Mr. and Mrs. Dursly, of #4 Privet Drive, were normal ponies. Mr. Dursly was a Pegasus with brown fur and a black mane, with a big bushy mustache. His cutie mark was a bolt, indicating his job selling tools.

Mrs. Dursly was an Earth pony with pink fur, blond mane apon her long neck, and her cutie mark was a pair of binoculars, indicating how she she used her free time to spy on the neigh-bors.

They had a small colt named Dudley. He had light brown fur, a blond mane, and was a Pegasus like his dad. He looked like a beach ball with wings, but in the Dursleys' opinion, there was no finer colt anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their biggest fear was that somepony would find out about it.

They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Trotters. Mrs. Trotter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several moons; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as possible.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neigh-bors would say if the Trotters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Trotters had a small colt, too, but they had never even seen him. This colt was another good reason to keeping the Trotters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a foal like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside the Pegasi had planned to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over Equestria. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high-chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase with his hoof, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," Chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He trotted down the driveway, spreading his wings.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen- then he jerked his head around to look again and halted in the air. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley flew around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat from the corner of his eye. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive- no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he flew toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of tools he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, tools were driven out of his mind by something else. As he flew through the usual morning rush, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed ponies about. Ponies in cloaks that covered their flanks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear ponies who dressed in funny clothes- the get-ups you saw on young ponies! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He beat his wings to fly on and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by, and noticed they were all unicorns. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that stallion had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt- these ponies were obviously collecting for something...yes, that would be it. Mr. Dursley moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived at the Grunnings front door, his mind back on tools.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on tools that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though ponies down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl, even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different ponies. He wrote several important letters and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the Cakes' bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the ponies in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the Cakes'. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Trotters, that's right, that's what I heard-"

"-yes, their colt, Hairy-"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his quill, and had almost finished writing 'Dear Petunia,' when he changed his mind. He put the quill back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...no, he was being stupid. Trotter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of ponies called Trotter who had a colt named Hairy. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Hairy. He'd never even seen the colt. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; 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, those ponies in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on tools that afternoon and when he left the building at five o' clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into somepony just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old stallion stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the stallion was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he spoke in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare.

"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 yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old stallion hugged Mr. Dursley and trotted off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried and hailed a cab and climbed in.

"Number Four, Privet Drive!" He ordered the Earth pony, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he climbed out of the cab and payed the Earth pony some bits, the first thing he saw- and it didn't improve his mood- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same marking around it's eyes and on it's back leg.

"Shoo!" Said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problem with her filly and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the radio.

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since Celestia raised the sun. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns," The newscaster allowed himself an unseen grin, "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather the Pegasi have planned. Going to be anymore showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," Said the weatherpony, which Mr. Dursley had always pictured a Pegasus, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Ponies as far apart as Canterlot, Fillydelphia, and Manehatten have been writing in to tell me that instead of the rain us Pegasi promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! A report from Cloudsdale said that a very clumsy Pegasus by the name of Derpy Hooves had somehow entered the weather factory and messed everypony up. But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious ponies in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Trotters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea on a tray in her mouth. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er- Petunia, dear- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply, "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled, "Owls...shooting starts...and there were a lot of funny-looking ponies in town today...all unicorns..."

"So?" Snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just though...maybe...it was something to do with...you know...her herd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Trotter.' He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their colt- he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Hairy. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, 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. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Trotters? 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 Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Trotters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Trotters 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...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no Sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, it's eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a house door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A unicorn stallion appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this stallion had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging my the silver of his mane and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes over his light blue fur, a purple cloak that swept the ground behind him and hid his tail, and high-heeled buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. Under his cloak, his cutie mark was a dark blue star. This stallion's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his satchel bag, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still 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, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his satchel's inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. Using his magic, he flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp's flame went out. He clicked it again- the next street lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes on the cat watching him. If anypony looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his satchel and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down by the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking mare 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, over her light orange fur. Under the cloak, her cutie mark was a unicorn horn in a circle made up of two arrows, just the shape of the mark the cat had on its leg. Her black mane was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" She asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed at least a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh, yes, everypony's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently, "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no- even the Muggles have noticed something's been going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursley's dark living-room window, "I heard it. Flocks of owls...shooting stars, thought that turned out to be a Pegasus...Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently, "We've had precious little to celebrate for 132 moons."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably, "But that's no reason to lose our heads. Unicorns are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore, "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though he didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops, "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible pony like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense- for 132 moons I have been trying to persuade ponies to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops using his magic, seemed not to notice, "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring, "But you're different. Everypony knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly, "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too- well- noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everypony's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a mare had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everypony' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Trotters. The rumor is that Lily and James Trotter are- are- that they're- dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James...I can't believe it...I didn't want to believe it...oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know...I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Trotter's colt, Hairy. But- he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little colt. No pony knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Hairy Trotter, Voldemort's somehow broke- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's- it's true?" Faltered Professor McGonagall, "After all he's done...all the ponies he's killed...he couldn't kill a little colt? It's just astounding...of all the things to stop him...but how in the name of Celestia did Hairy survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore, "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief using magic and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his cloak's pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, 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 McGonagall, "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Hairy to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean- you can't mean the ponies who live here?" Cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her hooves and pointing at number four with her front hoof, "Dumbledore- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two ponies who are less like us. And they've got this colt- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Hairy Trotter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly, "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, sitting back down on the ground, "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These ponies will never understand him! He'll be famous- a legend- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Hairy Trotter day in the future- there will be books written about Hairy- every foal in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses, "It would be enough to turn any colt's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't 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 colt getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his satchel suddenly as thought she thought he might be hiding Hairy inside it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it- wise- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"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?"

A low rattling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a lantern; it swelled to a clatter as they both looked up at the sky- and a huge flying chariot- not being pulled by Pegasi- fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the chariot was huge, it was nothing to the unicorn stallion sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal stallion and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild- long tangles of bushy black mane and beard hid most of his dark green fur covered face, he had hooves the size of trash can lids, and his back hooves were in leather boots like baby dolphins. His cutie mark was a picture of garden tools. In his vast, muscular front left hoof he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved, "At last. And where did you get that chariot?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully out of the chariot 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 unicorn foal colt with golden fur, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black mane over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where-?" Whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, "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 front knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well- give him here, Hagrid- we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Hairy in his hoof 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 Hairy 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 Hairy 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 side as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Hairy gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his satchel, tucked it inside Hairy's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood there 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 gone out.

"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 chariot back. G'night, Professor McGonagall- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his hoof, Hagrid swung himself into the chariot and told it where to go; with a clatter 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 fire 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, Hairy," he murmured. His horn glowed and with a bright and silent flash, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Hairy Trotter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hoof closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...He couldn't know that at this very moment, unicorns meeting all over the country were holding up their glasses with magic and saying in hushed voice: "To Hairy Trotter- the colt who lived!"