The Girl Who Lived
Chapter One

Mrs. and Mr. Dursley of number four, Privet drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. 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.

Mrs. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. She was a big, beefy woman with hardly any neck, although she was a female, she did have a very large mustache. Mr. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which was useful as he spent most of his time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small daughter named Dinah and in their opinion there was no finer girl anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they could want, but they also had a huge secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they would be able to bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mr. Potter was Mr. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for more then a couple of years; quite in fact, Mr. Dursley pretended that he didn't have a brother because his brother and his absolutely good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered as they thought about what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the middle of the street. The Dursleys were aware that the Potters had a small son, but they hadn't seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dinah mixing with the likes of that.

When Mrs. and Mr. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story begins, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mrs. Dursley hummed out as she picked out her most boring tie for work, and Mr. Dursley gossiped away happily as he wrestled a screaming Dinah into her high chair.
None of them had noticed the large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mrs. Dursley picked up her briefcase, pecked Mr. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dinah good-bye but missed, due to Dinah now throwing a tantrum and throwing her cereal at the walls. "Little tot," tittered Mrs. Dursley as she left the house. She got into her car before backing out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that she had noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mrs. Dursley didn't realize what she had seen - then she whipped her head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a single map to be seen. What could she have been thinking about? It must have been a trick of the light. Mrs. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared right back. As Mrs. Dursley turned around the corner and drove down the road, she watched the cat in her mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mrs. Dursley gave herself a little shake and put that tabby cat out of her mind. As she drove toward town, she thought of nothing except a huge order of drills she was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of her mind by something else entirely. As she sat in the usual traffic jam, she couldn't help but to notice that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people out and about. Multiple people in cloaks. Mrs. Dursley couldn't bear any people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people these days! She supposed this was some stupid new fashion. She drummed her fingers in a bored fashion against the steering wheel and her eyes moved to look at a huddle of those weirdos standing quite close by. They were all whispering excitedly to each other. Mrs. Dursley was enraged to see that a handful of them weren't young at all; why, that woman had to be even older than she was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of her! But then it struck Mrs. Dursley that this was probably all some silly stunt - all these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic finally moved on and a few minutes later, Mrs. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, her mind back onto her drills.

Mrs. Dursley was always found sitting with her back to the window in her office on the ninth floor. If she hadn't done that, she might have found it harder to concentrate on her drills that morning. She didn't get to see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down 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. Mrs. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. She happened to yell at five different people. She made many important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. She was in a very good mood until lunchtime hit, when she thought she'd stretch her legs and walk across the road to buy herself a bun from the bakery.
She had forgotten all about the people in the cloaks until she passed a group of them next to the baker's. She eyed them all angrily as she passed. She didn't know why, but they made her uneasy. This bunch were also whispering excitedly and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on her way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that she caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard, yes, their son, Harry."

Mrs. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded every inch of her. She looked back at the whisperers as if she wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

She hurried back across the road, dashed up to her office, snapped at her secretary not to disturb her, seized her telephone, and had almost finished dialing her home number when she had decided to change her mind. She put the receiver back down and stroked her mustache, thinking... no, she was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. She was sure there were tons of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, she wasn't even sure if her nephew was called Harry. She had not met the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. Or maybe a girl for all she knew. There was no point in worrying Mr. Dursley; he always got so upset at any mention of his brother. She didn't blame him - if she had a brother like that... but still the same, all those people in cloaks...

She found it much harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when she left the building at five o'clock, she was still so worried that she walked right into someone just outside of the door.

"Sorry," she grunted, watching as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell.

It was a few seconds before Mrs. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak and that he didn't seem all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On quite the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerbys stare. "Don't be sorry, my dear miss, 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 Mrs. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mrs. Durlsey stood rooted to the spot. She had just been hugged by a complete stranger. She also thought she had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. She was completely rattled. She hurried down to her car and set off for home, hoping that she was still just imagining things, which she had never hoped before, because she didn't approve of imagination.

As she pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing she saw - which didn't improve her mood even the tiniest bit - was that same tabby cat that she'd spotted earlier that morning. It was now sitting on her garden wall. She was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mrs. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this really normal cat behavior? Mrs. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull herself completely together, she let herself into the house. She was still determined not to mention anything to her husband.

