Fate's Debt and the Philosopher's Stone
Chapter Two
Indefinite Damnation
Hundreds of miles away, a man sat in an upper-class office, surrounded by silver, spindly instruments of unknown purpose. He was a very old man who, despite his impressive age, seemed to radiate youthfulness and vitality.
He sat in a very comfortable looking, high-backed chair, gazing straight, staring at an inconspicuous spot on his door. His elbows were resting on the desk that stood before him, his fingers steeped together. His eyes were an azure-blue that seemed to permanently have sparks of light bouncing in them.
Albus Dumbledore was a very eccentric man. His eccentrics made him seem mad—eccentricity bordering on senility. He was a man of quirks beyond measure, but at the same time was considered by most to be the greatest sorcerer in the world. This did not please his arch-nemesis, Lord Voldemort, but it could not be helped.
Albus was realistic about his ability in comparison with Lord Voldemort. He knew that Voldemort was capable of more things than Albus Dumbledore would ever be. His knowledge of magic was more complete than any man's. This included the magical knowledge of the hailed omnipotent Albus Dumbledore.
Yes, Albus Dumbledore was a powerful man. He was looked upon as the manifestation and personification of the Light. He was a man who seemed to ooze power. His was not an evil power, but it was still power, and all men feared those in a position of power greater than their own.
Albus Dumbledore, Champion of the Light, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot… the list went on. He was not seen to many as a man, and in many ways Albus Dumbledore was not a man at all, at least that would the impression you received if ever you were to converse with him.
Albus Dumbledore seemed to transcend the position of mortal. To the world he was something of a demigod, treated with such veneration it was prone to the occasional rotting of one's tooth.
Tonight, the illustrious Albus Dumbledore could be seen in a very odd mood. He was, at the same time, conveying several emotions. The look of Albus' eyes (twinkling so damnedly) showed an emotion often seen on the old man's face: happiness. The slight furrow of Dumbledore's brow, however, showed a different emotion entirely.
It was obvious to anyone in the immediate vicinity that Albus Dumbledore's mind was working overtime to comprehend the latest turn of events. It was truly astounding to the man that such a thing had happened.
The slight twitch that could be seen at the base of his beard could indicate several things. Either Albus Dumbledore was irritated, puzzled, upset, or simply had decided to provide accommodation to a bird during the cold, pre-winter autumn that had begun in gusto only recently.
Some would discount the final possibility. After all, who in their right mind would house a bird in their beard? Dumbledore, however, was not considered (by some) to be in his right mind, so that was hardly an issue to debate. Albus' left ear twitched ever-so-slightly every thirteenth second that he continued to ponder the night's events.
It had been quite an ordinary night for the leader of the fight against Voldemort. Dumbledore was at an activity that was not at all foreign to the old man. He would sit in his chair in office, stare into the fire, and occasionally mutter to himself some word or phrase that meant something to him and him only.
Mere hours before now, the Potters had been attacked by the Dark Lord Voldemort. From what Dumbledore could gather, the Potters had been betrayed by their secret-keeper, Sirius Black, to Lord Voldemort. It pained Albus that Sirius Black had betrayed the Potters. He had always liked the man-turned-traitor.
With a heavy sigh, Albus set out to other orders of business: what to do with young Harry. After an hour or so of pondering, he had come to a conclusion: send Harry to live with his only relatives — the Dursleys. He had already informed Hagrid to take him there, but it never hurt to take a moment to review one's plans.
Albus Dumbledore shuddered slightly at the thought of what Lily Potter would do to him if he tried to send Harry there with her awareness of the event. She always had—it pained Albus greatly to have to speak of her in the past-tense—the most delightful of tempers. The Potters had specifically stated that Harry was by no means to go to live with the Dursleys and that he was to live with Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, or Peter Pettigrew; whichever seemed most capable or, under more dire circumstances, whichever still lived.
Dumbledore knew little of Lily's only living relations. They were Muggles, of course; this much, Albus knew. They had in the last year, borne a son of their own. Ducky, he thought the boy was called. What an enthralling name!
Petunia, Lily sister, Albus Dumbledore knew only by reputation. And it was not a flattering one. Her husband, Vernon Dursley, was in the Muggle business of drills, beyond that Albus knew nothing of him.
Lily had rarely spoken of her sister and her sister's family. Indeed, the most Albus had ever heard her speak of her estranged relation was the time when she and James had forbade Albus from sending Harry there in the event of their deaths, mere weeks previously.
From what Dumbledore knew, the Dursleys hated magic. This was the Potters primary concern about Harry potentially being sent there. Lily was terrified that her sisters dislike of magic combined with her loathing of Lily herself would result in terrible abuse being heaped upon Harry.
