The first thing you need to know about this story is that Vernon Dursley is a bad bloke. It gets said a lot, mostly by the poor sods working at Grunnings Drills. See, he runs the place. Likes to claim he started it from the ground up, but what really happened is that he jumped in after a certain J Robert Bange got it off the ground and gained enough traction that Vernon caught wind of him. Vernon Dursley, real estate tycoon that he'd been at the time, offered Mr. Coleman a "great deal" on a spot of land right smack in London to use as a corporate office near the bigwigs. He spat sweet nothings and spun the deal of a lifetime, and next thing you know, Bange's got a lease he can't afford with his life's work up as collateral. One foreclosure and a nasty few court cases later, Vernon Dursley is changing the name on the side of the building from Banges Drills to Grunnings Drills.
Dunno where he got the name from.
Anyway, if that isn't a glowing a testimonial to the color of his character, I dunno what is. Vernon Dursley is a bad bloke, and his wife, Petunia, well she's exactly the sort you'd expect to go and marry a lazy-eyed fat prick like Mr. Dursley. She pops out a kid a year later, and there you have it. The Dursley family, all rotten to the core, living it up on Number Four, Privet Drive in Surrey. That was to be the end of it, really. The world's full of unrepentant bastards, and what's three more of them darkening the world's doorstep in a prefabricated house in suburban bliss?
Well, someone had other plans, I guess.
It was a quiet night, unseasonably warm for October, especially given that November was mere hours away. Privet Drive looked very much like any other street in this patch of Surrey, rows and rows of carbon-copied houses lit in the dull orange glow of streetlamps. Most of the windows were darkened at this hour—well past the time for Trick-or-Treaters asking for candy—as the occupants had tucked themselves in for another night, another day of work awaiting them. The nine-to-five grind was almost a prerequisite for life in this neighborhood, but it was shouldered gladly by this sort. To them, toiling away for eight hours was a badge of honor, a worthy sacrifice for their boxed domestic bliss.
On this night, though, they were hosting an unseen visitor. This part of England was no stranger to the odd stray cat; some of the neighborhood kids even made games out of chasing them down, resulting in a population of felines that would jump and dash away at the slightest rustle of movement. Thus, it was an odd thing when one cat not only spent a solid ten hours rooted in one spot and staring at a single home but then went on to only turn its head at the approach of a singularly strange-looking man. He was old, probably older even than the neighborhood he was visiting, with a long silver beard and hair to match, and he wore luridly purple robes, giving him the look of a campy stage actor playing at being Merlin.
Anyone that knew Albus Dumbledore, though, knew that Merlin only wished he was as powerful.
The cat stood at his approach, padding slowly toward him with quiet meowing sound. And if anyone was watching, the strange scene would have only gotten stranger, as Albus Dumbledore started talking to the stray.
"You could at least play at being a cat, you know," he said. "Have you even moved from this spot, Minvera? Merlin, if you can change into one, why not take a moment and study up on their common fucking mannerisms."
The cat hissed before rearing up on its hindquarters, and as it did so, it grew, shifting and changing until a woman in green tartan robes stood before Albus. She had graying red hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the back of her head, and in fact, everything about Minerva McGonagall was no-nonsense, from her perfectly pressed robes to the steely expression on her face as she surveyed her boss. Without a word, she produced a pack of cigarettes from her robes, fitting one in her mouth and lighting it up with the tip of a wand produced from her pocket.
"They're dead, then?" she asked.
"No, no, Tom just popped in for a spot of fucking tea and left them happy as clams," Albus said with a shake of his head. "Yes, they're dead. But Severus was right about that prophecy. The boy's alive, and now Tom's well and fucked. Only took the whole house with him."
