– CHAPTER ONE –

The Boy who Wasn't

The Dursleys of Privet Drive were, from whatever angle you looked at them, an unexceptionally ordinary British family. They seemed far from the type to do anything outside the norm, to the point it was actually rather suspicious. Their levels of inconspicuousness, rather, only had the opposite effect for those who knew them in their sleepy Surrey suburb. The truth was that the Dursleys weren't entirely normal, but they did everything they could to seem like they were.

The first hole in their façade was that, despite their protestations to the matter, the Dursleys weren't particularly nice people. A shallow observer might tell you this was obvious just by looking at them. The patriarch Vernon Dursley was a troublingly bulbous man with a walrus-like moustache and a reddened face that suggested his default emotion was one of anger. His wife Petunia, by contrast, was a spindly woman with a gaunt appearance and a haircut that a modern youngster might describe as "Karen-esque", whilst their infant son Dudley was often mistaken for a baby pug from a distance.

However, none of these physical characteristics made them inherently bad, nor would they anyone for that matter. Rather, the Dursleys' brand of evil was probably the most common thing about them: they represented everything wrong with English society. They were greedy, selfish, judgemental, pious and, above all, quite rude. Of course, they were all these things whilst putting on a typically British veneer of civility, and if you accused them of being any of those things, they would deflect and accuse you of being everything they themselves were.

However, the secret that the Dursleys were actually trying to hide was their relation to the Potter family.

The mother of the Potters was Petunia's sister, having moved away from Surrey several years ago to live with her husband in the West Country, and the pair had barely spoken since. Still, the Dursleys constantly feared what might happen if the Potters ever showed up on Privet Drive. They bemoaned and catastrophised the unlikely scenario at least once a week, speculating which neighbours would cease communication and the kinds of looks they might get in the street.

All of this over a sister they had actively avoided for years, a husband they had met only once in passing, and a young child the same age as Dudley that they couldn't even remember the gender of, let alone their name.

All of those careful attempts to maintain this false image of mediocrity began to fall apart that fateful Tuesday.

The morning began as comfortably dull as it usually did for the Dursleys. Vernon got ready for another day's work as the director of the local drill factory Grunnings, putting on his finest drab grey suit and tie, whilst Petunia tried and failed to get young Dudley to eat something healthy without throwing it on the floor in a tantrum. After a quick breakfast, Mr Dursley kissed his wife goodbye and drove off in his beige Volvo, completely oblivious to the first odd occurrence of that day: a yellowish-brown owl with ragged feathers and haunting eyes sitting atop the post box outside his home.

What Vernon did notice, as he came to the junction that led from Privet Drive to the town centre, was a grey tabby cat with black stripes nestled on a street corner next to a map of the local council. The feline stared at the chart as if it were reading it, then looked around before its gaze then affixed to the Privet Drive sign across the road. However, Mr Dursley was quick to dismiss this as merely a curious coincidence. The map looked rugged to him, probably dropped by a tourist, and the mangy stray cat was merely staring at it out of curiosity.

There's always a logical explanation for everything, he thought to himself.

As Vernon drove on through the town centre on his way to his office, he came across a sizable group of peculiarly-dressed people. Their numbers were diverse in age and race, but what united this otherwise disparate group was their eccentric taste in fashion. It was an odd mix of old and new: Victorian cloaks and tall hats mixed with fishnet stockings and Doc Martens, rustic browns and weathered greys paired with garish greens and pinks, and plenty of brightly-dyed hair and distinctive make-up.

Vernon only got a brief glimpse of the crowd as he drove past on the roundabout near the town hall, but he could tell their numbers were only increasing as more similarly-dressed folk gathered.

Probably just a bunch of bum boys and dykes having one of them Pride parades, assumed Mr Dursley. What have they got to be so proud for? They have the same rights as any of us.