Albus Dumbledore, however, had no such concerns. He was wary of Lily and James' admonition that Harry must never have to go there. Dumbledore, however, knew what must be done. He could only hope that the Dursleys would treat Harry reasonably well. Everything was dependant on it, after all.
Dumbledore reached into a drawer on the left-hand side of his regal desk and withdrew a piece of parchment. Retracting a quill from the ink-pot on his desk, he began to write.
Dumbledore wrote for nearly two hours before sighing and getting to his feet. It was now time to voyage to the Dursley home and deliver to them young Harry. It was with a heavy heart that he set off to Little Whinging, Surrey.
Vernon and Petunia Dursley were perfectly normal in all ways. They lived in the plainest of neighborhoods; each house looked nearly identical to the one beside it. The only distinguishing characteristic between the houses on Privet Drive was often the luxury car that sat in the driveway of each.
The Dursleys resided in Number Four and were perfectly happy to do so. To them, four, as an even number, was perfectly respectable. In their minds, however, the outside of this respectable home was nothing compared to the God's gift to humanity that reside inside its walls. The Dursleys had a wonderful baby boy. Dudley was the most perfect little thing they could have hoped for him to be (they never did have high hopes, those Dursleys). In the minds of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, he could do no wrong.
Vernon was a large man who reminded most who met him of either a slab of beef or a rather large beet. He had a large mustache and more chins than he had fingers. It was astounding that a man with as many chins as Vernon Dursley had almost no neck. Vernon was very-much overweight, a fact immediately apparent to any who met him, and he had a temper when he set his mind to it.
Petunia Dursley, his wife, was a thin woman with a tight face. She had an exorbitant amount of neck which she put to constant good use. She spent a great deal of her time poking her head out from behind bushes or craning over fences in order to get a good look at the neighbors and their abnormalities, which she used as constant gossip-fodder—one of her favorite self-imposed duties.
Petunia constantly gushed over their overweight child, a slave to his every infantile whim. Vernon would view the antics of his son—his pride and joy, mind you—with a proud look on his face. Dudley would often use his small, plastic baby-spoon as a make-shift catapult. The ammunition was nearly always the high-quality baby-food that his mother fed him out of a small glass container.
Any time Dudley would do such a thing, Vernon would chuckle to himself. Vernon would reach over across the table and ruffle Dudley's blond wisps of hair and chortle such phrases as 'Little tyke' or 'Atta boy, Dudley!'.
Mrs. Dursley would take her gushings to new extremes and would sometimes burst into tears, happily gasping 'Darling boy' or 'My little Dinky-Duddykins!' between sobs of unnecessary elation.
The outside observer would remark, upon getting a look of the youngest Dursley, that he was amongst the fattest babies they had ever seen. Dudley was a mammoth of an infant whose appetite for both destruction and food knew no ceasing to the engorgement.
The Dursley home itself was, when Dudley wasn't amidst a temper-tantrum, immaculately clean. The sitting room bore pictures of what could only be thought of as a beach-ball wearing different coloured bonnets on the mantle. Dudley Dursley really did bear a slight more than a passing resemblance to a beach-ball, come-to-think….
The kitchen, Mrs. Dursley's pride and joy, was a surgically white colour. She took great pains in making her home quite clean and free of any blemish, discolouration, or other such tarring of her home's normalcy.
There were four bedrooms in their home. One for Vernon and Petunia (this bedroom, being the master, was the largest of the four but contained a rather sunken bed thanks to the considerable girth of Vernon Dursley), one for Dudley (this bedroom currently contained a crib and walls that had been papered in a 'pansy colour', as Mr. Dursley so eloquently put it, by Petunia Dursley), another that was planned to be something of a storage room for Dudley where he would keep all of his 'delightful' toys and trinkets when his first bedroom no longer contained room for them, and the final bedroom was a guest bedroom that was more often inhabited by Vernon's sister Marge than anyone else.
Today the Dursley family could be seen sitting around a circular table in their dinning room connected to the kitchen. Vernon was reading his newspaper with a large amassment of egg-yolk in his overlarge, handlebar mustache. Petunia was sitting across from him, sipping a cup of tea (pinky out, of course), whilst watching with uncontained glee as her baby-boy Dudley banged his plastic cup on the small plastic tray in front of him.
"Oh my darling Dinky-Diddydums, you're so clever!" Petunia said in an overly-sweet tone that is often used on infants. Dudley responded by banging his cup once more before flailing his overly-large arm into his canister of baby-food, knocking it to the floor where it shattered.
"Oh dear, Diddy," Petunia said, still in that cheerful tone, although now there was an undertone of sombreness. She quickly scurried over to the broken remains and began picking them out of the bits of food that it was covered in.
