A/N: So this will be my first multi-chapter story *awkward applause*
Unoriginal concept, but oh well. Harry's a girl (Harriet). I'll be sticking quite closely to the books, and using the film a little, but because of that a bit of the story will have to be taken straight from the book (such as the description of certain characters). I will do my best to make up dialogue but sometimes I may have to pinch it from the books. Quite obviously, EVERYTHING goes to J.K. Rowling.
NOTE: This chapter picks off from halfway through chapter one of the Philosopher's Stone, just after the line "How very wrong he was." In summary, imagine whatever happened in the first half of the first chapter, but change all references to Harry as references to a "she". Then pretend that Petunia doesn't like the name "Harriet" because it's old-fashioned (apparently), but "Dudley" is not. Got all that? Good. Now pick up here from "How very wrong he was."
How very wrong he was.
Mr Dursley may have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall 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 at the stranger.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by his wispy silver hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which was long enough to sweep the ground as he walked and high-heeled buckled black boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived on a street where everything from his beard to his boots, including his name, was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring intently 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, "I should have known."
He found what he had been 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 street lamp went off. Twelve more times he clicked it, and the twelve remaining street lamps of Privet Drive went out, one by one. He stowed the Putter-Outer away deep in his robes and inspected his handiwork. The street was bathed in darkness. If anyone looked out of their window now, even the beady eyed Mrs Dursley, they would not be able to see anything that was happening on the pavement. He looked around, and on seeing nobody but the cat, started down the street and sat next it on the brick wall outside number four.
"Fancy seeing you here, Minerva."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but instead of the cat, he smiled at a rather severe-looking woman dressed all in emerald green robes and wearing a pointed green hat. She was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes and her black hair was pulled back into a neat bun under the brim of her hat.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked him.
"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.
"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently, "You'd think they'd be more careful, but no – even the muggles have noticed something's been going on. It was in their news." She jerked her head towards the Dursleys' living room. "Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – that was Dedalus Diggle, I tell you. He never did have much sense."
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently, "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," said McGonagall irritably, "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless; out in the street in broad daylight, not even dressed in muggle clothes, swapping rumours!"
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, silently willing him 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, Albus."
"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 quite fond of."
"Oh, all right then," she sighed, plucking one out of Dumbledore's hand. "As I was saying," she said a few moments later, "even if You-Know-Who has gone –"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person such as yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I've tried to get people to call him by his name: Voldemort," McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore seemed not to have noticed; he was too busy fishing for a sherbet lemon in one of his robe pockets, "It all gets so confusing if we all keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. I've never felt any need to call him that."
"I know you haven't, but you're different," she said, half exasperated and half in admiration, "Everyone knows you're the only one he was ever afraid of."
"'He' who?" he asked teasingly, a twinkle in his eye.
"You-Know – oh, all right then. Voldemort." She shuddered.
"You were saying:"
She huffed. "You full well know what I was saying."
"I seem to have forgotten, Minerva dear."
"Fine. Voldemort," she said, putting emphasis on the latter word, "was only ever afraid of you. No-one else."
"You flatter me. Voldemort has – had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."
"You know, it's a good thing it's dark. I haven't blushed this much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
She rolled her eyes and said, "The thing is, I was hoping to ask you about the rumours flying about. You what everyone's been saying? About why he's disappeared… and who finally stopped him?"
She held her breath for a moment. She had finally reached the point of discussion that she was most anxious to talk about, the reason she had sat on that stone cold brick wall all day. She turned to face Dumbledore, but he was digging around for a sherbet lemon. Honestly, she thought, how many of those does that man eat? Sensing that she would have to be the one to start off, she said, "What they're saying, is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow." His head snapped up. "He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that James and Lily Potter are – are – that they're – that they're dead," she finished finally.
Dumbledore bowed his head. McGonagall gasped.
"James and Lily… 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.
McGonagall's voice shook as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill their daughter, Harriet. But – but he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little girl. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when Voldemort went to kill her, his power broke somehow, and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded.
"It's – it's true?" she asked incredulously, "After all this time, after all he's done, after all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little girl? It's amazing. But how in the name of heaven did Harriet survive."
"We can only guess. We may never know."
McGonagall pulled out her lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore sighed heavily as he took out a golden watch from his pocked and flicked it open. It was a most peculiar watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; and little planets moving around the edge. It must've made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he returned it to his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was him who told you I was going to be here."
She nodded, "and I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, are you?"
"I've come to take Harriet to her aunt and uncle – her mother's sister and brother-in-law. They're the only family she has left."
"What? You don't mean – you can't mean the people who live there?" she cried, jumping up and pointing at number four. "Albus, you can't. I've been watching them all day! They're awful people! I saw their son kicking his mother all the way up the street just because he wanted sweets! Sweets! Harriet Potter come and live here?!"
"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly, "Her aunt and uncle will explain everything to her when he's older. I've written everything in a letter."
"A letter?" she said faintly, sitting back down, "Really, Dumbledore? You think you'll be able to explain everything in a letter? These people will never – can never understand her! She'll be famous – a legend! Harriet Potter, the girl who lived! I wouldn't be surprised if today was Harriet Potter Day in the future! Every child in the world will know her name!"
