled with the blankets until he finally broke free of the swaddle. He ran- er- toddled, as far away as he could, tears streaming down his face.

Back on the doorstep, the letter and blanket flew away in the wind, there was no evidence of him ever being there.

[PAGE BREAK]

Abby was coping.

She had finally gained good paying job and had moved out of her parents' house. They had been so proud of her and she was glad for the space. She never knew what to think of her mother, the small woman was very conflicting and backwards in Abby's opinion, she used to feel bad about thinking that, but not any more. Her dad reminded her of herself, and she was proud that she had succeeded where he had not. She loved them both and she would visit them.

She had been living with her parents after she lost her last job and had a painful break with her long term boyfriend, he left her at the alter.

"I told you he was no good," her mother had said, but she had never said anything of the sort.

Her dad was awkward as always, he didn't really do feelings. He hugged her and said he would always be there for her. Her mother promptly joined in and said the same, she believed them both.

She was taking the long way back to her apartment after a party, enjoying the cold air, when she heard a sound: crying; a child crying.

She ran to a phone booth across the road and called the police, always cautious. She'd heard too many horror stories of all kinds of things being used as bait. She stood there in the cold, waiting for the police, watching to see if it was a child, ready to bolt at any point. When, suddenly, a child did indeed wander out of a nearby bush. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the lady who had knelt before him. He didn't know who she was, and tried to run the other way.

"Dada!" He sobbed, and was hoisted up into the air and held close to the stranger's chest.

"It's okay, it's okay," she hushed as the boy cried. "You said dada. Where's your dada?" She asked softly, looking into the greenest eyes she'd ever seen. This only seemed to worsen the boy, he burst into hysterical tears. She carried him over to a bench and rubbed his back, singing softly to him. Eventually he was reduced to slow hiccups, then he fell asleep in Abby's arms. She spotted a weird shaped scar on his forehead, as if someone had carved it into his skull. She closed her eyes in horror.

The police arrived.

The authorities searched everywhere but they couldn't find the boy's parents (Mrs Figgs' cats just happened to tear up the newspaper that day). They assumed he was abandoned and had him sent to a orphanage.

Not on Abby's watch. She adopted the boy she had found on the street and planned to raise him as her very own. She had no idea what brought her to do it. Loneliness? The fact that the boy felt special to her somehow, or that ever since she found he she felt responsible for him.

She had kept him company at the police station and everywhere they wanted to move him, she couldn't just leave him, that felt heartless. When the out come had been announced she had realised just how attached she had become to the little angel. She had swept him up and took him home.

To say her parents were surprised would be an understatement.

"We kept reminding you about being safe to avoid babies, and now you've just gone and gotten one!"

They warmed to the little tyke quickly and were thrilled about being grandparents. The boy hadn't known his name, he was probably only one after all. Abby thought long and hard about what to name him, but she could never think of the right name. Her mum suggested loads of names, name after name after name but none of them felt right. She lost sleep over it, but her dad always knew how to make her feel better:

"Sing for me?"

"...Okay, dad."

He started to play familiar notes on one of his many guitars, she loved this song.

"Hey, Jude.

Don't make it bad.

Sing a sad song, and make it better.

Remember to let her into to your heart, then you can start, to make it better."

And she knew.

She had a wonderful son, and his name was Jude.