"Little tyke," Vernon chortled between bites of his eggs. He chuckled a bit before looking back down to his plate to begin shoveling more of the white-and-yellow eggs into his face. He never did notice the rather large bit of egg in both his mustache and that slowly began to work his way down to his lap.
Dudley, realising that this meant no more food, began to wail loudly. His face was screwed up and red as tears began to fall from his eyes. Petunia began coddling Dudley in record-time. "It's okay, darling," Petunia said before going to the pantry in the corner of the room to pull out several more containers of baby food. That seemed to brighten Dudley up a bit.
Vernon looked at his watch and quickly was on his feet, "Must be off," he said to perhaps Petunia, perhaps Dudley, perhaps both, "A rather large deal today!" Vernon said like such a thing should make him important in the eyes of his infant son.
"Good-bye, dear," Petunia said to him before pecking his cheek, "and good luck!" Vernon grunted before bowing down to give his whale of a son a kiss, but was stopped when Dudley began throwing food around the room. Vernon settled for mussing his hair and chuckling, "Little tyke!"
Vernon gathered his keys from a no-longer-used ashtray, seized the doorknob, and stepped into the overcast, November morning. The very first thing Mr. Dursley saw as he began to amble down the small foot-stone path to the drive upon where his car was parked was a rather stern looking tabby cat that was staring at him with a stony gaze—a gaze made all the more stony due to the unusual markings about the cat's eyes—from the top of the brick wall that stood outside of his home. Cats do not stare! They might look – but they do not stare! Vernon berated himself mentally.
He glared at the cat, who promptly returned the glare. Cats do not glare! he thought with a mix of anger and desperation. Huffing, he turned away from the feline fiend that dared do something out-of-the-ordinary. He set off, once more, to his car. Inserting the key and opening the door of his sedan, he set one foot in the car before turning to look at the cat again.
The cat was poring over a map—a map? Vernon quickly shot his head back to the spot the cat sat, for he had begun to turn his head before recognition of the absurdity of a cat reading a map hit him. But when Vernon Dursley looked once more at the spot the map had been, it was gone.
Vernon grumbled under his breath about tricks of the light before getting in his car and backing out of his concrete drive. He pulled out rather more quickly than he normally would, due to his bad mood. Adjusting his mirror, he looked at the cat once more, this time to see it reading the street sign that stood near the exit of Privet Drive.
CATS CANNOT READ! Vernon silently shouted. It is looking—LOOKING—at the street sign! Get a hold of yourself, man! Vernon continued to rant exasperatedly sub-vocally. He maneuvered his sedan out of the street, determined not to look at the cat again.
Before long he was on the motorway on his way to Grunnings, the drill company that he was the director of. The drive, much to Vernon's satisfaction, was completely uneventful. He was five minutes away from the office when something came along that completely ruined his new-found good mood.
There were people about—the oddest sort of people—wearing cloaks and robes of various colours. There were people dressed in several different colours—ruby reds, emerald greens, sapphire blues, grays—and it agitated Vernon to no end. He despised those who wore unusual clothing. Traipsing around in robes indeed!
After more mental debating than he often expended on even work, he came to the conclusion that this was some sort of trend amongst the youth. Children these days! Prancing around in such an unnatural manner; who would hold with such nonsense? Certainly not him or his wife, of that much he could be sure.
Eventually he made his way to the office where he proceeded to have a very enjoyable day. The deal he had been hoping for was going well and Mr. Witherlocke (the man with whom Vernon was dealing) had just suggested they break from their dealings for a spot of lunch.
Vernon agreed whole-heartedly, both because he was hungry, and because he wanted to agree with anything the man who could get him in touch with a sizable sum of cash had to suggest. Mr. Witherlocke had decided to go out for to a restaurant in town to meet up with his daughter for a spot of tea.
Vernon elected to go across the street to the bakers' and get himself a bun. He told his secretary that he would be back in ten minutes before setting off to the bakers'. It was when Mr. Dursley made it onto the street that he saw a rather large group of those robed figures.
Vernon seethed upon seeing that one of the men had to be older than he was! After more mental contemplation he decided that they were collecting for something. Yes, that must be it. It's just a silly demonstration of some sort. He ignored the fact that there was no collecting tin in sight.
As Vernon walked past, he caught snippets of their conversation. A conversation that was held in hushed tones, being spoken of quickly.
"—and he was gone!"
"Just gone? Certainly—"
"Yes, just gone! Dissa—"
"And it was the Potters? You're certain?"
Vernon paled considerably upon hearing this. The Potters—surely they didn't mean Petunia sister's family? They, too, were called Potter. If anyone ever got wind that Vernon and Petunia knew such people… Let alone the fact that Petunia was related to one! Vernon shuddered involuntarily at the thought before returning his attention to the people before him.
