As always, Harry Potter is owned by J. . I own nothing! The title of the story is taken from the series, The Song of the Lioness, by Tamora Pierce.
This work has not been beta-ed, so may have various mistakes etc.
Through the pristine white curtains, the neighbours peered at the strange visitor who had appeared at Number 4 Privet Drive.
A stern looking elderly woman was ringing the doorbell. She rang it once, then twice. When there was no answer, she knocked at the door with a firm rap.
It was not the old lady's appearance that had caused the stir in the neighbourhood. Rather it was the fact that anyone had come to visit the reclusive Dursley family at all. The peering neighbours could not remember the last time someone had come to this door, unless it was eleven years ago when that tragedy had struck the poor Dursley family.
The watchers at the windows wondered with ghoulish interest whether this visitor had brought more bad tiding to the family at Number 4.
Before the busy bodies could learn anymore about the visitor, the door to number 4 opened, and the stranger ushered inside.
Number 4 was a neat and orderly home. In the small hallway where the stairs led up to the second floor, there was shoes and coats neatly stacked and hung away in their appointed place on the hooks and racks along the wall.
"I knew one-day you people would come, "said the mistress of the house, her horsey face set in a grimace of dislike. She looked over the visitor with her brown beady eyes, scrutinising her closely.
"I don't suppose I could keep you from entering my home even I wanted to. One wave of your little stick, and I'd be handing you the contents of my bank account without argument." Mrs. Petunia Dursley turned away from the visitor, who had not yet moved from the threshold of the door.
Mrs. Dursley waved a perfectly manicured claw at the visitor, gesturing her towards the living room at the front of the house.
Left alone to her own devices, the visitor unbuttoned her smart tartan lined mac coat and hung it on one of the hooks provided, and made her way to the living room.
"Thank you for letting me into your home, Mrs. Dursley," said the visitor as she politely settled herself on the armchair indicated by Mrs. Dursley.
Returning from the kitchen that connected to the living room, Mrs. Dursley sat down with a clutter a decorated plate of cookies on the low wooden coffee table, and perched herself on the couch across from her visitor.
"Once I have answered your questions, you will leave," commanded Mrs. Dursley, and rose her long and skinny neck in challenge.
The visitor bowed her head slightly and placed her gloved hands carefully in her lap.
At this gesture, the mistress of the household seemed to relax, but her sharp eyes remained watchful. One of her hands clutched at the white pearls around her neck.
"I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School-"
Here Mrs. Dursley clutched at her peals even harder. "I will have no mention of that-that freakishness in my household," she shrieked, her face going red in anger.
"I'm afraid, Mrs. Dursley, that although I am a visitor in your household, I must speak my part." The old lady looked imperiously at Mrs. Dursley, a queen in a long purple skirt and a lilac cardigan.
"As I was saying, I am the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is usually customary for one of the more senior staff to arrange visits with the households where it is felt the new incumbent students might have difficulty transitioning between the Mundane world and the Magical one."
At this, Mrs. Dursley threw her head back, and gave a braying, disbelieving laugh. "You're here for Harry!"
"Yes," replied the Professor, her Scottish accent becoming more pronounced in her anger. "I am here for Harry."
"You have a lovely home, Mrs. Dursley," continued the Professor, pointing to the new electric fireplace and the carefully arranged pictures above the fireplace, "But I notice there are no pictures of your nephew anywhere in the house!"
Mrs. Dursley gaped at the Professor like an ugly fish. "Of course I have no pictures of the boy!" she exclaimed.
The Professor stood up angrily, reaching into her large and sturdy bag, and thrust a letter into Mrs. Dursley's face. Written in thick ink, the envelope read:
Mr. H. Potter
Home
The Cosy Nursery
"I know Mr. Potter is here, Mrs. Dursley. Produce him at once!" demanded Professor McGonagall.
At this, Mrs. Dursley gave another laugh that subsided into hoarse sobs. Wrenching the envelope from the Professor's hands, Mrs. Dursley sat with a thud on the couch. Her fingers traced the name on the envelope.
"I always thought Harry was such a nasty, common name. It was only when one of your people gave the death certificate that I discovered Lily had named him after our grandfather, Harrison."
Mrs. Dursley's brown eyes looked into the Professor's own, and shoved the envelope back into her hands. "So you see now why I cannot produce my nephew for you."
"That is complete hogwash, Mrs. Dursley. Your nephew is alive!" exclaimed the Professor.
"No!" declared Mrs. Dursley fiercely, her swallow cheeks flushed red in anger. "Your folk came to my door eleven years ago and told me what had happened to my poor sister and that man she married because of that awful terrorist! I had to bury what remained of their bodies."
The Professor leant over the emotional Mrs. Dursley and pointed to the address on the envelope. "These letters are enchanted. They give the address of where each potential student is to be most commonly found. Your nephew is alive at "Home, The Cosy Nursery". Magic will find Mr. Potter, and return him to you."
At this, Mrs. Dursley looked up at the Professor, and shook her head in disbelief. "They told me he died in that nursery in that god-awful cottage eleven years ago. Wherever that boy is, he is happier than he would ever be here. I doubt this house could ever be a home to him- he belongs with the rest of you freaks."