Vernon's spirits were lifted once he finally crossed over into the town's industrial park and to the contentedly boring offices of the Grunnings Drill Company. As he arrived at his office on the ninth floor, it was only then that he noticed the same owl that had earlier that morning been lurking outside his home. In fact, it was just one of a dozen that were zooming past his window, as passing commuters looked up in amazement at the odd sight of owls flying in such numbers in broad daylight.

Mr Dursley, unusually for most but quite typically for him, tried to ignore the phenomena and closed his window blinds before getting on with his usual daily routine: writing memos, and shouting at the foremen of their Dhaka-based factory over the phone.

After several hours of this exhausting behaviour, Vernon had grown quite peckish. Instead of eating the leftover pasta salad his wife had packed him, he decided on his lunch break to head to the Greggs a few blocks down from the office.

As Vernon arrived outside the ubiquitous bakery, the expected lunchtime queue had already formed and was snaking outside the door. The wait mildly annoyed him, but what was more perturbing was that, directly in from of him in line, were a gaggle of the same oddly-attired folks he had encountered in town.

He reluctantly took his spot behind them but did his best to keep his distance, not wanting to be mistaken as part of their group despite his bland clothing and miserable demeanour clearly doing that for him. He was, however, curious as to what they were so rapturously discussing.

'It was The Potters, they said –'

' – just their child, though. What was their name?'

'Harry…I think?'

Harry Potter. Harry…Potter? The name rang over and over again in Mr Dursley's head the entire time he waited in the queue, and all the way until he was back to his office. There was a sense of familiarity to it, though he couldn't quite tell if it was just because it was such a common name, or if he recognised it as some kind of brand.

It was most likely just a coincidence, but hearing that surname sent a shiver down his spine, and he could only imagine the reaction his wife might have had if she had been there. Vernon had even been tempted to call Petunia just to double check that this child wasn't the one he was thinking of, but he was again quick to write it off. What could his strange sister-in-law and her equally weird family, that lived halfway across the country, have done to end up on the lips of a gang of cosplaying queers?

Mr Dursley tried his best to forget the whole thing and get back on with his work but, just as he was leaving the office at the end of the day, he crossed path with yet another eccentric. This one was an older chap, roughly his own age, wearing a violet robe and a matching drooping hat, adorned with a pair of welding goggles sat around the rim. So startled by his appearance upon immediately leaving the lobby of Grunnings, Vernon let out an unintentional yell of shock. The gentlemen, however, did not at all seem perturbed by the reaction. Instead, he just smiled and laughed.

'What are you so happy about?' scowled Mr Dursley.

'Why aren't you?' the man replied exuberantly. 'This is the most momentous day of all our lives. You-Know-Who is dead!'

The man then attempted to hug Vernon, but he furiously rebuffed his advances.

'No, I don't know who, and what? You're celebrating someone's death?' he exclaimed. 'How horrid! A death is always a tragedy, no matter how horrible they were in life. I expect you lot threw parties when Thatcher died too.'

'Well, I suppose there is mourning to be done too,' the man sadly relented. 'I mean, those poor Potters.'

Vernon's disdain turned to curiosity. 'Potters? What Potters?'

'James and Lily Potter of Godric's Hollow. Their deaths may have saved us all, but a tragedy nonetheless.'

For a moment, Vernon Dursley stood silently. He tried his best to keep his composure and not look like a massive hypocrite, but he couldn't help himself. His grimace warped into a pleasurable smirk as he clutched his stomach and began to laugh uproariously. Now it was the turn of the robed man to be baffled, but instead of sneering or angrily snapping back, he simply moved on with his day. Vernon, however, stood there laughing to himself for another few minutes, equally putting off many of the fellow Grunnings employees leaving for the day.

Vernon rushed home as quickly as he could, excited to tell his wife the good news. In such a hurry to get back in the house, he didn't even notice that the same tabby cat that was that morning lingering on the corner of Privet Drive was now lurking in his front garden. Instead, he barged through the front door, stomped right through the main hallway and into the kitchen/living room, where Petunia sat reading The Daily Mail on the sofa as young Dudley stuck Lego bricks up his nose.