"—just they're son left. Harry they called him,"
Vernon paled considerably more upon hearing this tidbit. The Potters had a son; that son was named Harry. But Potter is a common enough name; and so is Harry for that matter! Vernon tried to convince himself of this, but upon hearing the next statement, he quickly scampered off back to the office; bun forgotten.
"—just a little baby and You-Know-Who couldn't touch him!"
Upon arriving back at his office, Vernon slammed the door and barked the instruction to his secretary that short of the building burning down, he was not to be disturbed! It was becoming quite obvious that Vernon was disturbed enough on his own without the aid of burning buildings and seekers of the upper-hand.
Vernon was half-way through ringing his home number to tell Petunia of what he had heard, but stopped himself. Potter was a common name; Harry was as well. And he most certainly did not know who! Such silliness, getting worked up about what some man of oddity said down near the bakers'. Vernon would have laughed to himself about it if it weren't for his secretary's voice coming through the small intercom on his desk.
"Mr. Dursley, sir, I informed Mr. Witherlocke of your wishes not to be disturbed. I'm afraid he was a bit cross and stormed out of here. You've lost the deal, sir," his secretary, Jacqueline was her name, said through the intercom.
Now Vernon was really heated. He'd lost the deal? It very well could have been the biggest deal of his life! The rest of the afternoon went by quickly. Vernon yelled a bit at his secretary, fired her, and made several heated telephone calls. By the end of the day, Vernon had regained some of his composure and felt able to return home to face Mrs. Dursley.
The drive home was decidedly uneventful after he had escaped the clutches of the oddly dressed. He noticed on his way back to Number Four that the Potter-Speakers were still there. They were dressed just as unusually, just as abnormally, as before. Vernon fumed about the indecency of forcing others to look at them with their colourful robes and cloaks. He had to resist driving his sedan into them several times on multiple occasions.
He drove on until at long last he made his way back into the respectable neighborhood of Privet Drive. Vernon nearly skipped on his way up the stone-walkway. There weren't any of those odd people here! No, sir! No collecting tin-bearing, robe-wearing, outlandish-looking people here!
Just as Vernon was working up into a gleeful laugh, he saw something that made his mood come crashing down. The tabby cat that was sitting on the wall from before was still there! Vernon glared at the cat, who glared back once more, before barking at it, "Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here, you bloody cat!" Vernon said in a louder-than-necessary voice.
When the cat did not so much as flinch, Vernon was prepared to get violent. But before this could happen his wife appeared at the door with a reproving look, "Vernon! Get inside. What if the neighbors see?" this quickly convinced Vernon to forget about that damned tabby and get in his home before the neighbors began to stare.
"Sorry, dear," Vernon mumbled in what could be considered meek voice, at least for Vernon Dursley it could be. Vernon shuffled his feet up the pathway and entered his place of residence. It was once Vernon entered his home that he looked at Petunia fully and remembered the curious events of the day.
He had resolved to try and ask Petunia about it. He knew it would be no easy task; Petunia spent a great deal of time and energy pretending her sister and her family did not exist. He stared at Petunia for a time before striding through the corridor of the entry-hall and entered the sitting-room.
Vernon was sitting in his favorite chair, a leather recliner, when his wife entered the room, a glass of brandy in hand. Dudley, evidently, had been put to sleep. She handed the brandy to Vernon, who nodded gratefully before she sat in the other chair in the room; near Vernon's. They sat in silence for a moment or two before Vernon decided to turn on the television to watch the nightly news.
A man was on the television in a pressed suit, "And tonight, Ted, I have to report that instead of the rain I promised, we've had showers of shooting stars!" the wonder in the weather-man's voice was obvious and genuine. "Star-gazers from as far as Kent have been reporting shooting stars streaking across the sky! It would appear that some people are celebrating Bonfire Night a bit early, eh Ted?"
A pompous looking anchorman in his mid-forties came into view on the television and answered just as pompously as one might have suspected of his appearance, "Perhaps, Jim, perhaps. Today we have yet another unusual report to give to you. The nation's owls seem to have confused day for night. Owls have been reported to be flying around in broad daylight all-day long! Owl experts have as of yet to give an official statement, but it would appear that they are just as baffled as we are!" the pompous reporter said, his clean-shaven face looking into the camera.
The Dursleys, whilst not particularly interested in the goings-on of owls, were engrossed enough in the programme so as not to notice the stern tabby peering into their window from the outside.
Before long Petunia was discussing the events of her day; Dudley, she delightedly informed Vernon, learnt a new word: won't. Petunia couldn't have been happier; her darling son was growing-up (and out)! Vernon listened to all of this with half an ear. He was now brooding over his day. Wretched people in funny clothing….
