Chapter 1: The Girl Who Lived

Monday, 2 November, 1981

Surrey

Mrs. Petunia Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was proud to think of herself as perfectly normal, thank you very much. Her husband, had he ever given it a moment's thought, would probably have thought that his family was quite a lot better than normal, and you'd do well to remember it. But nobody asked him. In any case, they were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Vernon Dursley was a director in a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck and a very large mustache. He had played rugby in school, and thought of himself as quite the manly man. Petunia agreed. She was thin and blonde, and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. She had been a housewife for over four years, which, she liked to tell her friends, was a much more profitable career than any other she really could have hoped to get with her anthropology degree (not that she had actually finished said degree, anyway). When she was not spying on the neighbors, she cooked and cleaned, and chatted with the neighborhood ladies, but the vast majority of her time was lavished on her son, Dudley. He was just over one year old, and in the Dursleys' opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they needed, and for the most part were very happy with their life. That is not to say that there is nothing they wanted: Vernon was always striving for a promotion and a pay raise, and Petunia would, all around, have preferred to have something more interesting to do with her day than take care of a single small child. But they both felt useful and, as Petunia put it, they were exceedingly successful in getting what everyone said they should want, and that was what really mattered, when it came right down to it. Unfortunately, the Dursleys, along with everything they needed and much of what they wanted, also had a secret. It was Petunia Dursley's greatest fear that someone would discover it. Vernon privately thought that should the secret ever be discovered, he could deal with it with sufficient bluster and offended denials. After all, who would believe a thing like that? But he supported his wife, and, as such, would never belittle her fear, which was that anyone (anyone who mattered, that was) might find out about the Potters.

Mrs. Potter was Petunia's sister, but they hadn't met for several years. If you had asked Mrs. Potter why not, she would have said it was because Petunia was envious and it was better this way, anyway. If you had asked Mrs. Dursley, she would have said it was because Mr. Potter and his friends were obnoxious morons, and that the whole lot of them, Mrs. Potter (who she no longer referred to by her given name) included, hadn't the foggiest idea how to behave like normal, responsible adults. They would, of course, both be right, and there were several other reasons besides, but it boiled down to Petunia pretending that she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. She shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small child too, but they had never met. If pressed, Vernon could not actually remember the sex of the child. In any case, it was sure to take after its parents, and thus was another good reason for keeping away from the Potters: they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Monday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Vernon hummed aimlessly as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Petunia 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 eight, Vernon picked up his briefcase, pecked his wife on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye, but missed, because Dudley was having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

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'd seen – then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. He sincerely hoped that it was a trick of the light, an effect of not quite yet being fully awake. He blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As he drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive – no, looking at the sign. Cats couldn't read maps, or signs, therefore, in his world, they didn't. To see a cat reading a map was not possible. He gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

On the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. He couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes – they always reminded him of that bloody arse Potter, and his crowd. That said, there were an awful lot of them, more weirdos than he had thought existed, or had ever seen before, so he assumed that it must be some stupid new fashion, or perhaps a stunt. Yes. These people must be collecting for something…that would explain it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Vernon Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

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 drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though most people 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. Vernon, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls 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 bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them suspiciously 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 Potters, that's right, that's what I heard. Yes, their girl, Mary-"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead, shocked. 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 telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking… no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter with a daughter called Mary. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his niece was called Mary, or that she wasn't actually a nephew. He was certain the name ended with an 'ee' sound, and it was one of those royal names. Could have been Lizzie, or Harry, even. Even if it was Mary, half the girls in England were probably called Mary. There was no point worrying Petunia; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her – if he'd had a sister like that, he'd have disowned her too… but all the same, those people in cloaks…

He found it much harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was so preoccupied that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. And under it, robes! As though he were walking in a university graduation. How entirely odd. Perhaps there was a convention in town. The man 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 said 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 man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He had also been called a "muggle," a word which he could only recall hearing once before, from a very drunk friend of that bloody arse Potter, at the Potters' wedding reception. That was, he thought, a very disturbing encounter. At the very least it suggested that all of the oddly dressed people were not, in fact, collecting for some charity or rallying for a convention, but were, in fact, weirdos. Freaks. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping that whatever was going on, it was nothing to do with those Potters, and therefore nothing to do with him and his family.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, 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 markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? He wondered. He had personally always been more of a dog person, but Petunia was allergic. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still debating whether he should mention anything to his wife.

Petunia had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter, and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Vernon 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 evening news:

"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 the daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – It's not until Thursday, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

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

As he had expected, she looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister. "No," she said sharply, setting his tea on the coffee table, just out of his reach, and glaring at him. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Vernon mumbled. "Owls… shooting stars. And there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…"

"So?" Petunia snapped.

"Pet… one of them called me a muggle. I think…maybe…it's something to do with…you know…her crowd."

Petunia sipped her tea through pursed lips. Vernon wondered if he dared tell her he'd heard the name Potter. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he waited a few minutes and then asked, as casually as he could, "Their son – he's about Dudley's age, right?"