'Darling, what's got you so worked up?' Petunia asked. 'I haven't seen you so out of breath since our wedding night.'

'I have good news,' said Vernon, catching his breath. 'It's about your sister and her ruddy husband, the Potter fellow.'

Petunia's interested was piqued as a mixture of emotions crossed her face. 'What?'

Vernon paused for a moment, not quite sure how to break it to her, but he eventually said it as bluntly as he could. 'They're dead. The both of them.'

Petunia Dursley's reaction was like the spitting image of her husband's but in slow motion. At first, there was a sense of shock and disbelief that she lingered on for far longer. A tear nearly came to her eye but then, as soon as she snapped out of that ennui and caught a glimpse of Vernon's ecstatic expression, she too gave way to joy.

Petunia leapt off the sofa and fell into her darling's arms as they rejoiced. Even Dudley seemed happy, despite not even knowing what was happening. The only sour face at Number 4, Privet Drive in that moment was that grey cat, which now sat on the windowsill and peered into the Dursleys' living room. Even with the hard-to-read face of an animal, it was clear that this particular feline was harshly judging their behaviour.

The cat sat by the window for the rest of the evening, completely unbeknownst to the family inside, until Vernon pulled himself out of his armchair and headed to bed after the ten o'clock news. The programme had commented on not only the abundance of owls and unexplained gatherings of eccentrics, but also a series of mysterious meteor showers and fireworks displays across the country.

As soon as the living room lights went out, the tabby's gaze instead turned to the top of Privet Drive and remained there until the stroke of midnight as, from seemingly out of nowhere, an elderly man appeared in the middle of the road.

Dressed in a sparkling purple cloak, with giant half-moon glasses adorned in front of his sparkling blue eyes, and silver hair and a beard which both stretched far beyond his waist, this gentleman would have stood out even amongst the others who had publicly gathered that day. Though clearly well into his twilight years, he sauntered down the street with the nimbleness and confidence of someone at least half his age, all with a warm smile that was both alluring and comforting. His eyes took in the rows of identical mid-twentieth century housing, admiring their banal quaintness before his gaze eventually fell on the very eyeballs that had been set upon him before he had even arrived.

'Hello, my donna,' he chuckled upon seeing the cat. 'Hold on a tick.'

The elderly man reached into the inside pocket of his cloak and pulled out what from a distance one would assume was a cigarette lighter. Rather than producing light though, the device instead took it away. As the man held it up above his head and clicked its ignition, with each clack a streetlamp went out on Privet Drive, the light shooting from each bulb and into the device itself. Soon, the suburban street was practically pitch black, and no potential onlookers from neighbouring houses could see what was about to happen.

His task finished, the man's attention turned back to his feline companion. 'Thought you might be revelling tonight, Minnie dear. Seems the entire country is already in on the cackle.'

In the blink of an eye, only helped by the lack of light now present on Privet Drive, the cat leapt off the windowsill of Number 4 and in its place stood a bespectacled middle-aged woman with a greying brown bun and an emerald green cloak. She looked at her recently-arrived friend with a familiar but begrudging smile.

'Seriously, Albus,' Minerva McGonagall said with a lilting Perthshire accent, 'you know I don't know any of that garish, outdated slang.'

'But you understood what I meant, didn't you, dearie?' snapped back Albus Dumbledore. 'I'm sure you've seen even the Muggles have noticed today is not another straight arrow.'

'Yes, and it's only made keeping a low profile today that much more difficult. I mean seriously, Professor? Swarms of owls, shooting stars, fireworks? We might as well be announcing ourselves to the world!'

