Chaptare thee Thyrd
Privet Drive, Little Whinging, was about as ordinary a suburb as one could wish to find. Or rather, one would not wish to find, if one was not predisposed to think that appearance was everything, and what the neighbours thought was of paramount importance, and keeping up with the Joneses was the unwritten by-law. Such was life in Privet Drive.
If Mr Porrit at Number 10 had popped off one fine Saturday morning to purchase a new flashy executive saloon, then woe betide anyone whose car was not spotless by the time he'd returned.
If Mrs Gingham at Number 47 had made sure to keep her front lawn trimmed, green and a weed-forbidden zone, then anybody who had not followed her clearly sensible example would be met with disapproving and cold stares from all those who had.
And if Mrs Figg, the batty old cat lady who lived in Wisteria Walk, tottered through Privet Drive on her way to the shops, if one did not pretend she was not actually within the same plane of existence, one would be forced to have to accept glowering, reproachful stares and overly-loud whispers in references to one as one ventured nervously outside the front door to collect the milk and newspaper.
Life in Privet Drive was not so much a suburb as a prototype police state waiting to become actuality. This was the opinion of a small grey-and-black striped tabby cat with marking around its eyes that gave it the look of wearing spectacles.
As the night drew in, the cat remained upon the cold garden wall, still watching the house.
From within Number 4, there was a small commotion. The telephone was ringing.
This was not an uncommon occurrence, the phone usually rang at Number 4, Privet Drive, as it was supposed to. However, the phone at Number 4, Privet Drive, seldom rang in the small hours of the morning since the Dursleys had lived there1.
Vernon Dursley, who had been on his way back from a visit to the bathroom when he heard the device begin to ring, growled in annoyance. "Who the devil's phoning at this time of night?" he barked in strangled tones.
Clad in pyjamas in a puce colour that now matched the tinge of his large, blubbery face; red corduroy dressing gown and purple carpet slippers, he stomped nosily down the stairs, as if wishing to make the travesty known to the entire household.
Clutching the telephone receiver with what appeared to be a side of ham with several large Cumberland sausages attached to it, he exploded into the mouthpiece: "Yes? What the hell do you think you're playing at, calling at this time of night?" but he received no answer. He failed to notice the blue-winged butterfly that had seemed to materialise from the earpiece, which then flitted hurriedly into the lounge where it discovered an ajar window where it zoomed off into the night, searching for a black Bentley.
Muttering angrily about the declining standards of youth these days, Mr Dursley stumped angrily back up the stairwell as if he had a personal grudge against each and every stair, and slammed the door of his bedroom.
It was a miracle that nobody else in the house was woken up.
(_)
Click!
A man with shining silver waist-length hair and a similar beard, who was wearing long, flowing robes had pulled from these robes, what appeared to be a large silver cigarette lighter. He had clicked it once, and the light from the nearest street lamp had been sucked from its bulb. The man continued his walk along the concrete pavement, looking very much out of place, clicking the Deluminator as he strolled along until he reached Number 4. All the light in the street had been extinguished.
"Good evening, Professor McGonagall." said Professor Dumbledore to the cat, which transformed very rapidly into an old woman wearing green robes and a black pointed witch's hat.
"Albus? Is it really true? Is He Who Must Not Be Named really dead?" She asked, trying to sound crisp. It had been very chilly on that wall all day.
"It is indeed true, Minerva." Dumbledore bowed his head slightly in agreement.
"And what of the boy?" McGonagall whispered, not allowing too much worry creep into her voice. One did not reach her position of Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts by being seen to worry.
Dumbledore smiled in the darkness. "Hagrid is bringing him. Ah-" he muttered calmly as a gigantic man sitting astride a large motorbike touched down on the road, very loudly, in front of the two figures. If Vernon Dursley hadn't drifted back to sleep again he would certainly have had words to say about the little episode that was unfolding on his doorstep. Four letter words.
"Evenin' all." said the giant, clambering off the motorcycle and extracting a small bundle from the side-car. "Little toike fell asleep just as we were flyin' overr Bristol." he said fondly, in his deep West Country accent.
He sniffed, great salty tears running down his cheeks and beard, as he laid the bundle onto the doorstep as gently as possible.