Vernon grunted in all the appropriate places and before long Petunia was inquiring about his day. Vernon wasn't quite sure what to tell her; her sister was a touchy subject, after all. Then again, if Vernon had had a sister like that….
Vernon decided to explain his day until the point of the mention of the word 'Potter', at which point he would be forced to improvise. He told her of Mr. Witherlocke and began to describe his lunch hour when he faltered ever-so-slightly. He resolved to tell her now, she might know if they had a son named Harry.
"—and then I thought I might stretch my legs a bit and get myself a bun from across the way," Vernon said to his attentive wife, "I was just outside the office when these men in funny clothes were whispering. I was passing by and heard what they were discussing…" here Vernon trailed off. How was he supposed to tell his wife about people who could be her sister's family when she spent so much time ignoring her existence?
"Yes, dear?" Petunia asked, having just recovered from hearing about people dressed in unusual clothing. She hated things that were unusual; unusual clothing more than most other things.
"They were—erm—talking about some people named the—erm," here he paused. When he continued, it was in a barely-audible whisper, "Potters," he managed to squeak out.
As expected, Petunia stiffened at the mention of her sister's family. Vernon, taking her silence as some sort of encouragement to continue on, went on, "They've got a son, don't they? About Dudley's age?" he asked, rather more timidly than one would expect out of a man of Vernon Dursley's size.
"I expect so!" Petunia snapped. She really did not want to talk about the Potters of all people!
"Harrison, his name was—wasn't it?" Vernon asked hopefully.
"Harry. Filthy common name, as far as I'm concerned!" Petunia corrected her husband with a snap.
At her words, Vernon deflated considerably, "Oh, yes, dreadful," he said, his heart sinking straight into his toes.
"Why?"
"Odd sorts about; thought it might have something to do with their crowd,"
Petunia sniffed sharply, but had no supplementary reaction. An hour later the two Dursleys headed up to bed—Vernon with his heart in his toes; Petunia irritated by Vernon's mentioning of her freak sister.
Vernon got into bed and under the covers while his wife used the lavatory. His mind was running quickly—due to his immensely panic state. Even if it does have to do with the Potters; they've no reason to come anywhere near respectable people like him and his wife. He seemed desperate to convince of this line of thinking.
His wife exited the toilet a moment later and got under the covers with her husband. She slept on the far edge of the bed, so as not to fall into the pit that Vernon created with his body every night; the pit that remained everlastingly sagged into the bed, regardless of Vernon's location.
Within minutes, Petunia had fallen asleep. Vernon, however, had no such luck; he lay awake for nearly an hour pondering the events of the day. None of them would dare come anywhere near him or his family. He was astoundingly wrong, of course.
Outside of Number Four, on the street of Privet Drive, there was not a sound. All curtains were closed, all lights extinguished. All was tranquil and nothing moved. Not even the cat that still sat on the wall of Number Four.
At the end of the street, by the corner bearing the street-sign that signified Privet Drive, a man suddenly appeared. He was accompanied by a soft pop, but beyond that nothing.
The man himself would be viewed as appalling if the inhabitants of Privet Drive were attentive enough to recognise his arrival. This man was quite a sight; what with his high-heeled, silver-buckled boots, long white beard and hair, both of which could have comfortably been tucked into his belt. He wore long purple robes that touched the ground despite his boots. His eyes were a very bright, blue colour and seemed alive with an amount of effervescence that was staggering considering the man's obvious old-age. His eyes were partially hidden by half-moon spectacles that rested on the bridge of his long nose that looked to have been broken more than once.
Albus Dumbledore was starkly indifferent to the fact that everything about him, from his name to his woolen-socks that were hidden behind his long robes, was very much unwelcome in such an orderly place as Privet Drive. Petunia Dursley would have positively fainted.
Dumbledore rummaged in his cloak for a moment before a quick 'aha!' escaped his lips. He pulled out what looked to be an ordinary, silver cigarette lighter. Dumbledore deftly flicked the top of the lighter off where it proceeded to lightly touch the side, thanks to the miniscule hinges on the side.
Dumbledore employed the left-hand side of his right-hand thumb on the small wheel of the lighter. He held out his right arm in the direction of the nearest lamp post and, with a quick swipe of his thumb, the miniature wheel situated on top of the lighter spun for half a moment before the nearest lamp-post's light was mysteriously vacuumed into the lighter.
This must have been expected, for Albus Dumbledore's face bore no signs of shock, and he simply proceeded to repeat the process eleven more times, successfully extinguishing any and all light, before flicking the top back onto the base of the lighter and looking at the far-side of the street where Number Four lay.
