Chapter 2: Hidden, the Boys Must Be Kept

The night was chilly, and the grassy plains along these cliffs windswept, when Hagrid touched down upon them astride his flying motorbike. To the giant's mind, the Orkney Islands, off the coast, as well as an extension, of the Scottish countryside might be just enough of a remote place to hide the now-most famous wizard in all of British history.

He had to fight off a smug chuckle, feeling the reaction was not entirely appropriate, at least not at the present time. Even so…. the most powerful wizard in all of British history was scarcely fifteen months old yet!

Hagrid glanced down to where little Neville Longbottom now fit into the palm of his hand. Though in his immense case, size seemed quite relative – most people described how very young infants could fit into the palm of their parents' hands up to a certain point and age. With Hagrid's own palms the size of trashcan lids, Neville had a wee bit to go yet before his body would no longer be dwarfed. And that was saying something because this little guy was a fairly hefty baby to start out with!

With his free hand, Hagrid briefly considered removing his motorbike goggles, thought better of it on account of this wind, and instead proceeded at a bound (his version of a walk) up towards the gates of Longbottom Manor. Only one occupant dwelled inside these hallowed halls, and just thinking of the respectable lady made Hagrid want to slow his stride, so that he was now advancing up the drive at a more leisurely, more human pace. All the same, he kept his eyes peeled to the skies, the hand not carrying Neville now hovering near the umbrella at his hip. He wasn't sure if he had been followed out of Bloomsbury, but it was best not to take any chances and make the hand-off.

The hard part would be paying that call that absolutely no one, not even the most experienced of Aurors, wants to make.

His feet could finally no longer delay the inevitable, as he mounted the front stoop to this manse. Raising that free fist, he knocked deliberately, only hoping that he had not awoken Mrs. Longbottom from her rest.

There was a CREAK as the large, obsidian door pulled back, only to reveal no one there.

"Ahem!" At the sound, Hagrid had to practically look down his nose at the diminutive house elf now tapping its foot impatiently. The giant flushed. If he had a hat, he would have tipped it.

"Evening…. little fella. If you would kindly inform Mrs. Longbottom that I've paid a call to her, I'd very much like it if I could see her right away! It's an emergency!"

The house elf sniffed, then turned on its heel and tottered into the mansion while leaving the front door ajar. Hagrid shifted listlessly from foot to foot, and the porch grumbled under his massive weight, obviously not built for giants, or if it had been, only just.

Finally, a hardened battle-axe of a woman peeked out from around the door, her face illuminated by a lantern lifted on high. In its glow, Hagrid could already detect the hard lines of age etched into the lady's face, and he felt a pang of regret that the news he had to convey would no doubt bring more before long. At just a tick past 60, Augusta Longbottom was about as widely respected and renowned as her son and daughter-in-law by those who believed in a free and equal wizarding Britain.

Hagrid thought again about that cap he unfortunately had not brought, and how if he did have it, it would now be in his hands. "Mrs. Longbottom, ma'am."

"Hagrid!" Augusta spluttered, sounding flustered at being roused at this time of night. "Good heavens, my boy! What brings you…?"

A wail emanating from Hagrid's full palm answered the question well enough and Augusta went white, as though she recognized the sound instantly. She probably did – a grandmother knows. "Merciful heavens! Neville!" And she snatched the bundle out of Hagrid's hold, cuddling her grandson close. She only bristled for just a moment, obviously in retrospect finding her involuntary reaction rude. "Why is he…. What short notice! I would have expected Alice to bring him by herself, if she needed a babysitter!"

At this, Hagrid went his own shade of white, and by the light of her lantern, Augusta noticed. She stilled, her dark eyes expanding and a kind of chill overtook her, one that had nothing to do with the howling wind along these gusty plains.

"Where are my children, Hagrid?" There was a whisper to her voice, as cool as the fall breeze around them. Hagrid wasn't sure if the tone indicated anything about how she might be angry towards him – there was a good chance she might be, once he informed her, if for no other reason than to lash out at someone in grief, up through and including the messenger. Should she react so, he couldn't nor wouldn't exactly blame her for that.

"Mrs. Longbottom…. would you care to sit down?"

"No, young master Hagrid, I would most certainly not care to sit down!" Augusta huffed, and Hagrid had to bite back a smile. She had always been a feisty one, Augusta. "I would like to know the location of my son and daughter-in-law, though, and at once!"

Hagrid cringed, clearing his throat. "…. A better place than this, on this night."

He may have spoken delicately, in euphemism, but from the look of horrified shock on her face, Augusta clearly understood his meaning instantly. She staggered now, and there was a squeak as her little house-elf servant came rushing up behind her and heaved, acting as a sort of equilibrium lest his mistress keel over in a dead faint.

"…. How?" she croaked.

"Dumbledore has Aurors combing the place now – there's not much left, I'm afraid, ma'am – but it is suspected the Dark Lord himself."

Augusta was now fanning herself. "Teeney…. Fetch me a pitcher!"

"Right away, missus!" Teeney the house-elf scampered off. Hagrid helped Augusta to a rocking chair at the corner of the porch.

