Harry hadn't finished reading his letter. This was a problem.
And Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was nothing if he was not a problem-solver.
Preparations didn't take long, and soon the Headmaster was looking at a great stack of parchment, a bucket of green ink, another bucket full of quills, and a block of red sealing wax large enough to carve into a life-sized statue.
Dumbledore couldn't help himself. His eyes twinkled with mirth and he began to laugh at the sheer insane brilliance of his plan. He wasn't a man given to bragging, but this one was really good. After a time, the laughter faded into tiny giggles and he was able to cast the spell, merrily waving his wand at the material. At once, the supplies jumped into the air and began to dance, and in no time there stood before him a mountain of Hogwarts acceptance letters taller than he was. All of them were addressed to the same person.
He flicked his wand one last time to bring a spare bit of parchment and his quill from the desk into his hands, and hastily scrawled out a message to Filch.
The message read as follows, "Mr. Filch, I have encountered some difficulty and will require the use of every available school owl this coming Sunday. Please make arrangements. Thank you kindly, The Headmaster."
As he looked at the heaps of letters piled all about him, Professor Dumbledore suddenly thought that his problem might have also been solved by just going to Number Four and insisting on seeing Harry.
Well, this would be much more fun, anyway.
The blizzard of letters had been the last straw for poor Uncle Vernon's frayed nerves.
When he had married Petunia and the dark truth had come out, that she had family involved in some kind of hocus-pocus, Vernon had begrudgingly accepted it on the condition that he never need to speak to them. And Petunia had enthusiastically agreed, and hadn't ever pressed the issue. Heck, she didn't even talk to her family; why on Earth would she make Vernon do so?
And then those two weirdoes went and got themselves blown up and the boy was deposited on their front stoop like a particularly ugly kitten no one had wanted.
He'd been all for sending the boy to an orphanage post-haste. One child was more than enough for him. But Petunia had read the letter placed inside the folds of the baby's blanket and had looked up from it with clenched teeth and agony in her eyes. "Vernon," she'd said, "we must save this child." And she'd taken the bundle into the kitchen to feed it and dress its ugly cut forehead and coo to it in much the same way she cooed to Dudley.
She had never brooked any argument about it, and Vernon (quite to his own surprise) had stopped bringing it up sometime after the first month.
Harry-as-a-baby hadn't been so bad. It was only once he'd gained autonomous movement that the trouble had started. Weird things. Dark things. Things that could only be described as 'magical,' if only Vernon hadn't known better than to use that word in his wife's presence.
The boy would stick things in his mouth and they would change. Blocks became wood-shaving flavored lollipops. So he couldn't have blocks. Toy cars that were made of plastic and barely had wheels, let alone motors, would suddenly begin to zip across the floor as if possessed and slam into the walls, damaging them. So he couldn't have toy cars. An old stuffed bear of Dudley's, well, Vernon would swear that after he gave it to Harry it watched him constantly, and that was so creepy that he had to toss it out, only to find it right back on the couch when he re-entered the living room, staring at him again.
He'd had to slap Harry to get him to stop whatever it was he was doing with the bear. He'd shaken the bear and shouted, "No! Bad!" and thrown it away in front of the boy, pointing at the trash and saying, "Yes. Good."
For years afterwards, every once and a while he would catch Harry looking in the trash for that damn bear.
Because it was better if the boy had no toys, he had no toys. Petunia had felt a bit guilty about it, but after Harry had turned a toy snake of Dudley's that she had sneaked him into an (apparently) real snake, she had come round to Vernon's point of view just as soon as he'd gotten her to stop shrieking.
They had to be tough on the boy. Even Petunia agreed with that. He was dangerous. Only by stamping out everything weird and creepy in him could they save him from himself, and the best way to do that surely was with religion. The boy just needed God, he'd thought.
Well he didn't think that anymore. Heaven knew he'd tried. He'd had the boy memorize practically the entire Bible, made him pray and give thanks at every bedtime and meal, showed him what Hell would be like, let Dudley show him further what awaited him in the Pit, even brought him to church every Sunday like he was family. But still the boy wouldn't repent, and still unholy things happened around him. Maybe less often, but still unnatural.
And now some psycho in a dress was stalking Harry and Vernon. Was. Done.
He had no way of knowing that should Harry just send one of the school owls back saying, "I will not be attending," the letters would stop. Had he known that he would have gladly allowed Harry to do so and got on with things. After all, the boy didn't even want the letters. He was scared of them because they talked about witchcraft. Sensible child. Vernon might have even been in danger of feeling fondness towards his nephew, though thumbscrews and the rack couldn't have gotten that confession out of him.
The blizzard, though. That was the end of it.
Mr. Dursley turned purple, raged a bit, and packed the whole family up that very evening. He didn't even allow Petunia to clean up the letters. "What will the neighbors think?" She'd cried, aghast that she would be leaving the house a mess. Her husband had not answered, too busy using one hand to hold an ice pack to the side of his lip where he'd torn out half his mustache and the other to pack a suitcase.