"Exactly," Dumbledore said seriously, looking at her over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, "It would be enough to turn any child's head! Famous before she can walk and talk! Famous for something that she can't – and I hope she won't – remember! It would be so much better for her if she grows up, away from all of it, until she's ready to take it."
"Yes – yes, you're right, of course," she said, "But how is she getting here? I don't suppose you have her under that cloak?"
He gave a short laugh. "Oh no," he said, "Hagrid's bringing her."
"You think it's wise," she asked, "to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
"Don't get me wrong – I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place, but he can be… careless. He does tend to – what-was-that?"
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight. They both looked up at the sky as a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed in front of them.
If the motorbike was huge, it had nothing on the enormous man sitting atop it. He was almost twice the size of a normal human and at least five times as wide. He looked too large to be allowed, and so wild – his head was a tangled mass of black hair and his beard hid most of his face. His hands were the size of dustbin lids and his feet were the size of baby dolphins. In his arms, he held a bundle of baby pink blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, "At last. Where on earth did you get that motorbike from?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore sir, from young Sirius Black," said the giant in a thick, West Country accent
"But of course," Dumbledore said, giving a short laugh, "No problems, were there?" suddenly serious again.
"Oh, no, sir – 'ouse was a wreck, but I got 'er out of it before the muggles figured out what'd happened. Little darling fell asleep just as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Dumbledore and McGonagall approached Hagrid and extracted the bundle from his grasp to allow him to clamber off the bike. Handing the bundle to McGonagall, he rummaged around for the letter and pulled it out. McGonagall peered down into the bundle. Inside was a baby girl, just visible among the blankets swaddling her. Gently brushing the hair out of the child's eyes, she spotted a thin, lightning-shaped scar. She gasped.
"Is that where – " whispered McGonagall, so as not to wake the child in her arms.
"Yes," said Dumbledore, "She'll have that scar forever."
"Oh, Albus, is there nothing you can do?" she begged.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. Did you know, for example, that I have a scar on my left kneecap that is a perfect map of the London Underground?"
"The London what?" she asked in confusion.
"Never mind," he said, "Could I take her? We'd better get this over with."
"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid asked, "Could I maybe say goodbye to her?"
"Of course," he replied, as McGonagall held the baby girl up to Hagrid.
He bent his great, shaggy head over the child and gave her what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery and wet kiss, for Hagrid had been crying silently for the past few moments.
"There, there," McGonagall patted him awkwardly on the shoulder as she handed the baby to Dumbledore and they walked to the doorstep of number four. As Dumbledore laid her down, Hagrid gave a great howl.
"Shhh!" hissed McGonagall, "You'll wake the muggles!"
"S-s-sorry!" he sobbed, "B-b-but can't stand it. James and Lily d-dead and little Harriet off ter live with m-muggles!"
"Yes, yes, Hagrid. It's all very sad, but get a grip or we'll be found," she replied rather impatiently.
By now, Dumbledore had laid down the letter, and returned to join them on the pavement. For a full minute, the three of them watched the little pink bundle resting on the doorstep. Hagrid's shoulders shook silently, McGonagall allowed the tears to roll down her cheeks and the twinkling light that normally shone from Dumbledore's eyes had gone.
With a great sigh, Dumbledore finally said, "Well… that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeh," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' young Sirius 'is bike back now. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir." And with that, he waddled over to the motorbike, kicked it into gear, and soared off into the night.
"I'll be off. Goodnight, Minerva," he said, bowing his head slightly. He turned to go.
"Albus," McGonagall said quickly, catching Dumbledore's arm, "would it be okay if I stayed here for a while – just until dawn? I want to make sure she's all right."
"If you must, but I hardly think you need to. I'm sure she'll be quite fine," he said.
"Please, Albus," she begged.
"All right then," he conceded. Pulling out the Putter Outer, he clicked it once and all fourteen streetlamps came back to light. He glanced over to McGonagall, but in her place sat a cat.
"Minerva," he said, and turned to number four, "and good luck, Harriet Potter." And he disappeared with a pop!
The cat sat on the brick wall, keeping watch over the small child, swaddled in pink on the neat doorstep. It sat there for a good six hours, waiting for the sun to rise. As the sky began to lighten, and tinges of pink and white could be seen in the sky, it meowed and became human again.
"Goodbye, and good luck, Harriet," she said, before disappearing as well.
Harriet Potter rolled over in her blankets in her sleep. One small hand closed around the letter, now cold and a little damp from the morning dew. She slept peacefully, not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she would be woken in a few minutes' time by her aunt's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles; nor that all night and the previous day, people had been meeting in secret all over the country, and raising up their glasses and saying; "To Harriet Potter – the girl who lived!"
A/N: How was that? I would have skipped straight to Dudley's birthday/attack of the boa constrictor but I really wanted to put in the little Dumbledore/McGonagall exchange, featuring her incompetence in the Muggle world. Don't get me wrong, McGonagall is one of my favourite characters of all time, but I found that entertaining. That and the fact that McGonagall has become slightly protective of Harriet in the motherly sense. McGonagall's attachment to Harriet will become more important later on in the story, and provide a sort of mother-daughter relationship between them (only really for the first year, though.) After the first year, Molly Weasley will become the mother figure, but McGonagall will always be at school for Harriet to talk to.
Anyway, I'll update this story every three weeks, but because I want to get into the rest of it I'll post the next two chapters in the next week or so.