"Are…. Are they….?" Augusta was close to babbling, but she needn't have elaborated.

Hagrid bowed his head, in lieu of having no cap.

"Passed on, both, ma'am. From the way your son was found…. It is clear there was a struggle."

A kind of pride, even in the tempest of emotions currently visiting her face, washed over the old lady. She managed to lift her head high, with some dignity, and Hagrid basked in it admiringly. "Just so," and Augusta lifted an authoritative finger before glancing at it in a kind of double-take. "Oh, dash it all, where is my cane?!"

Teeney, just arrived with the tray and pitcher of water, nearly tripped over himself doubling back to fetch it.

Augusta finally shifted her gaze to Hagrid; Neville made a cooing sound, and she bounced him absently. "Oh, young man…. am I to be a childless widow now?"

"Only by the barest technical definition of the term, I suppose," Hagrid rumbled in his best attempt to comfort her. "You still have yer grandchild, dontcha?"

Augusta looked down at the baby. "True," and she smiled wistfully.

"Mrs. Longbottom, ma'am, you must tread lightly, but be proud – we believe it is that grandbaby of yours who defeated the Dark Lord! There's a mark, see?" and Hagrid pushed back Neville's tufts of hair to reveal the lightning-shaped scar. Augusta gaped at it. Hagrid straightened to his full height.

"Raise and guard him well, ma'am – he'll do proud his mum and dad's good name!" He gave her his best salute. "Good evening to you, Mrs. Longbottom – if you need anything, just owl! And now, I'd best be off!"

With that, he departed those cliffs of Orkney Islands, leaving an aging badass to care as mother for her orphaned grandson, all alone.

Only just a week later, and hundreds of miles away, Albus Dumbledore Apparated onto a deathly quiet street in Surrey. He too was bearing a small child wrapped in a blanket. His eyes scanned the sleepy little neighborhood – Muggle in origin – picturesque and tidy in an almost manic, Stepford way.

He was relieved to not have to advance too far up the street before he identified the correct number on the postage box: Number Four, Privet Drive. The corresponding property was marked by a low, brick wall, upon which sat the only other creature clearly haunting the subdivision this night: a tabby cat.

"I would have expected you to meet me here in all your finery, Minerva, though I can understand the secrecy," Dumbledore addressed the cat mildly.

The cat cocked its head and studied him for a beat, before turning its tail and leaping lightly off the low wall. From the glow of a nearby streetlamp, Albus watched as it cast a shadow upon the house, a shadow that now changed shape from that of cat to a dignified woman.

As was in her character, Minerva elected to round the low wall at its corner meeting the paved walk of Number Four, rather than stepping over it.

"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore."

The wizard and witch now proceeded at a leisurely crawl up the walk to Number Four, the latter drifting into her superior. "Oh, Albus… is it true? Is it true what the Aurors are saying? That first Frank and Alice, and now poor James and Lillian….?" The normally indestructible Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts couldn't finish, voice choking off as she fought back tears.

"Yes," Albus nodded his head gravely. "Though neither James nor Lillian were found dead when we arrived." He ignored the relieved gasp from Minerva. "They've been taken to St. Mungo's, but the poor children are both out of their heads. There is doubt that James will survive the night; he's worse off."

"Merciful heavens!" Minerva looked stricken, even as her hawkish eyes peered down at the bundle Albus was carrying. "And the baby?"

"Unlike little Master Longbottom, untouched, as far as we can tell. Whatever occurred in Bloomsbury, Minerva, this attack on Godric's Hollow was a campaign of revenge – and a rather sloppy one, at that."

"Or a campaign to tie up loose ends…." Minerva muttered. "After all, Albus, the prophecy…."

"If this was an act meant to spread bets wide, then the Dark Lord would have done it himself before making for young Neville, if that had truly been his choice. For Tom did have a choice, and it's clear that he made it."

"So it would seem…." Minerva demurred. "After all, if the whisperings are true…. He will be a hero in our lands…. There will never be Hogwarts students generations from now who will not know his name – the Longbottom name…"

"Exactly," Dumbledore intoned as he gingerly laid the bundle down upon the front stoop of this unassuming Muggle abode.

"And what of this one here?" Minerva fretted. "His mother…"

"If Lillian survives her husband, she will be in no state to care for the child," Dumbledore pointed out sadly. "Short of taking him to the castle, this is Harry's best option. He may not have the Dark Lord's curse upon him, but he is now in just as much danger, which is why we must hide him away with protection as unassuming as leaving Neville in the care of his own lone, remaining relatives."

"But to leave him with Muggles….?" Minerva wrinkled her nose in clear disapproval.

Dumbledore smiled kindly at her. "It is what's best, Minerva. Tom's followers would never dream of seeking out a baby here, and not when there is another whose blood they crave more ardently. After all, very rarely does one think of the back-up…. unless the back-up is all that is left."

Minerva nodded, then turned to head back up the walk, where she now waited in a shadow where the light from the streetlamp did not reach. Albus hung back for a moment, smiling down through his half-moon spectacles, at the little baby's bare forehead – all that could be discerned from under the swaddling clothes.

"Good luck…. Harry Potter."