During all this time and through all of the events with the cigarette lighter, the cat that had sitting on the brick wall had not moved. It simply gazed upon Dumbledore, waiting. It was lucky for the cat it was dark out, for seemingly the only reason Albus Dumbledore noticed it was because its eyes were the brightest things on the dark street.
Dumbledore saw the cat and let out from his aged lips, a small chuckle. He gazed at it for a moment before murmuring, "I ought to have known," seemingly to himself. Without preamble, Albus Dumbledore strode to the end of the street. He stopped when he reached the wall that the stiff cat sat upon, before taking a seat beside it.
For a moment Dumbledore did nothing and simply sat, while his thumbs twiddled. Throughout the entire duration of Albus Dumbledore's thumb-twiddling, the cat sat and, quite still, and stared at the man. After a moment, Dumbledore spoke to the cat, whilst staring straight ahead. "Imagine discovering you here, Professor McGonagall," he said quietly.
As he completed his sentence, he looked to his right where the cat was sitting. However, where there was once a cat, there was now a rather stern and severe, older-looking woman with her black hair drawn into a tight bun wearing glasses bearing the exact shape of the markings around the cat's eyes; a cat no more.
"What gave me away, Professor Dumbledore?" the former cat said, in a Scottish brogue.
"Never, in all my days, have I seen such a stiff and well-behaved cat," he responded.
She responded with what could only be described as a hiss, capable of being delivered only by a cat; this caused Dumbledore to chuckle. "You'd be stiff too—sitting on this wall all day! As for well behaved…" Professor McGonagall trailed off, though she looked somewhat mollified.
"And what, Professor, compelled you to sit on this wall, all day?" Professor Dumbledore inquired.
"I've been waiting for you, of course!" McGonagall responded in a tone of voice that suggested it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"And how, my dear Professor, did you know I would be here?" Dumbledore asked the not-actually-a-cat.
"Hagrid," she admitted, somewhat grudgingly.
"Ah," was all he said in response.
There was silence for a time; Dumbledore was staring off into the distance, evidently deep in thought. McGonagall, however, was quite twitchy at the moment and was having difficulty staying still. Finally, McGonagall broke the silence, "Is it true, Albus? What they're saying?"
Dumbledore did not respond, so McGonagall pressed on, "About You-Know-Who, Albus? They say he's gone! They're saying that he arrived in Godric's Hollow last night looking for the Potters," she paused here for a moment, "They say that he—he killed them! That he killed Lily and James," at Dumbledore's solemn nod, McGonagall lost her composure, "Is it true, Albus? That he killed Lily and James, but couldn't kill their son? They say that he tried to kill him, but he couldn't!" quite obviously this was something that McGonagall was dying to know; the true reason she had been sitting on the Dursley's brick wall all day.
"Alas, it is indeed the truth," Dumbledore said, after a pregnant pause. McGonagall's obviously mournful, yet elated look spurred him to answer her unspoken question. "I do not know how he survived; alas, I suspect I never will."
"They say that the curse—they say it backfired!" McGonagall both stated and asked, obviously astonished. McGonagall looked at the old man before her, waiting for some elaboration. She got it, although clearly she expected more, when all Dumbledore did was nod.
"Why are you not partaking in one the wonderful feasts that I have passed on my way here, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked the woman.
McGonagall snorted. "Fools! They're celebrating in surplus—even the Muggles have noticed! It was on their news," she was building up into a rant now, "Pecks—I mean packs—of owls; shooting stars!—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle, he always was one for senselessness. The Muggles aren't entirely dim-witted enough to not notice it! Wouldn't it be rich if on the day he's finally disappeared, the Muggles found us out all over again?"
"What will become of him, Albus?"
"Ah, well, that brings me to why I am here, actually," Dumbledore said to McGonagall. As soon as Dumbledore had spoken the end of that sentence, McGonagall looked stricken. "Harry is to come to live with the Dursleys; they're all the family he has left, now." before he finished, he realised opening his mouth had been a mistake.
"Here—Surely you're—Here?—You're sending the savior of the Wizarding world to live here?" she asked incredulously. "You can't send him here, Albus! I've been watching them all day; they're the most terrible sort of Muggles anywhere! You couldn't find a family less like us if you tried! Anywhere! The wife spends all of her time spying on the neighbors; the father is the most irritating man I've ever met in my life, worse than my milkman at my summer cottage! And the son—Oh the son! I watched him kick his mother and wail on and on about sweets! Harry Potter come to live here?" McGonagall finished her rant, panting and still looking supremely incredulous.
"It truly is the best place for him, Minerva," Dumbledore said compellingly, "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's a bit older, it would be a bit much at such a young age; I've written to them, a letter." he pointed to his breast with the last sentence.