That's Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Yeah, that's his real name. I guess his mum must have dried up before she could have any more kids, so they just stuck him with all the good names they had saved up. That's my theory, at least. In any case, Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (dreadful name), is considered the most powerful wizard of modern day. It's said there's nothing you can conceive of magically that he hasn't already done. The hard-ass with a cigarette in her mouth is Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and old Albus's right hand. When he has to go traipsing off on matters unrelated to the school, she runs the ship. These two are the ones in charge of the magical education of every little tyke that qualifies in the greater British Isles. And they're bloody good at it.
Only problem is, Albus Dumbledore, brilliant wizard that he is, isn't all that well-versed in how the average human fucking being functions. Some say he's become detached, focuses too much on the bigger picture, expects everyone to go along with it without really taking the time to confer with them first. Others figure he's just an idiot. I subscribe to the latter, myself.
In any case, all that means that Albus is about to do something really, really stupid.
"And now everyone in the world with an ounce of magic in them will know the name Harry Potter," Minvera said, blowing a puff of smoke that was carried away in the wind. "Where is he?"
"Hagrid's bringing him right now," Albus said, pulling an ancient-looking pocket watch out and studying it. "I sent him along an hour ago, so he should be here soon enough."
"You sent that giant caveman to get him?" Minerva asked, leaning on a short concrete wall and staring askance at Albus. "That great muppet's gonna crush him just picking him up!"
"Oi, I'd trust that 'giant caveman' with my life," Albus pointed out. "He's a reliable sort, and you know it."
"Yeah, you can rely on him to go wandering into the Dark Forest for three days and come back with a fucking kelpie asking us to keep it," Minerva shot back.
"That was once, and he thought it was just a regular horse," Albus insisted.
"He drug it out of the forest looking like a half-naked woman with hooves!" Minerva said, taking another drag on her cigarette. Albus only chuckled at that.
"Can you blame the bloke?"
Now Rubeus Hagrid is a good fella, nicest you'll ever meet. He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, but you'd likely only need it if you were looking to pitch a tent. See, Hagrid (that's what everyone calls him) is big. Not like he could stand to lose a few pounds, more that he's about eleven and a half feet tall and weighs as much as a truck. Rumors abound that he's half-giant, though no one's had the stones to go up and ask him. Would you? Word is, he was a student at Hogwarts before he got expelled in his third year. No one's quite sure why, and again, would you ask him? Now he's the groundskeeper and errand boy when Dumbledore asks. Not surprisingly, he's rather fond of the bloke who kept him on at Hogwarts after he got kicked out. He'd do anything for the headmaster, even go to the smoldering ruins of the Potter household to retrieve their infant son.
"Bad business, this, gov'ner," a gravelly voice said, and Albus and Minerva turned to see the giant man himself, Hagrid, ambling out of an alley between two houses, his left arm curled across his chest. Rubeus Hagrid was imposing for his size, of course, but more than that, he looked like the kind of wild man that lived in the unexplored reaches of the woods and didn't take kindly to visitors of any sort. A mass of thick black hair spilled down around his shoulders and chest, obscuring his face except for a round nose and glittering black eyes, and he wore a thick brown coat of an indeterminate leather that looked to be homemade. "Lily an' James were a good sort. Just bad that it had to end this way."
"How'd it look there, Hagrid?" Albus asked him. "I haven't been to see, myself."
"Awful," Hagrid said with a shake of his head. "Plain wrong. Looked like a bomb went off right there in the nursery. Lily an' James jus' lying there. An' this little lad crying his eyes out right in the middle of it."
"Did you see Tom?" Albus asked, holding his arms out. "Give us the boy, would you?"
"He weren't there," Hagrid said. "If he died, he didn't leave a body behind. Sorry, gov'ner."
"Not surprising, though," Minerva said, stubbing her cigarette out and stepping in to peer down as Hagrid passed a small bundle of blankets to Albus. "Everyone that saw the whole debacle says he tried to use a Killing Curse on the boy and it backfired on him. Which would explain that great ugly cut on his forehead. Shouldn't we mend that?"
