Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Twilight. J.K. Rowling and Stephenie Meyer do.

Prologue: November 1, 1990

John Prunley knew it was not going to be a normal day. The first thing that happened that was out of the ordinary was that his alarm clock did not go off a precisely 7:30 in the morning. At 7:35, his alarm buzzed. He looked over at his clock, eyebrows furrowed. Perhaps he had just set it to go off five minutes later. Yes, that had to be it.

John got up, showered, and got ready for work. He walked downstairs into the kitchen where his wife, Samantha, was attempting to feed his daughter, April, her breakfast. April was only a year old, but she was putting up a fight with her mother.

John grabbed his briefcase and headed out the door, ready to go to work. He paused by his car when he saw the owls perched on top of it.

"Shoo, shoo!" he said, waving at them with his briefcase. The owls scattered instantly, and John Prunley got in his car and left for work. As he approached the end of River Way, the street he and his family lived on, he saw an odd sight: a cat reading a book. He slammed on his brakes and looked back, but the cat was just standing there, looking at him. He shook his head. He was being silly. There was no book in sight.

He looked at the cat again and saw it was reading the sign that said "River Way." No, the cat was looking at the sign—cats couldn't read. He shook his head again and drove off to work.

As he drove away, the cat pulled the book out again and began reading. Luckily, Mr. Prunley was out of sight when this occurred.

Mr. Prunley arrived at work in record time. Once he had parked, he got out of his car and started walking to his building in Paternoster Square. Mr. Prunley was a broker in the London Stock Exchange and he was anxious to get to work. On his way there, he saw a bunch of weird-looking people congregating on the sidewalks. They were all dressed in odd-colored cloaks. Mr. Prunley never understood the strange things young people wore.

When he looked back at the group, he was furious to see that most of the people were middle aged or older. In fact, one of the men had grey hair and a long grey beard. Muttering to himself, John Prunley made his way into his office and began to work.

Luckily, Mr. Prunley's office had no window, or he would have seen the hundreds of owls that swooped through the sky all morning. Since he did not, he saw no owls and had a stress-free and owl-free morning.

At lunch, he decided to venture into the street and buy a sandwich from the shop across the street. They made the best BLTs there, and he was in the mood for one.

After he had gotten his lunch, Mr. Prunley walked back to his office. On the way, he saw a bunch of the oddly dressed people he had seen that morning. They were all huddled in groups, whispering about something. Maybe they were those "conspiracy theory" people he despised so much. Drawing his coat tightly around himself, he kept walking.

As he passed the one group, he caught snippets of their conversation.

"…yes, the Brandon's, that's what I heard…"

"…their daughter, Alice, all alone there…"

"…terrible tragedy…"

Mr. Prunley stopped dead in his tracks. His wife had a sister, Cynthia Brandon. They hadn't seen her or her husband in years. They tended to avoid familiarity with their lot, anyways. But John remembered that they had a daughter, about April's age.

He shook his head again and walked back to his office. He was being silly. Brandon wasn't an uncommon name. In fact, he knew other people with the last name Brandon. Anyways, he didn't even know their daughter's name was Alice. He thought it might be something more like Alison, or Angela. They were probably talking about some other Brandon family with a daughter. Laughing to himself, Mr. Prunley went back to work.

Walking into his office, he thought to himself that he shouldn't mention this to his wife. She always was so touchy whenever her sister was mentioned. He would be that way too if he had a sister like her.

He finished his work and packed up to go home. As he was walking to his car, he accidentally bumped into someone on the street. He began to apologize when he noticed the man was wearing a bright orange cloak.

The man, however, did not seem to be bothered that Mr. Prunley had knocked him over. In fact, he seemed to be almost delighted. "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 you should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

The man got up, hugged Mr. Prunley, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and walked away. Mr. Prunley looked after him in a state of shock. He was pretty sure the man had just called him a Muggle, whatever that was. He sprinted to his car and sped the entire way home.

When he reached his house, he noticed the cat from this morning was sitting stiffly next to his mailbox. It was looking directly at him as he got out of his car.

"Shoo!" he said, waving his arms at the cat. The cat didn't move, but continued to glare at him. He was very confused; this didn't seem like normal cat behavior.

When he entered his house at 3 River Way, his wife was just putting dinner on the table. She told him how April had learned a new word today (Mine!). She then proceeded to tell him about the huge fight Mr. and Mrs. Down-the-Street had a three in the afternoon ("Loud enough for people in Wales to hear them!").

After dinner, Mrs. Prunley put April in bed while Mr. Prunley watched the evening news. The anchorman started talking about the odd behavior owls had been displaying today. Mr. Prunley's eyes widened when he heard that. Then, the weatherman came on, talking about shooting stars all the way in Kent.

Mr. Prunley sat there, thinking about the day. Owl sightings, shooting stars, oddly dressed people, and whisperings about the Brandon's. Mr. Prunley saw no other option: he would have to say something to his wife.

Samantha walked in, sat down in her favorite armchair, and began knitting a pair of socks for April.

"Er—Samantha—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

She stopped knitting and glared at him. She knew he knew the rule: never mention her sister. "No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Well, there was some strange business on the news. Owls everywhere, shooting stars, funny dressed people…"

Mrs. Prunley was now squeezing her knitting needles so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. "So?" she spat at him.

"I was just thinking they might be involved with, you know—her lot."

Samantha glared at John, daring him to mention her sister by name. He decided against mentioning the name Brandon for fear of his life. "Their daughter, she must be April's age name. What's her name? Angela?"

"Alice. Horrible name," she muttered.

"Oh yes, Alice." Mr. Prunley dropped the subject, but he thought about it for a while longer. The two of them went upstairs to go to bed. Mr. Prunley looked out the window and saw another owl fly past. He thought of the Brandon's. If it came out that they were involved in this nonsense…he shuddered. If anybody found out they were related to them, he would never be able to show his face at the office.

