-Author's Note: So currently recovering from having a tattoo done.

Please note that Jane was only three months old when Voldemort attacked and killed her parents.

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Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were a perfectly ordinary young couple. Well she was young at only twenty three, he on the other hand was significantly older at thirty-seven.

They were very proud of the fact 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, simply because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

They hated anything that was not considered normal, traditional or conventional. They disliked anything even remotely related to mystery or magic. They disliked the magicians that performed at parties and events, scoffed over the fortune tellers at the fair and Mr Dursley tore up the part of the newspaper dedicated to horoscopes.

Mr and Mrs Dursley had met five years previously, when Petunia fresh from school had accepted a position as his secretary, they had started dating the first christmas she worked their, having attended the office christmas party together, and had married a few years later, shortly after Mrs Dursley's twenty first birthday.

Mr Dursley, who was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills, was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, and very little mousey brown hair ontop of his round head, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs Dursley 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 neighbours.

The Dursleys had two small children called Dudley, who was a just over a year old, and Daisy, who was six weeks.

And in their opinion there was no finer children anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they coild want or need, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.

Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years. Not since the disastorous meeting between them when Mrs Dursley was nineteen and Mrs Potter was Seventeen. The two sisters, who had not long since burried their parents after a horrific car crash, had met to introduce their repeective partners to one another. This meeting could not habe gone worse and resulted in the pair never seeing or speaking to each other again. Although Mrs Potter did try and reach out to her older sister.

Mrs Dursley, however preferred to pretend she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for- nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbours would say if the Potters arrived in the street.

The Dursleys knew, thanks to one of the many attempted peace offering notes from Mrs Potter, that the Potters had a small child, too, a note three months prior had announced the arrival of their first child, a daughter. But Mr and Mrs Dursley, ignored this news, they had never even seen the girl and had no interest to.

This child was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley or Daisy mixing with a child like that.

When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story really starts. There was absolutely nothing about the cloudy, grey sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.

Mr Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work and Mrs Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. All while a bawling Daisy lay in her small bassinet, trying to get her mother's attention.

None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs Dursley on the cheek, pinched Daisy small, rosy cheek and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his porridge 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. There was a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr Dursley didn't realise what he had 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. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr Dursley 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, it was looking at the sign; for cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind.

As he drove towards town Mr Durlsey thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day. But 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.

There were people wearing old fashioned clothes, so they looked like they have time traveled. Some of them were wearing coats and others were wearing various styled cloaks over the outfits. These people were styled from head to toe as if they belonged in the 1920's-1940's.

Mr Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes. The get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.

They were whispering excitedly together.

Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, their was one man, who had to be older than he was, and he was wearing a dark grey suite, with long, wide legend trousers, a white shirt, fitted waistecoat, emerald green tie, and a drapped style, suit jacket. A dark grey flatcap sat on his head and he wore charcoal coloured coat and shoes.

Mr Durlsey did admit that he looked smart but his old fashioned clothes made him stand out like a sore thumb and that was completely against Mr Dursleys oppinions, ideas and beliefs.

But then it struck Mr Dursley that there was most likely a reasonable explanation. Maybe these people were part of a new period drama or something. But they hadn't been any warnings that filming would take place nearby. Hmmm, then this was probably just some silly stunt. Children in need was fast approaching, so these people must obviously be collecting… yes, that would be it.

The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, 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 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 night-time. Mr Dursley, 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 baker's opposite. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy.

This lot 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 little girl, Jane –"

Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. 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 dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his moustache, thinking … no, he was being stupid.

Afterall Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a daughter called Jane. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his niece was called Jane. He'd never even seen the child, and he knew there was a tradition in Petunia's family of giving the girls floral names.. It might have been Jasmine. Or Janet, if they had chosen to ignore the tradition.

There was no point in worrying Mrs Dursley, she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her – if he'd had a sister like that … but all the same, those people in the funny clothes.

Mr Dursley found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried 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 realised that the man was wearing a 1940's outfit underneath a purple traveling cloak.

The man did not 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 passers-by 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.

Mr Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

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 behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs Dursley 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 learnt a new word ('Shan't!'). Mr Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley and Daisy had both 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 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 news reader 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."

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'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Er – Petunia, dear – you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" As he had expected, Mrs Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

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

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

"So?" snapped Mrs Dursley.

"Well, I just thought … maybe … it was something to do with you know … her lot."

Mrs Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name 'Potter'. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could,

"Their daughter – she's only two weeks older than Daisy right? I don't suppose you know if they're going to have her christened do you?"

"No I don't think they are, I think Lily mentioned something about a naming ceremony instead" said Mrs Dursley stiffly.

"What name did they choose again, Jasmine isn't it?"

"Oh no, Lily went against the floral tradition. No they went for Jane. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

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

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

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr Dursley 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 Mrs Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind … He couldn't see how he and Petunia 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.

Mr 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 in 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, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought 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 in Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and

high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise 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. A basket swinging gently over the crook of one arm as he seatched.

But he did seem to realise 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,

" should have known."

At last it seemed he had 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 left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of 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 towards number four,

where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He placed the Basket carefully at him feet as he sat down.

He didn't look at the cat, 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 hadaround its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one.

Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

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

"You'd be stiff 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 in response to Dumbledore's comment.

"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 sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate over the past 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 proper Muggle clothes, swapping rumours."

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 Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A what?"

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

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons.

"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 sherbet lemons, 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." Dumbledore continued but professor Mcgonagall inturpted him

"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 Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said,

"The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall 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. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

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

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor 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.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on.

"That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' daughter, Jane. But – he couldn't. He couldn't kill her, he couldn't kill the little baby . No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Jane Potter, Voldemort's power 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 baby? It's just astounding … of all the things to stop him … but how in the name of Merlin did Jane survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore, in a tone that suggested he knew or at least suspected something but wasn't going to say . "We may never know." he added as 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. Itmust have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it

back in his pocket and said,

"It's getting late. I suppose we had best conclude our business here" he paused for a moment " how did you know I would be here anyway"?

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

"Oh it's simple I've come to bring Jane to her aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now." said Dumbledore and he moved the basket closer to Professor Mcgonagall, allowing her to see the tiny figure inside.

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 for ever."

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

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Wel we'd better

get this over with."

Dumbledore moved to pick up the basket containing Jane and turned towards the

Dursleys' house.

"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. And they have a little baby girl themselves, who does nothing but cry. Jane Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for her" said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when she'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 her! She'll be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Jane Potter Day in future – there will be books written about Jane – 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 child's head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off Jane will be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said,

'"es – yes, you're right, of course" she then paused for a moment and said "Could I – could I say goodbye to her?" she asked quietly.

Dumbeldore nodded, so Mcgonagall bent her head over Jane and gave her a soft motherly kiss.

"Oh Dumbledore I c-c-can't stand it – Lily and James dead – and poor little Jane off ter live with Muggles –" Mcgonagall sobbed, as tears pooled in her eyes.

Dumbledore smiled at her reasuringly and then stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid the basket containing Jane gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of her cloak, tucked it inside Jane's blankets and then came back to the spot where Professor McGonagall waited.

For a full minute the two of them stood and looked at the little bundle, Professor McGonagall blinking away her tears 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."

"Yes" agreed Professor McGonagall in a whisper

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall 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 make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets that filled the basket on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Jane" 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.

Jane 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 Mrs 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 … Jane 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 Jane Potter – the child who lived!"