"Honestly, Vernon. It's a girl. And yes, I suppose so."

"What's her name, then? Lizzie?"

"Mary Elizabeth. Nasty, common name if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Vernon, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Petunia was in the bathroom, Vernon 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 Potters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of – well, he didn't think he could bear it. Petunia certainly couldn't.

The Dursleys got into bed. Petunia fell asleep quickly, but Vernon lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Petunia. They knew very well what the Dursleys thought about their kind… He couldn't see how he and his wife 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.

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Vernon Dursley might have drifted off 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, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It did not so much as quiver when a car 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 man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, so suddenly and silently you'd think he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

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

He did not seem to realize (or perhaps he just didn't care) that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, 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 inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again: the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights on the street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out 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 cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on 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 woman 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 green one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"Where have you been all day?" she asked.

"All day? Do you mean to say that you have been sitting on this wall all day, when you could have been celebrating? I must have passed up a dozen invitations to feasts and parties today."

McGonagall sniffed angrily. "Oh yes, everyone'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 going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much common sense."

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

"I know that," said the Professor, irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People 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 the man. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a muggle sweet."

"No, thank you," said McGonagall coldly, as though she 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 person like yourself can call him by his name? All this You-Know-Who nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, 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 the Professor, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know, oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of. It's not like he would have come to kill you for breaking the Taboo on his name."

"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."

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

It seemed that the Professor 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 woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. The man, however, was choosing another lemon drop, and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that on All Hallows Eve, Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are – are – that they're – dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. 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.

"And is it true, what the aurors are saying, that it was Sirius who…?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so."

She choked, almost sobbing. Her voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying You-Know-Who tried to kill the Potters' daughter, Mary. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying when he couldn't kill Mary Potter, his power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's – It's true?" faltered McGonagall. "After all he's done, all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding. Of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of heaven did Mary survive?"

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

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his 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," was the response, "Though he did manage not to tell me why you're here, of all places."

"I've come to bring Mary to her aunt and uncle. They're the closest family she has left now."

"You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore, you can't! I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Mary Potter, come and live here!"

"It's the best place for her," Dumbledore said firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she's older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated the woman faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand her! She'll be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if the first of November is known as Mary Potter day in the future! There will be books written about her! Every child in our world will know her name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any girl's head. Famous before she can walk and talk. Famous for something she won't even remember. Can't you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it?"

"The Potters didn't want her to come here, and you know it, Dumbledore! Black's her godfather. He's right out, of course, but what about Alice Longbottom? She's her godmother, Lily's best friend, and she would be an excellent foster mother. We can change her name, hide her in plain sight, safe in the magical world, where we can keep an eye on her. She can grow into her heritage as a proper witch. Leaving her here will make her as isolated as any muggleborn coming into our world! I assume you do mean for her to come back eventually?"

"Of course, Minerva, but think. It's not safe. There are still dozens of Death Eaters on the loose. Black told Voldemort where to find the Potters. What's to say he wouldn't also have told him about Alice and Frank and the rest of the Order? We don't know what they know. They could know that Alice is Mary's godmother. They could go looking for her there next. It wouldn't matter if we changed her name. For now, at least, it's safer for Mary to live in the muggle world. No one will be able to find her here. It doesn't have to be forever. It's better this way, surely you see."

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes…yes, you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Mary underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing her."

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

"I would trust Hagrid with any task, my dear, just not any secrets," said Dumbledore.

"And what is this, if not a secret, Albus?" the woman asked sharply.

Dumbledore looked slightly concerned, but his face cleared as he came to a solution. "We'll just have to remove the memory of where he's brought the girl. I'm sure he'll volunteer once we've explained the situation –Ah."

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight. It swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky, and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man, and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild – long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets.

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

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me afore, well… I've got her, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir. House was almost destroyed, but I got 'er out all righ' before the muggles started swarmin' around. Brought her to Poppy at 'eadquarters, like you said, and she says she's alright. She put the warmin' and sleepin' charms on like you said, right afore we left. Reckoned it'd be 5:30, 6 this mornin' an she wakes up."

Dumbledore and McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby girl, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over her forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where…?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Nothing permanent, I'm afraid. Pity that. Perhaps you can teach her a glamour to hide it once she's old enough. Well, give her here, Hagrid. We'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Mary in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I – could I say good-bye to her, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Mary and gave her 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' Sirius a traitor, an' poor little Mary off ter live wi' muggles –"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Mary on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Mary's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle. Hagrid's shoulders shook, 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. Minerva, you may as well go and join the celebrations. Hagrid, I need a word with you, but let's get back to Headquarters, first."

"Right, sir. I'll meet you there. G'night, Professor McGonagall."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine to life. With a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. She 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 light sped back to their street lamps, so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could just 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, Mary," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, 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. Mary Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One hand closed on the letter beside her, and she slept on, not knowing that she was special, not knowing that she was famous, not knowing that she would be woken in a few hours' time by Petunia Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by her cousin Dudley… She couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Mary Potter – The girl who lived!"