THE ITALICIZED SELECTION WAS DIRECTLY QUOTED FROM HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER'S STONE. IT IS NOT MY ORIGINAL WORK, I DID NOT WRITE IT.
Dumbledore turned and walked 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.
But she didn't continue down the lane as he had expected; instead, she waited until she heard the pop of his disappearance and retraced her steps back to number four.
The Potters, dead. Talented Lily, charming James. Try as she might to suppress it, the images filled her head: their bodies suddenly still, silent, James' glasses crooked on his nose, Lily's bright hair fanned out beneath her head, their wands just inches from their outstretched fingers. And then the image of Sirius crouching over them, shaking their bodies and crying. And finally, baby Harry screaming — either from fright, from the image of his mother just beyond his crib, or from the pain of the vibrant scar that pulsed on his forehead. Sirius taking the child, clutching the baby to his chest, his tears falling over Harry's head and new hair.
She transfigured herself into her human form, and sniffed severely, roughly shoving the tears from her cheeks. She had to stop this foolishness, for her own sake. The time for mourning had passed: now was the time to care for young Harry. After all, she couldn't just leave the poor boy alone on the doorstep; she couldn't understand why Dumbledore had been so insistent on their leaving so early. He was just a child, for heaven's sake, and it was cold tonight. He needed someone with him, if only a gentle hand to hold him for what could be the last time.
He was silent on the stoop, still asleep. She approached him slowly, and bent down to him, her long hands reaching to his tiny little body carefully wrapped in a red blanket. She lifted him as gently as she could, pulling him to her chest, just over her heart. He slept soundly in the crooks of her arms.
This poor, sweet little baby, only just a year and abandoned in the world. How she wished she could steal him away from this place, raise him with her — raise him with the love and care that he not only deserved, but needed. The thought of the Dursleys sleeping just behind her chilled her heart: they would never understand him; never understand the things he would need to grow up successfully. But as Dumbledore had said, maybe Harry did need this upbringing — maybe it would give him the strength he would need to survive. But she couldn't be certain of that now — all she was certain of was how she never wanted to let him go.
Dawn arrived far too soon in Little Whinging, and just as the sunlight began to be reflected in the window she set little Harry back on the stoop. She pressed her lips to his cheek for several seconds, stifling a sob before she let go. And just as Vernon Dursley opened his eyes on the morning of November the First, a dark tabby cat trotted slowly down Privet Drive.