Strangely, he hadn't left the boy there. He could have done, he supposed. Let his lot sort it out. But no. He had taken on a holy duty to protect this creature and he was going to do it no matter what. Going back on a promise to God was the worst thing one could do, and Mr. Dursley wouldn't even contemplate it.
They first stayed at a hotel somewhere a long way away from Privet Drive, but the letters had again found them there. Now in desperation, Mr. Dursley thought about everything he'd ever heard about witches, which admittedly was not much beyond the fact that they made good firewood, and came up with a brilliant idea.
He found a fisherman who thought he was half-mad or worse, but that didn't matter. They would be safe. Witches couldn't cross running water, and the fisherman's little hut was the only building on a tiny island just off the coast. Perfect. It may not have had plumbing or electric, but that was all right—it was just until the letters stopped. A week at most before those crazies gave up, he thought.
And he slept all right for the first time since this whole nasty business had started, since Petunia had finally given in and told him about the letters hidden everywhere from under the loose floorboard to inside the egg carton. "If you throw them out," she'd explained, "they just reappear someplace more noticeable."
Absolute madness. But now they were safe.
Or so he'd thought.
All of them had been awoken by knocks that were so loud they might have been thunder, had they not been so close, and then the door had burst inwards.
The Devil wore the guise of a beast. A man-shaped creature at least ten feet tall and as wide across as two linebackers, with hands the size of steering wheels. His face was almost entirely hidden by a wild, wiry beard, and his eyes were only visible in the dark room by their reflections.
He—it—whatever—put the door back where it had come from and stormed into the hut like he owned the place. "Hello." He said in what could only be described as a menacing tone, despite its lack of apparent threat. No decent person just crashed their way into people's homes, now did they? "Don' mind me. Sorry 'bout the door."
The Dursleys were still blinking the sleep out of their eyes when the beast reached into his greatcoat's pockets and began rummaging around for something. With a flourish and an "Ah-hah!" he brought forth one of his kind's dastardly weapons.
The weapon he'd found? A faded, pink umbrella with several spokes sticking out at odd angles.
It was only when he pointed this umbrella at the fireplace and a merry blaze burst forth that Mr. Dursley found his voice.
"Where did you come from?!" He demanded with a more than a trace of panic in his tone. Dudley, poor Dudley, was cowering behind him. Harry had leapt into a corner and was barely a pale smudge against the grime of the walls. "You lot can't cross running water!"
The man snorted, looked at Mr. Dursley with a pitying gaze, and asked (not unkindly), "Yeh all righ' in the head, lad?" Vernon sputtered before falling silent. There was an awkward pause. Then the man said, "Righ', guess I should introduce meself. My name is Rubeus Hagrid, keeper o' the keys and grounds at Hogwarts. Already know your names, but... where's Harry?" His eyes focused on Dudley for a moment, but the boy had no trace of Lily or James about him.
After a moment of searching, his eyes found Harry. The fire had lit the room enough for him to immediately see that Harry took after his father; even as young as he was, he looked just like James. His eyes crinkled and he probably smiled, glad to have found his target. "Harry Potter." He said warmly. Of course he would sound friendly. Undoubtedly as soon as Harry let his guard down, he would grow horns and claws and would drag him outside into the storm.
Knowing this, Harry did not respond but instead tried very hard to become invisible, shrinking back as close as he could to the wall. Meanwhile, Vernon had scrabbled for the ornate silver cross he had purchased earlier and was now brandishing it just a few feet from Hagrid's face. "Begone, foul demon!" He shouted, holding the cross before him with shaking hands. He didn't know what this thing was, but no human was that size. Even if the running water trick hadn't worked, this one had to. Everyone knew silver killed monsters. "D-d-don't m-make me use this!"
Hagrid may have rolled his eyes. Then he reached out with one massive hand and plucked the cross out of Dursley's weak fingers, flicking it across the room. The cross crashed to the floor and came to a rest near the door.
What kind of power was this?
Silence fell in the hut, so that the only sounds were those of the fearsome storm pounding against the rocks and the walls of the hut. Hagrid could feel the hostility in the air, but he had been expecting it.
"No chance for a spot o' tea?" He asked, looking around the dismal hut. Petunia squeaked and escaped to the bedroom, unable to handle this man's evil ways any longer, and Vernon could not find his voice again. Harry was still playing the 'I'm not here, don't mind me' game in his corner.
Hagrid snorted again and dove right back into his pockets, searching for something to tempt the child out of the corner with. His hands first found the tea set and he yanked it free, very glad for its shatterproof spell. Then his questing fingers found a few links of smoked sausage that he had forgotten about. Well, why not? Brush the moldy dog biscuit crumbs off of them and they'd be good as new. Finally, he remembered that it was in the other pocket and triumphantly pulled the squashed white box out.