'And yet they'll all have forgotten it by tomorrow. You should know Muggles are very easily distracted. We've had nothing but bad news for over a decade now, Minnie. I can't bemoan anyone for throwing a bash, even if their passion has overtaken their common sense. If I didn't have all this to take care of, I'd be out in Hogsmeade right now joining in. Do you fancy a sherbet lemon?'

'No, I would not,' McGonagall declined politely but promptly. 'And for the thirtieth time: don't call me Minnie.'

'Fine. Mins, then,' Dumbledore smirked as he helped himself to an aforementioned citrus bonbon.

McGonagall simply rolled her eyes and moved on. 'So is it all true then? Is he really gone? Are…are they really gone?'

'I can't account for every bit of gossip, but I assume much of what you've heard is true. James and Lily Potter are dead. Voldemort…for all intents and purposes, is too. The only one who truly survived was the nipper.'

'But how?' McGonagall implored. 'How was a baby able to defeat You-Know-Who? To survive a Killing Curse?'

'That has stumped me too,' admitted Dumbledore, 'but it's still early days. Right now, we just need to make sure the child is properly taken care of; with family.'

McGonagall followed Dumbledore's gaze, which fell right upon the door of Number Four. She let out a gasp of realization and shot her own glare back at him. 'Albus, I must protest. His aunt and uncle, they…for lack of a better description, they're terrible. They're selfish, spiteful, vain. They read The Daily Mail, for Merlin's sake! Surely anywhere would be better than here for the wain? He has no other relatives? What about his godfather?'

'I have spoken to Sirius, and he has reluctantly agreed. For their own safety, until we can be certain of Voldemort's true fate, the young Potter must be raised away from our world. If circumstances change, we could make other arrangements, but until then we are out of options.'

'I can understand that much, Professor, but…surely even a Muggle orphanage would be better than with these…people?'

'The decision is made, and I agree: it's not an ideal situation.' Dumbledore reached inside his cloak and pulled out a letter, addressed to Mr and Mrs Dursley. 'I have done my best to explain the predicament to the child's new guardians. When the time is right, they will tell them the truth.'

Minerva was clearly still unconvinced, but even she knew there was no swaying Albus Dumbledore once he was set on a plan of action. She took a deep breath and nodded.

'Fine. So where is the boy then?'

'They should be here any moment now.'

'They? Sorry, Albus, but you keep using "they" instead of "he". Do you mean Harry alone, or is he with-'

'Hagrid is bringing them.'

Professor McGonagall face palmed. 'Of bloody course. You gave the holy child to the human bear.'

'Don't be so judgy, Mins. There are few men I trust more than Hagrid. If you'd spent as much time with him as I have, you'd understand.'

'Please, Albus,' Minerva cringed. 'I do not wish to imagine what you two get up to in private.'

Barely a moment later, the unmistakable growl of a motorbike engine purred louder and louder as it approached Privet Drive. Rather than arriving via the road though, the bike fell out of the sky and screeched to a halt, stopping mere inches from where Dumbledore and McGonagall stood. After all the effort the pair had taken to be unnoticed, it was a rather bombastic entrance, but it was the only kind Rubeus Hagrid knew how to make.

Stepping off of the bike, McGonagall's comparison to a bear was certainly accurate. Hagrid was at least ten feet tall, and much of his body was covered in either hair or fur. The few patches of skin that did show, such as on the exposed arms not covered by his sleeveless yak vest, were covered in crude yet ornate tattoos. That said, once you got past his imposing stature and Viking-like attire, there was a warm and friendly face beaming through the dark bushes around his mouth that was his beard. All in all, Hagrid was very much a bear but, more specifically, a teddy bear.

'Evening, professors,' he bellowed with an unmistakably West Country twang. 'Sorry for the fright. This motor is a touch more finnicky than a broom.'

'Where on Earth did you even get such a thing?' questioned McGonagall.

'Sirius Black. Wanted to do his part to make sure the youngster got here safe, since he couldn't do it himself and all.'