John Prunley got into bed and fell asleep, still thinking of owls and the Brandon's.

Out on River Way, a tall, elderly man stood by a street light. The cat sitting by the mailbox started at him. The man walked over to number three River Way and stared at the house. He didn't seem to realize that he did not belong on River Way.

He was dressed in a long blue cloak, covered in shimmering silver stars. He had a long white beard that was long enough to tuck into a belt. He was tall, thin, and his nose appeared to have been broken long ago. His piercing blue eyes were covered with half-moon spectacles. His name was Albus Dumbledore.

He reached into his cloak and pulled something out. It looked like a cigarette lighter. He glanced over at the cat sitting in front of 3 River Way.

"I should have known," he muttered.

He clicked the device in his hand, and the light from the nearest lamppost disappeared inside of it. He clicked the device eleven more times so all the lights were out. Now, even if someone looked out of their window on to the street, they wouldn't see anything.

"Good evening, Professor McGonagall," he said, addressing the cat. The cat sprang up, transforming into a severe-looking woman. She was wearing a long robe of emerald and had her dark brown hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"How did you know it was me?"

"My dear, I've never seen a cat sit so stiff and still."

"You'd be like that two if you stayed in the same place all day."

"All day? You haven't been out partying like the rest of them? I swear I passed over a dozen celebrations on my way here!" Dumbledore remarked..

"Oh, yes, everyone is out celebrating. Even the Muggles have noticed. They're not stupid, Albus. It was even on their news. Shooting stars, owls flying in open daylight. I mean, they aren't even dressed in Muggle clothes!"

"They have reason to be happy."

"Yes, I know, but people are being downright careless. Dressed in outrageous robes, swapping rumors. Ironic it would be if they day You-Know-Who disappears the Muggles finally figure out we exist. He is gone, isn't he?"

"Yes, I believe so. But my dear Professor McGonagall, surely a smart, sensible person like you can call him by his name? As I've been telling people for the past 11 years, we should be calling him by his proper name: Voldemort. After all, fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

"Well, you have no reason to fear him. After all, you're he only one he ever feared. Anyways, have you heard the rumors that are flying around? About why he disappeared? About what stopped him?"

Dumbledore looked at Professor McGonagall, willing her to continue.

"People are saying that late last night, Voldemort," she shuddered when she said the name, but continued, "went to Godric's Hollow, looking for the Brandon's. The rumor is that he—he—killed Jason and Cynthia Brandon."

Dumbledore nodded somberly.

Professor McGonagall let out a loud gasp. "Jason and Cynthia, I can't believe it!"

"I know, it's horrible to imagine," Dumbledore said gently.

"But that's not all. The word is after he finished them, he turned to their daughter, Alice. Apparently, he tried to kill her, but he couldn't. They say the curse backfired, stripped him of his powers, and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded again.

"So it's all true?"

"It is."

"How is that possible? After everything he did, all the powerful wizards he killed…how did a baby finally break him?"

"We may never know." Dumbledore looked down at his watch. "Hagrid's late. I suppose he's the one who told you I was coming here."

"Yes, but I can't imagine why."

"I've come to deliver Alice to her aunt and uncle. They are her only remaining family."

"Here?" Professor McGonagall shrieked. "You can't be serious, Albus! I've been watching them all day, and these are the worst kind of Muggles. Today, I watched the little girl hit her mother over the head until she gave her a new doll. Alice Brandon live here? Anyone in our world would take her in."

"This is the best place for her. I've written a letter to them, explaining everything."

"A letter," Professor McGonagall said skeptically. "You believe you can explain everything in a letter? They won't understand. She'll be famous—a heroine. Books will be written about her…today will be known as 'Alice Brandon Day' in the future…everyone in our world will know her name!"

"My point exactly. It is best that she grow up away from all of this."

Professor McGonagall's retort was cut off by a loud roar. The two of them looked up into the sky and saw a large motorcycle emerge from the clouds and land on the street.

"Good evening, Hagrid," Dumbledore said, greeting the driver of the bike. The man on the bike was a wild looking man. He was at least twice the size of a normal man. He had bushy brown hair with a matching beard. He had on large, black combat boots and a thick leather jacket. In his arms was a bundle of pink blankets.

"Good evenin' Professor."

"Where did you get the bike?" Dumbledore asked.

"Borrowed if from young Sirius Black. He wanted to take her, but I says to him 'I have orders from Professor Dumbledore,' so he lent me the bike instead."

"No problems, then?"

"No. I got over there and got her out of there as fast as I could. She fell asleep flyin' over London."

Hagrid handed the baby to Professor Dumbledore. He moved the blankets away from her face. There, sleeping, was Alice Brandon. She had pale skin and black hair. On her forehead was a scar shaped like the letter S.

"Is that where—?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "She'll have that forever. Who knows, it may come in handy one day."

Professor Dumbledore put her in the basket he was holding and put the letter, addressed to the Prunley's, in there with her. Dumbledore walked up and placed the basket on their front doorstep.

"That's that," he said. "We might as well go out and join the celebrations," he said to Hagrid and Professor McGonagall. They nodded.

Dumbledore pulled the Putter-Outer out of his robes and clicked it once. All the lights returned to their original homes.

"Good luck, Alice," he whispered.

Alice Brandon lay in the basket, sleeping. She didn't know what had happened that night, and she wouldn't know for a long time. She didn't know that in a few hours, she would be woken by Samantha Prunley's scream when she opened the door to get the morning paper, or that everything she ever owned would be taken from her by her cousin. She didn't know that now, at this very moment, people all over England were meeting in pubs, toasting their glasses and saying, "To Alice Brandon, the girl who lived."