McGonagall looked irate, "A letter? A letter, Albus? Do you actually think you can explain everything in a simple letter?" she demanded of him, quite indignantly. She began to mumble to herself, although Dumbledore caught every word. "Absolute worst sort of Muggles—Can't believe—Bloody letter!—They'll never understand him—Harry Potter Day in the future!—Books written about him—A bloody letter?"
"Don't you see, Minerva? He would be famous in our world. Every child will grow up with his name fixed firmly in their minds. He'll be famous for something he has absolutely no recollection of," Dumbledore said, "He will grow up normally here; no renown to turn his head. Can't you see how much better this will be for him? Here with family, instead of with people who will worships the ground that he tread upon?"
She opened her mouth, beginning to sputter once more with the now familiar indignation at her lips; then stopped. She swallowed and allowed herself a moment to regain her composure. She sighed resignedly, "You're right of course, Dumbledore. How is he getting here?" she asked, while staring at his beard, which was twitching every few moments, trying to see if he had hidden the boy inside it.
Dumbledore took a moment to look amused at McGonagall's inspection of his rather magnificent beard before answering her with the simple phrase, "Hagrid is bringing him."
McGonagall looked slightly surprised at this information. After a moment, she said to Dumbledore in a most hesitant, quite unusual in her brogue, voice, "Are you certain it—well—wise to entrust Hagrid with such a thing? He is a bit…" her voice trailed off.
"I would trust Hagrid with my life, as I would you." Dumbledore stated matter-of-factly.
McGonagall looked slightly mollified for a moment before beginning to speak, "I'm not saying he doesn't mean well…" McGonagall began slowly, "He's a bit careless, though. You can't pretend he's the most—well—responsible person in the world. He does tend to be a bit… overzealous at times." McGonagall finished.
Dumbledore ignored her comments about Hagrid's character and rummaged in his cloak for a moment before giving a slight smile, indicative that he had found that which he sought. He pulled out from the folds of his robes a very odd, old-fashioned pocket-watch. The watch bore runic symbols and moving and spinning planets on the outer edges. This watch had not three hands, as you may be accustomed to, but rather it had twelve. He examined it closely for a moment, several of the hands moving, creating a light ticking sound. He sigh briefly before speaking to McGonagall who was currently staring off into the night, "Hagrid's late. He was to be here by now; hopefully trouble has not—"
At that moment a faint rumbling sound could be heard on the streets of Little Whinging. McGonagall and Dumbledore looked around for a moment, as though expecting nothing less than a tank to come rolling up. After a few moments, light could be seen overhead.
Both Dumbledore and McGonagall looked up at the heavens, expecting perhaps to be sucked into them. A moment later, an immensely large motorbike descended from the sky and touched down on the ground with a clang.
Situated atop the overly-large motorbike was a man that, if it were possible, was even more out of place than either the motorbike or Albus Dumbledore. The man—if you could call him that—that sat upon the motorbike was huge. He was at least a dozen feet tall and quite wide-enough to be getting on with. He was twice as tall as a normal man and a several times as large; such abnormality could cause Mrs. Dursley to have a heart-attack. This man wore a trench-coat large enough to hide a man in quite comfortably. His hands were large enough to crush a waste bin without effort and his feet looked to be most of the length of a normal-sized man's arm. In his vast, muscular arms (themselves the size of a man's leg) was a bundle of light-coloured, woolen blankets.
Hagrid having just turned off the motorbike, Dumbledore spoke in a very relieved tone, eyes sparkling in full-force, "Hagrid; at last," Dumbledore looked at the motorbike and added, "And where did you get this motorbike, Hagrid?"
Clambering off the motorbike carefully, so as not to disturb his blanket-adorned bundle, Hagrid responded, "I—er—borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir. Young Sirius Black's lent it ter me."
The twinkling of Dumbledore's eyes ceased at the mention of Sirius Black, but beyond that there was no visible sign of turmoil. After a brief moment, Dumbledore spoke. "And Harry?" he asked, clearly concerned.
"I got 'im right here, Professor, sir." Hagrid motioned with his left arm to the bundle he was carrying with his right.
"And did you encounter any impediments, Hagrid?"
"No sir. The house was nearly burnt down ter the ground when I got there; but I managed ter get 'im out before the Muggles stormed the place. He fell asleep while we was flyin' over Bristol."
Both Dumbledore and McGonagall craned their necks a bit to get a glance of what was contained in the bundle in Hagrid's arms. Inside of the bundle, barely in view, was a baby boy, not much older than a year's age, sleeping like a stone. His hair was comprised of a concentration of wisps of soft, jet-black hair. Upon his forehead was something that caused McGonagall to gasp and make Dumbledore lose what little twinkle he had retained from Hagrid's report. Barely visible was a crude cut in a most curious shape: a jagged lightning bolt.