"You'll have a right time trying to do so," Albus said. "That's not just some old cut. Or haven't you noticed it's shaped like a bolt of fucking lightning? That's a mark of powerful magic, dark magic. Whatever happened when Tom tried to kill him, it left that as a souvenir."
"So what are we doing with him?" Minerva asked, glancing between the boy and the house in front of them. "We're not leaving him with this lot, are we?"
"Well, he hasn't exactly got a cousin we can dump him on," Albus said, already making his way up the path to the front door of Number Four. "Petunia Dursley's the only family he has left."
"That wretched old cunt and her fat shite of a husband will have him dead in a week of malnourishment," Minerva protested, striding briskly behind them while Hagrid watched the street. "If he lives long enough to learn to walk, the first thing he'll do is run away, you mark my words."
Albus ignored her, fixing a pair of glasses up his nose and taking out his wand with the free hand that wasn't holding Harry. He gave it a twirl, and an ornate basket appeared on the doorstep of the home, Albus crouching to gently settle the boy into it.
"Albus," Minerva tried again. "He'll be absolutely miserable here. Do you understand what you're about to put him through?"
"He doesn't need to grow up surrounded by a bunch of twats treating him like the Second fucking Coming," Albus said. "If he did do in Tom, he's about to be the most famous person in our world. If he can grow up half normal, he'll be lucky. Now I don't wanna speak of this again, understand?"
He reached into his robes to produce an envelope made of thick yellowed parchment, checking to make sure that it was sealed with a bright green wax emblem, and tucked it in with the baby. Turning, he joined his colleague, and they made their way back down the path toward Hagrid.
"I need a stiff drink after this business," Albus said. "Three Broomsticks?"
"That's the best news I've heard all night, gov'ner," Hagrid said. "I got a couple'a spare portkeys, 'less you feel like Apparatin' us."
"I think I'll stay and make sure the boy is found by his new family," Minerva said distastefully, and Albus turned to her with a warning look.
"You're not to interfere with him, understand?" he said, raising a stern finger at her. "I want him raised proper, by his family."
"I think those two might be mutually exclusive," Minerva told him with a sigh, morphing back into her cat form while Albus took Hagrid's arm, and the two disappeared with a popping sound.
And that was that. After that day, Albus Dumbledore went on with his life. You see, not twelve hours before this clandestine little get-together in the wee hours of the morning, the most bad wizard to ever walk the Earth had been killed by a drooling toddler, and there was bound to be fallout from that. And after dealing with that, Albus Dumbledore did what he does best. Whatever he pleases. Only now, his tendency to just expect all the dice to roll the way he wants was about to backfire spectacularly. Because the little tot that poor Petunia Dursley would find herself tripping over in a few hours' time while getting the morning milk was not about to be welcomed graciously with open arms and raised to be a proper Dursley. Harry James Potter was in for a living hell. And by extension, so was Albus Dumbledore. Because nine years after that fateful day, Minerva McGonagall marched into his office and delivered the most satisfied fat fucking "I told you so" Hogwarts had seen in a great many years. Because exactly what she had predicted came to pass.
Harry James Potter had done a runner.
…...
Like any respectable wizard, Alastor Moody had attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and wizardry when he was young. There weren't many in the British Isles who hadn't, and just like in the muggle world, homeschooling carried a certain stigma to it. Only a proper education under the magical elite got you the sort of respect you needed to make your way in the world. It was a rite of passage as much as it was a privilege.
Also, it was free, so there was absolutely no reason not to attend.
Back in his heyday at this place, Alastor made this journey a lot, through the corridors of the ancient castle that housed the school and toward the headmaster's office. In his time, the position had belonged to Professor Dippet, though Alastor also enjoyed dropping into conversations that he had seen the rise of Albus Dumbledore as headmaster, his seventh year being the first to see Dumbledore take the post. More than a mentor and esteemed teacher, Alastor also considered Dumbledore to be a friend, a man that he held the utmost respect for. And it was for this reason that he was visiting a school he'd graduated from longer ago than he'd have cared to admit, during the summer, no less.