Mr. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. He told her over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dinah had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mrs. Dursley tried to act as normally as she could. When Dinah had been put to bed, she went into the living room just in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in 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 pattern." 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 next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

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

Mr. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. She'd have to say something to her sometime. She cleared her throat nervously, "Er - Petur, dear - you haven't heard from your brother lately, have you?"

As she had expected, Mr. Dursley looked angry and shocked. After all, they normally pretended he didn't have a brother

"No," he said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mrs. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a ton of funny-looking people all over town today..."

"So?" snapped Mr. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it had something to do with... you know... his crowd."

Mr. Dursley sipped his tea through pursed lips. Mrs. Dursley wondered whether she dared tell him he'd heard the name "Potter." She decided she didn't dare. Instead, she said, as casually as he could, "Their son - he'd be about Dinah's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mr. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Dursley, her heart sinking horrible. "Yes, I quite agree."

She didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to their bed. While Mr. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mrs. Dursley 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. Or someone.

Was she imaging things? Could all this have anything at all to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, she didn't think she would be able to bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mr. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mrs. Dursley lay awake, turning it over in her mind. Her last, comforting thought before she fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near her and Mr. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what she and Petur thought about them and their kind... She couldn't see how she and Petur could get mixed up in anything that might be going on - she yawned and turned over - it couldn't affect them...

Oh, how very wrong she was.

Mrs. Dursley might have been drifting 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 didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was almost nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A woman appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you would have thought she'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

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

Alba Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that she had just arrived in a street where everything from her name to her boots were unwelcome. She was busy rummaging in her cloak, looking for something in particular. But she did seem to realize she was being watched, because she suddenly looked up at the cat, which was still staring at her from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse her. She chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

She found what she was looking for in her inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. She flicked it open, held it up in the night air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. She clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into the darkness. It was a total of twelve times that she clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching her. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mr. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside her cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where she sat down on the wall next to the cat.

She didn't look at it, but after a moment she spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

She turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, she was smiling at a rather severe-looking man who was wearing square glasses in exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. He, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. His black hair distinctively reached above his ears. He looked ruffled.

"How'd you know it was me?" he inquired.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be still if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," he said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the
Muggles have noticed that something strange is going on. It was on their news." He jerked his head back at the Dursley's dark living room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to noticed something sometime. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Delilah Diggle. She never had much sense."

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

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall 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 a single muggle fabric, swapping rumors."

He threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping she was going to tell him something, but she didn't, so he 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 Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather delightfully fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though he 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 Professor McGonagall, 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."

"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 Monsieur Pomfrey told me he liked my new earmuffs."

Professor 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? Why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point he was most anxious to discuss, the real reason he had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a man had he fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as he did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, he was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told him it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're saying," he pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Leo and Jamie Potter are - are - that they're - dead. "

Dumbledore bowed her head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Leo and Jamie... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Alba..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted him on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." she said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice was trembling slightly as he continued. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill Potter's son, Harry. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's powers somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

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

Professor McGonagall pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes underneath his spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as she took a golden watch from her pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve different hands, but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge.

It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because she put it back in her pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to his 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 daughter - I saw her kicking her father all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

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

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future - there will be books written about Harry - every child in our world will know his name!"

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

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

"Hagrid's bringing him."

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

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence that had stretched around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a loud roar as they both looked up at the sky and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air, landing 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, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. 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, miss," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, miss."

"Her?" Dumbledore looked confused for half a second before a warm smile spread upon her face. "I should have known. No problems, were there?"

Professor McGonagall had half the mind to look slightly surprised at the declaration that it was a girl and not a boy.

"No, miss - house was almost destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. She fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor 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?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give her here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in her arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I - could I say good-bye to her, miss?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry 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 - Leo an' Jamie dead - an' poor little Harriette off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. She laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of her cloak, tucked it inside Harry'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, Professor 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. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, miss."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into 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 him. Professor McGonagall blew his nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner she stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. She clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and she could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. She could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harriette," she murmured. She turned on his heel and with a swish of her cloak, she 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. Harriette Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and she slept on, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few hours' time by Mr. Dursley's scream as he 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 Dinah... 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 Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"