Privet Drive,

Little Whinging, Surrey

On Privet Drive, an oddly dressed man and woman were speaking in hushed tones.

"…How are the two coming?" Professor McGonagall asked quietly.

"Hagrid is bringing them," Dumbledore replied serenely. As he spoke, a low rumbling noise had disturbed the quiet atmosphere. As the two looked, a huge motorcycle landed in front of them, the engine falling silent as Hagrid stepped off it. In this arm were two bundles of blankets—one baby blue, one pale pink.

"Hagrid," Dumbledore said, immensely relieved, "at last. And where did you get the motorcycle?"

"Young Sirius Black lent it to me, sir. I've got them, sir."

"No problems, then?"

"No, sir—house was almost destroyed, but I got 'em out alright. Harry fell asleep as we were flyin' over Bristol."

"And Isabella?" McGonagall asked, curiously, peering at the other blanket bundle.

As Hagrid held out the two bundles for them to see, he replied, "She's still awake."

In the blue blanket bundle, barely visible was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under an untidy tuft of black hair, there was a thin, curiously shaped cut, like a lightning bolt. Swaddled in the pink blanket was a pretty baby girl, slightly older than the other infant, wide awake. She had dark brown hair that was beginning curling into ringlets as it had grown. Deep, chocolate brown eyes were wide awake, taking in the two new people. Both Dumbledore and McGonagall internally noted how much she already looked like her birth mother, upon close inspection, even at this young age.

As she looked up at the strange two professors, they saw the girl had a remarkably similar cut to the boy's, but on her neck, just off center, on the right, beside her jungular vein.

"Is that where—?" McGonagall began, looking at the eerily analogous cuts, as Hagrid handed Harry to Dumbledore and Isabella to McGonagall.

"Yes," Dumbledore replied to his best, closest friend, (and secretly his wife). "They'll both have them forever."

"Albus," McGonagall started, holding the curious little girl, who was looking peacefully at the Transfiguration Mistress in vague recognition. That recognition was the recollection of realizing that she had seen the two professors once before, just as Lily and James Potter had decided to take her in, a memory she would have for all her life.

McGonagall thought of something. Harry's parents were key members of the exclusive and elusive Order of the Phoenix, just as Isabella was the daughter of two key members of the cold, cunning, lethal Death Eaters. Opposites, she thought.

"If Harry is going to the Dursleys, where shall Isabella go?"

Dumbledore sighed a bit sadly. "She has no family, save those in Azkaban or who soon shall be. Just as with Harry, she should grow up away from it all…"

Wool's Orphanage, London

Five minutes and a tearful goodbye later, the three adults were outside an old orphanage in London. Isabella was still in McGonagall's arms, albeit getting weary from the excitement.

"This is it?" McGonagall asked hesitantly, scrutinizing the orphanage carefully.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, it is. It will be her home until she receives her Hogwarts letter."

Little Isabella suddenly yawned sleepily, snuggling down into the warm blankets, shielding herself from the early November wind.

But the infant still was staring up at the three people, before she suddenly spouted a few words that her surrogate mother had called the people. "…Awbus…Minervwa….Hagwid…"

She yawned again, and serenely sank into the blissful blanket of sleep.

McGonagall smiled softly. Despite the tragedy that had ripped the Potter family apart, she truly hoped that both Harry and Isabella would meet and become good friends.

"Good luck, Isabella," Dumbledore said quietly, as McGonagall set the now-famous, sleeping infant down on the doorstep of the orphanage gently.

"Goodbye, Bella," McGonagall whispered, sadly.

It wasn't really "goodbye", she reminded herself, just..."see you later".

But even still, her eyes were damp with a few tears she would not allow to fall. They were tears for James and Lily, two of her favorite students of all time, tears for all the victims of Lord Voldemort, and tears for the two children who would grow up without their parents—one's dead and the others such terrible people the world would be better off without them in it.

But little Bella slept on, in the warm blankets, her small hand wrapped around a corner of the envelope that had been set beside her. She slept on, like the small boy that was her adoptive brother far away in Surrey, both not knowing that, all over England, people were all raising their goblets in a toast and cheering "To Harry Potter and Isabella Swan, the Boy and Girl Who Lived!"