"Well, Harry," He said in his best 'gentle' voice. Clearly the lad was skittish, and for good reason. Here was the monster he had always been afraid Dudley would transform into. This man could squash him with one hand, but Hagrid was aware that children were sometimes scared of him and knew what to do. "Come 'ere and le' me look at yeh, an' I'll give yeh a present."
Harry, quite against his own power, took one step forward. Despite the fearsome appearance of this stranger, he was curious. Hagrid nodded once, and kept talking, "Tha's righ', don't be afraid of little ol' me. D'yeh know what day it is, Harry?"
Harry shook his head. He could think of no important event to be ascribed to this date. Then Hagrid opened the little white box to reveal something so hideous that it defied description. There were probably maggots and rotten organs involved. Mr. Dursley, brave as he was, couldn't stand to look and turned away in horror.
Actually, it sort of looked like just an ordinary birthday cake. The maggots were probably inside.
"Why, it's your birthday, o'course!" Hagrid said, sounding excited. "Sorry, I think I sat on it once or twice, but it's still sweet, righ'?" But little Harry was shaking his head.
"I d-don't have birthdays, sir." He said quietly, looking through the corner of his eyes towards Uncle Vernon. "Birthdays are not of the Lord." His uncle was still turned away but nodded when he heard this.
Hagrid blinked.
"Oh-kay." He finally managed. "Ohhh-kay. Well. Isn't tha' somethin'."
"I have birthdays!" Dudley proclaimed from behind his father, having seen the cake and being more concerned with his stomach than his salvation at the moment. Dinner had been nearly inedible, bananas and potato chips, and after a lifetime of being spoiled by Petunia's home cooking Dudley was now famished. Vernon shushed him, but he kept going, "But they're spiritual birthdays for the day I got saved, that's why Harry doesn't have them."
Something unusual happened then. Instead of being proud and happy for Dudley that he had been saved, Hagrid only seemed upset. "So yeh get birthdays, do yeh lad? An' Harry doesn't?" He almost growled. "Somethin's fishy here." Dudley yelped and hid himself behind his father again.
"It is a fisherman's hut, sir." Said Harry guilelessly. Hagrid turned to him again and the boy found his voice faltering. "That's probably... why... smells like..." But he couldn't finish. Hagrid threw back his head and let out a great long laugh, sending Vernon running into the bedroom with fright while dragging Dudley behind him. The door slammed shut and the sounds of dragging furniture could be heard from inside.
Harry stared at the bedroom door in shock. They'd left him! Hagrid's laughter died out and he wiped a tear from one eye. "Yer al' righ' by me, kid." He said cheerfully, sticking the sausages on the poker and balancing the pole by the fire. "Migh' as well come over here, get yerself warm to yer bones, and I'll see about some tea and cake."
Again Harry moved without thinking and soon was sitting next to the hulk of a man. Hagrid nodded at him and from this close Harry could definitely see him smiling. "The way I see it," Hagrid began, tapping the teapot with his umbrella, "even if yeh don' have birthdays, you can still eat cake. Whaddaya say?" The teapot jumped up and began to whistle, and Harry flinched.
Hagrid grabbed it out of the air and began to pour tea. He offered the first cup to Harry, but Harry just said quietly and unhappily, "No thank you, sir. I'm not to take offerings from strangers."
"Well, I'm no' exactly a stranger, am I?" Hagrid scoffed, offering again. "After all, it was me who brought yeh to yer aunt and uncle when you was just a baby." This time, Harry took the cup, after searching the man for signs of lying and finding none. He somehow knew Hagrid was telling the truth, though he couldn't explain it to himself.
The tea was just hot enough and seemed to warm Harry from the inside out. He hadn't realized his teeth were chattering until he'd come close to the fire and it had begun to warm his damp skin. Hagrid sipped from his own cup and they sat in companionable silence for a moment. The sausages popped and sizzled against the fire, filling the hut with their smoky smell.
"Now, then, Harry." Hagrid spoke suddenly, and surprising even himself, Harry did not flinch this time. "I hear yeh been havin' some trouble with yer letters." And he reached into the inner pocket of his coat to pull out a yellow envelope addressed in green ink.
Harry took it from him and stared almost reverentially at his name. He knew the letters to be evil and only existing as a way of tempting him to Hell, but the presence of this unusually kind stranger dulled that fear and made him feel almost silly for thinking so.
He turned over the letter and with shaking fingers, broke the wax seal.
Double update today since I probably won't be back for a time. Fun fact: J. K. Rowling's original intention in having Vernon choose the seaside hut was that old superstition. Weird, huh? Anyway, I hope everyone is still enjoying this...? It's going to conclude with fewer than ten chapters I think, since I wouldn't want to beat a dead horse (I wouldn't beat a live horse, either, so I think that's a strange expression, but I digress). Take care, everyone.