'And the child?' asked Dumbledore. 'Are they safe?'

'The tyke's right here,' said Hagrid, calling attention to the bundle of blankets he carried under his left arm as if it were a football. 'The quietest baby I've ever been around. Been asleep almost the entire trip.'

Hagrid handed the blanket bundle to Dumbledore, who then unwrapped them to reveal the sleeping child inside. They were barely a year old, but already had a healthy mop of jet-black hair. Far more distinctive, however, was a fresh scar that sat just above their right brow. It was large, inhumanly red, and shaped like a lightning bolt. Clearly, the shape of the wound was no accident or coincidence.

'So it's true,' gasped McGonagall upon seeing what was atop the babe's forehead. 'So that's what –?'

'Yep,' Dumbledore confirmed. 'What can I say? Magic works in mysterious ways.'

'I think it suits the nipper,' added Hagrid. 'So what if they're scarred? It adds character is all. Now if you want gruesome scars, you should see my chest.'

'I'd rather not,' winced McGonagall.

Without another word, Dumbledore approached the doorstep of Number 4 and carefully placed the bundled-up Harry at the foot of the door, then sat his letter to the Dursleys atop it. He stepped back and, with McGonagall and Hagrid, just looked at the young child for one final moment. Hagrid let out a boatload of tears, whilst the seemingly never-ending grin on Dumbledore's face withered for a moment.

'So…aren't you going to ring the doorbell?' questioned McGonagall. 'You can't just leave the boy on their doorstep like some out-of-wedlock bairn on a church step.'

'Oh calm yourself, my palone,' said Dumbledore. 'Young Harry won't be left out for long. There's little else we can do now but take our own moment to commiserate the occasion. Got any plans, Hagrid?'

'Well,' he replied, 'didn't really have anything organised as such but…you fancy a pisser?'

'You read my mind. May I grab a lift? I've always wanted a go on one of these contraptions.'

'Saddle up, Al,' said Hagrid cheekily as he hopped back aboard the motorcycle with a giant thud.

Dumbledore soon followed, doing his best to clutch his arms around Hagrid's tree trunk of a body, and laid his head daintily against his furry back. 'Farewell for now, young Potter,' he said. 'The Child who Lived.'

'You mean "The Boy who Lived?"' questioned McGonagall.

Dumbledore looked vacantly at her, slightly confused but more intrigued.

'That's what they've been calling him, sir,' McGonagall confirmed. '"The Boy who Lived."'

Dumbledore smiled cheekily, like he always did when he knew something no one else did. 'Have they now?'

After a few revs of the engine and an explosive blast of smoke burst from its exhausts, the bike shot back into the sky and quickly disappeared behind the grey October clouds. The only soul left standing on Privet Drive now was Professor McGonagall; she was the first to arrive, and now she'd be the last to leave. For a moment, she pondered what Dumbledore meant by that. She was used to the headmaster speaking in wry, cryptic remarks, but there was usually some humour or wisdom to be found in them.

Before she could question it any further, a faint light switched on in the upper floors of Number Four. Clearly, the sounds of Sirius' motorbike had finally awakened somebody. Not wanting to leave anything to chance, McGonagall rang the doorbell and scurried off, quickly reverting to her feline form once she was out of sight to make sure the child was safe.

The front door of the Dursley home flew open as Vernon stepped out in his dressing gown. 'What the devil is going on out here?' he bellowed into the empty street, before looking down and realising what was on his doorstep.

Vernon reached down to Harry and grabbed the letter that sat atop him. He feverishly opened the envelope and began to read. With each line, his furrowed face only grimaced further, and by the end his wrinkles were practically eating his own face. He was clearly trying with all his might to hold in his instinctual reaction but soon, with a thunderous cry that outdid even the thunderous motorbike that had woken him up that early Wednesday morning, he let out a blunt expression of how he felt about his household's newest member:

'Oh, bollocks!'