Behind a password-protected door ("Junior Mints" was really a terrible password) and up a rotating spiral staircase, Alastor eventually found himself standing outside a large and ornate wooden door set with an equally large and ornate brass knocker, which he raised and tapped against the door once.
"Come in, come in, Alastor," Dumbledore's voice called, and Alastor nudged the door open, striding into the headmaster's office. He was always awed by this place, even as a boy, and he was glad to know that the effect hadn't worn off, even after so long. The high-ceilinged room sported a massive array of portraits, a collection that filled nearly every wall that wasn't devoted to the sprawling bay window behind the desk situated opposite the door. The floor was littered with tables in addition to the desk, arranged haphazardly around and piled with all manner of magical instruments, most of which were puffing and churning as they went about whatever functions they served.
The man himself was currently studying one such instrument, tapping it occasionally with his wand. Alastor watched as a puff of red smoke issued forth, shaping itself into a lightning bolt before spinning and wisping away.
"Don't you give me that!" Albus said, tapping the device a bit more angrily this time, and it shifted once in what look suspiciously like a shrug from a thing with no arms or shoulders. "Bugger!"
Albus stood and fixed Alastor with a tired expression.
"This is a right mess that little brat's caused me," he said, and Alastor watched with bemusement, waiting for the man to elaborate. The more questions you asked Albus Dumbledore, the more confused you ended up. It was best to let him exposit all on his own most of the time.
"I need you to do something for me Alastor, and I need you to do it quietly," Albus went on. "If the Ministry gets wind of this happening, they will be up my arse faster than an oiled-up drug dealer fishing around in his mule."
"What do you need, Albus?" Alastor asked.
"I need you to find someone," Albus said. "Harry Potter, the little shit, has run off from where I left him with his aunt and uncle. I want you to track him down and bring him back."
"Why'd he run off?" Alastor asked.
"I dunno, we're not exactly pen pals, are we?" Albus pointed out. "I dunno where he is or why he's run off, but I do know that every second that little monster is off the leash could be his last. Fucking idiot."
"Alright, where's he run from?" Alastor asked. "That's as good a place to start as any."
"Number Four, Privet Drive," Albus told him. "Little Whinging, Surrey. It's a muggle neighborhood, so you might wanna take someone can interact with them."
"Right, I'll have him back for tea," Alastor told him. "Mind if I use your Floo? Need to pop back to the Ministry."
Albus gestured wordlessly at the fireplace, making back for his desk and a letter that awaited him. He has his fingers in a lot of pies already—Harry Potters massive steaming shit-pie notwithstanding—and as such was a busy man. While Alastor tossed a clump of Floo Powder into the flames, which roared twice as high and green at that, Albus split open an envelope and unfolded a letter from Nicholas Flamel.
Albus Dumbledore is old. Armando Dippet, his predecessor, was fuckin' old. But Nicholas Flamel is ancient. You'd never guess from looking at the guy, either. Still fresh as a daisy alongside his wife. It's no secret how they've managed it, either. Nicholas Flamel, most famous alchemist of the millennium, is the only bloke who's managed to make a Philosopher's Stone. The Panacea, the Holy Grail for anyone with half an ounce of magic in them. Used right, the Philosopher's Stone can change any old metal into gold, and if that's not enough, with it, you can brew up an elixir that stops you from aging, meaning you're basically immortal long as you don't lose track of the damn thing. The problem is, that's exactly what Mr. Flamel has done. And now, he's a bit out of sorts over the whole thing, especially since it was nicked while being transported from the most secure wizarding bank in Britain to Hogwarts. Guess who's idea that was?
Starting to get the picture a bit?
"Fuckin' 'ell," Albus grumbled to himself, heading toward his fireplace and tossing another handful of green powder into it. The flames once again shot high and green, and he stepped in. "Gringott's Bank!"