A/N: Something I thought of while writing the last chapter. Please review your favorite chapter! I'd like to eventually rearrange them into some sort of order...Suggestions are always welcome.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own Harry Potter. I do not own Harry Potter. The most depressing mantra ever created. Anything you recognize belongs to JKR.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number 4 Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. The Dursleys lived nice, neat, ordered lives, and they hated anything strange or out of the ordinary. Mr. Dursley was the owner of a drill company called Grunnings, it was a family company, and his father had owned the business before him. Mrs. Dursley was a housewife and would stay home and take care of their house and their disgustingly pampered son.
But, the Dursley's had a secret. Mr. Dursley had a cousin that was as far from normal, and as close to unordinary as it was possible to be. But he hadn't spoken to him in quite a long time. Actually, Mr. Dursley had never really spoken to him at all during his childhood either. They did used to live in the same house, but Mr. Dursley had always made sure that they were as far away from each other as possible, except, of course, when he wanted to beat him up. But the days when Dudley Dursley could beat up his cousin had long since vanished. It's not that he was scared, oh no, it was just…he liked the use of his limbs a little too much.
Dudley Dursley lived with his wife, Fern, and his son, Stuart, in the house that used to belong to his parents. After they retired, they had given their son the house as a wedding present. So, Dudley and his family had moved in, looking forward to the normal life, without his blasted cousin, that he could have never before achieved at Privet Drive. Nothing strange could happen to him now.
How very wrong he was.
For that night, after, after Stuart was put to sleep, and the Evening News had ended, and all of Privet Drive was asleep, very strange things began to happen.
ooo
A gray tabby cat slinked its way around the lampposts, sneaking in and out of the shadows, edging ever closer to number four. A small, stray, ginger colored dog gave a low, whining cry into the darkness. A tawny owl took flight and landed soundlessly in a nearby tree.
A little girl with long blonde pigtails and a button nose was sitting on the low garden wall of number four, scuffing her shoes on the sidewalk and twirling one of her pigtails around her finger pensively.
A tall man with mousy brown graying hair, very oddly dressed, stepped into the light of one of the streetlamps across from number four. He was wearing a long black traveling cloak and wore a watch with no numbers, only planets circling placidly. His scarred face was illuminated unappealingly in the lamplight and he walked with a slight limp.
The man pulled out what seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter, and very suddenly the streetlamp above him was instantly extinguished so that he was engulfed in the darkness of the night and was unable to be seen by anyone. The next lamp went out, and the tabby cat disappeared into the shadows. The light in front of number four went out, and the little blonde girl was lost from view. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth…and soon every light had been smothered. Even the light of the half moon above seemed to be flickering feebly.
The man walked across the street to sit on the garden wall next to the little girl, still scuffing her shoes on the sidewalk.
"Do you know how many are coming?" he asked her quietly.
The little girl just shrugged her tiny shoulders and continued to scuff her shoes.
The stray ginger dog made its way up to the garden wall as well. But there was no longer a dog in sight. Now there was a very tall man, red headed and pale, also dressed strangely, who sat down next to the other man.
"Hermione coming?" the first man asked the new one.
The second man nodded slowly, as if movement cost him a lot of effort. He then pointed up into the nearest tree.
The tawny owl flew down gracefully and landed next to the red headed man. And suddenly there was no longer an owl, but instead a petite, slim woman with copious quantities of bushy brown hair. She gave a small smile to the little blonde girl and the scarred man, and sat down next to the red headed man, taking his hand in hers as she did so.
After a few minutes of heavy silence the gray tabby cat began to creep around the garden wall and weaved itself in and out of the little girl's ankles. Then it leapt up next to the girl and transformed into a very strict looking older woman, with her hair in a tight bun, square spectacles and a grim expression across her lined face.
The newest addition to this odd quintet, the older woman began to speak in a brisk and stern voice, though there was a hint of sorrow in it, "Hagrid said he'd—"
"Oh no," the man with the scarred face interrupted.
"What is it Remus?" the little girl asked concernedly.
"Nymphadora, look up—," he said pointing up at the night sky, but shrunk at the severe look the little blonde girl was giving him. He sighed, "Honestly, your surname isn't even Tonks anymore. You would think that you would have finally given up…"
"Oh, Merlin, he didn't," said the woman with the bushy brown hair, leaving her place on the wall and standing up to get a better look.
"Well, it certainly looks as if he did," said the woman in the square spectacles.
"What?" interjected the red haired man, as if he had not been listening and was just catching wind of what was going on.
Remus gave a great sigh, "he's coming on Sirius's old flying motorbike."
"WHAT?!"
The others nodded dejectedly.
The group seemed to hold their breath as one as the revving of the engine became louder and the blinding headlight of the motorcycle grew brighter. The enormous motorbike, and the gargantuan man riding it, came to a halt outside number four. The large, wild man named Hagrid stepped off the bike, with a bundle of blankets in his arms, and headed over to the other five waiting on the garden wall.
The girl with the bushy brown hair was the nearest Hagrid. She reached out for the bundle of blankets and tenderly cradled them in her arms as she brought them over for the others to see.
They all stood in heavy silence to admire the beauty of the small child in the woman's arms.
"Are you sure we couldn't just—," began the little blonde girl who was craning her neck to see.
"Certainly not," responded the stern looking older woman. "This situation is no different from the one we encountered twenty years ago. This is for the best." She said the last sentence with a firmness that conveyed plainly that she did not at all think that the statement was true.
After that no one spoke, just watched the child they knew they would not be allowed to see grow up, to laugh with, to give birthday presents. This new loss washed over the group with a wave of grief. There had been so many losses in these last few hours. But there was still hope.
Inside, wrapped tightly in the sea of blankets, was a small little girl. She had the vivid red hair of her mother and beyond her half opened eyelids was the unmistakable emerald green of her father. And on her forehead, partially covered by curly wisps of red hair, was a lightning bolt scar.