"Albus, I'm not at all sure it is right to leave the boy here. I have been watching these people all day. They are the worst sort of Muggles I have ever come across. How can he be left here, when there are people in our world who already know his name and revere it as much as You-Know-Who's is despised?" McGonagall whispered fiercely, her hawk-like eyes darting from the Headmaster to Hagrid, scanning them in what little light from the crescent moon there was.
"Precisely. He will be far, far better off growing up away from all that." Dumbledore bent down and placed two envelopes onto the bundle. "Although I do not think there will be any undue reason for distress. As the saying goes, someone Up There likes him." he smiled at his own little joke. McGonagall didn't look the slightest bit amused, and she did not bother to ask Dumbledore why he had left two envelopes when one would have sufficed. No doubt he had one of his schemes in mind.
She took the arm proffered to her and they strolled down the street, the wizard releasing balls of light from the Deluminator as he did so. The motorcycle, now with gigantic driver, whizzed off into the night sky once more, chugging as it did so.
Three uneventful minutes passed, until a small blue butterfly flitted back from Wisteria Walk, where it had strayed, apparently in conversation with three translucent cowled robes that hovered along with it.
A matte black 1926 Bentley swept into the street, touching nearly 90mph and skidded loudly to a halt outside Number Four.
The butterfly vanished and became Aziraphale, who stared in mock surprise at the Bentley, as though he had never known it was due to arrive here.
He cleared his throat loudly, as Crowley stepped out the driver's side onto the pavement with effortless, well-practised grace.
"Uh, begone, foul demon! Back into thy blackest pits of Hell from whence ye came!" The angel enunciated clearly, albeit in a half-hearted way.
Crowley was about to ask what the hell Aziraphale was talking about, when he took note of the Auditors and hurriedly waved a hand at the Bentley, from which loud rock music began pumping wildly. It was unpleasant music, but the one good thing you could say about it was that at least it wasn't anything by Freddie Mercury2.
The grey cowled robes were winked out of existence by the sheer randomness of the music.
"It's at times like this that I really do wish I'd bought some chocolates with me..." The angel lamented.
"Why not do as I do and just manifest them?" Crowley enquired for what felt to be the hundredth time.
"I do have certain moral standard to maintain, dear boy." the angel replied stiffly and walked a little frostily up the well-trimmed garden path towards the front doorstep of the house.
Both entities were agreed that this was the most repulsive neighbourhood they had ever set foot in.
"So that's him..." Crowley whispered, looking at the small, one-year-old with jet-black hair and lightening bolt-shaped, then looking greedily at the two envelopes. "Here, one's addressed to you." he handed the envelope addressed to Mr Erasmus Fell, the Doorstep, Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey; to his friend, and started to tear open the second envelope when he caught the other man's eye.
"If you want to be demonic, go and let some tires down or scratch some paintwork or something." snapped the man whose voice was supposed to be cherubic.
"Y'know, you can have good ideas sometimes." muttered Crowley slyly with a smirk of satisfaction before making a precise scratch with a newly-manifested nail along Vernon Dursley's company car (just below the driver-side door handle where it would be most noticeable).
Aziraphale opened (carefully and neatly) the envelope addressed to him.
Dear Mr Fell,
I have received word from your superiors that you are to provide Harry Potter with a positive influence upon his life until he reaches the age of eleven. I wish you the best of luck, and must stress most urgently upon you not to let Harry know of your existence unless the situation is very dire. The fate of the entire globe rests upon his shoulders, if my calculations are correct.
Indeed, if my calculations are unfortunately correct, you will receive another letter from me in an approximation of 14 years' time.
Although I do look forwards to making your acquaintance of course, it would not be advisable to do so unless under extreme conditions.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Aziraphale motioned to the demon to rejoin him. Crowley, letting go of the tyres of a car at Number 47 across the road, allowed the tyres to continue deflating by themselves and crossed to his friend, who handed him the letter. After allowing his yellow eyes to briefly flash down the neat, spidery writing, the demon crumpled up the note and tossed to the angel and shrugged.
"That was well worth the visit, I mean, it's not as if it told something us something we didn't know already." Crowley said in a carrying voice; there couldn't have been any less sarcasm in there if he tried.
1 ZDZ: And the neighbours soon wished that they hadn't, after the events of the night in question.
2 ZDZ: Crowley's cassette tapes kept morphing into hits by Freddie Mercury if they were left in the car for more than a fortnight, so an aversion to such songs is understandable.