"Is that where…" she trailed off. She was speaking in a voice barely audible, just above a whisper. It was a very disconcerting thing to see the relic of one of the most significant events of the age.
"Yes; he will have that scar until the day he shall die," Dumbledore said, his voice showing his extreme moroseness. The customary twinkle in his eye was so far gone that it looked to any in the vicinity as though the life itself had fled from the man. Very softly, indeed quietly enough that one had to strain to hear him, he finished, "And I hope that to be a long-way in coming, indeed."
The three figures stood there for a moment, staring at the boy and his scar. Dumbledore's shoulders were slumped, a defeated air about him. Hagrid's shoulders shook, silent sobs racking his body. Their female companion stood stock-still for a moment before letting out a heart-wrenching sob and turning into Dumbledore's shoulder to sob silently.
Dumbledore patted her back with one hand; his other arm was occupied in a tender embrace. "There, there, my dear woman. All will be well in the end." Dumbledore sounded more hopeful than convinced.
For a brief moment that none of his companions saw, Dumbledore's eyes looked pained and worried. He knew something; something more than he let on—something that he was not sharing with the others: a terrible truth.
After a moment, Albus spoke to the night, "Well, there is no use dawdling; we may as well be done with this and join one of the celebrations, if not for our sakes, than for others. There is nothing to be done, nothing to be gained, by our remaining." He freed himself from their embrace and stepped toward Hagrid.
He gently extricated Harry from Hagrid's gentle grasp with gentility and caring that seemed out of place for one of his age. He carried Harry to the front-door of the Dursley home before placing him on the door mat and extracting from his long robes, a letter. He placed the letter on the navel of young Harry and stepped back.
He and his fellows gazed at the boy and his home-to-be for a moment before a great heart-wrenching wail from Hagrid broke the silence. McGonagall patted him on his great forearm for a moment before Dumbledore broke the now-silent atmosphere, "We ought to leave; we have no further business here."
His companions reluctantly nodded their agreement. McGonagall turned into a cat before their eyes and slunk off down a near-by alleyway. She feigned confidence, but the two remaining saw through it. She was as perturbed as anyone by the events of the day; more so than most.
Another moment passed before Hagrid slung his left leg over the motorbike once more and turned to Dumbledore. "I'll be bringin' Sirius his bike back, then," his tone was one of utter regret and sadness. "Good nigh', Professor Dumbledore, Sir."
And with that Hagrid turned the keys in the ignition and the motorbike roared to life. Hagrid cast one last glance at Dumbledore and Privet Drive before taking off into the night.
Dumbledore stood, gazing, at the structure before him, before extracting the Put-Outer from his robes and clicking it once, freeing the light from within. He gazed at Number Four for a moment before murmuring to the bundle of blankets before him, "Good luck, Harry." With a last glance, Dumbledore turned on his high-heeled boot and, with a swish of his large cloak, disappeared into the night.
Privet Drive continued on; the orange glow cast off by the street-lamps glowing as brightly as ever before. The wind rustled some stray leaves that were scattered about the street; their sound eerie in the night. Nothing of this night suggested that extraordinary things were possible. Nothing about this night, so serene, suggested that it could bear something so incredibly awe-inspiring. And so the night went on, for hours and hours. Just around day-break young Harry, his arms wrapped around the letter, was awoken by the shriek of his aunt Petunia. He spent the next few weeks being poked and prodded, kicked and pinched, punched and having his hair pulled by his large, boisterous cousin Dudley; indefinite damnation.
A/N: Well, that's chapter two for you. If parts seemed familiar, there's probably a reason for it. This might actually be the worst chapter of the entire story, and if it makes it into the Redux – in any way, shape, or form – I'll be thoroughly surprised. So please excuse just how abysmal it is. This is one of the fewish times, actually, I'll play the I-was-fourteen-when-I-wrote-this, get-off-me card.
Speaking of said Redux, I've not yet had any takers for the editor job. I'm looking for someone who can do with this story what musicians do with remixes. Chop it into bits and make it different, something appreciable in its own right. Cut scenes, cut chapters, cut lines, cut paragraphs – full editorial control shall be in the hands of whoever takes me up on my offer.
Let me be clear, though – I'm not looking for someone to rewrite the story. If, in the course of editing, my editor should rephrase something, that's fine; but I'm not looking for someone to write scenes or anything. Any rewriting that absolutely must be done will be done by me, not my editor. For instance, if my editor really likes scene X, but thinks that the way it's all put together is dreadful, that if could be a lot more than the original, then the job of rewriting falls to me, not my poor editor.
So! Sign up. Give me a shot. We'll have a grand old time.
Thanks, and please, if you leave a review, bear this A/N in mind.