The Boy Who Lived
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Dudley swallowed, that first paragraph let him know him know that they were starting at The Beginning, when Harry came to them. He hoped this book wouldn't show him in too bad of a light but he knew they would. He wasn't that person anymore and he had work hard to become what he thought of as a decent man, but he knew reading this book would be almost as bad as that dementor attack all those years ago. He was glad he'd opted for a babysitter tonight instead of bringing his kids.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors.
Mrs. Lewis twitched a little, she was coming out of her shock a bit. How rude, she thought. Petunia really was a nosy busy-body, little did she know Petunia Dursley thought the same of her. She had an inkling that Petunia had lied about the origins of her nephew, she was finally going to find out if she was right. Wizard indeed.
The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
"Think Jamie and Al might be finer boys," said Harry proudly ruffling their hair. Ginny smiled, Harry was such a wonderful father he absolutely doted on his boys. She didn't mind that it was mostly up to her to keep them from being spoiled rotten, Harry being the big pushover that he was. It was cute in a bittersweet sort of way knowing why he adored their children so much.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be.
Petunia sighed, Lily I'm sorry. She knew if Lily was alive her sister would murder her for the way she had acted. She gave an irritated little shrug. But of course Lily would hate me, came the bitter thought. And Lily would be right, Lily had always been right.
The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street.
"They would say 'What kind, decent people.' " murmured Ginny as Al climbed up onto her lap to play with her string of pearls.
The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.
"Ah, so this is where it starts," said Meredith in her singsongy voice. Harry turned to look at her she reminded him a bit of Luna. "Yes, it starts here," said Harry.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house.
Dudley rolled his eyes.
He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs.
Harry smiled at the mention of his old professor, she could be so amusing considering she was such a serious woman. He chuckled to himself as remembered the after his first son's birth, she had threatened to resign when she discovered they'd named Jamie after two of the biggest troublemakers sans the Weasley twins Hogwarts had ever seen.
"What's so funny," snapped Marge who'd heard him laugh. Everyone turned to look.
"Oh just remembering the day Ginny and I named James."
Everyone shrugged not seeing why this was amusing or what it had to with the book. Dudley continued.
Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion.
"Don't worry Vernon," said Harry. "Most of us have taken up Muggle fashions nowadays, it's only the older generations who still wear robes and kids attending Hogwarts."
Vernon twitched irritably, Bunch of weirdos, he thought.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.
"I remember this day," said Mr. Roberts. "There were so many owls, I'd never seen one before that day, it happened again some years back."
Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more.
"That's no way to treat your underlings," said Mr. Roberts crossly, he worked at Grunnings as well but not in the same department as Vernon.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard -"
"- yes, their son, Harry -"
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind.
"Vernon," said Petunia,"I can't believe you didn't tell me!" Vernon flush purple, the idiot boy was of course getting him in trouble.
He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
"I was the only Potter in the Wizarding world for nearly two decades," Harry told Vernon. The others looked surprised.
"Well we fixed that problem quickly," quipped Ginny. She smirked as Harry blushed pink and embarrassed. It was fun to embarrass him, he really was adorable when he blushed like that.
Dudley laughed, it was funny to see his cousin who gave the unmistakable air of badass blush like a school girl.
Just like his mother, thought Petunia. Lily had been easily embarrassed and quick to blush.
Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold.
"Like I'd marry anyone named Harold," came another of Ginny's quips.
"Gee thanks, love," mumbled Harry, rubbing the back of his neck once again embarrassed.
"You're welcome," she answered sweetly. Everyone laughed.
Marge and Vernon harrumphed, that boy should tell his wife to hold her tongue. It was not a woman's place to say such things.
There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that ... but all the same, those people in cloaks ...
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
"Who's You-Know-Who?" questioned Mrs. Lewis
"That monster was born Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he reformed himself as Lord Voldemort." said Ginny her voice hard.
Mrs. Lewis raised her eyebrows, what had this man done to make Harry's wife say his name like it was some disgusting swear. She decided to listen more avidly
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood - was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesteryesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
"Dad was that grandpa?" asked Teddy quietly.
Harry flinched, All my fault. "Yeah it was kiddo," said Harry softly. No one besides Ginny noticed Harry's reaction and she knew better than to speak, he'd only blame himself.
"Excuse me," said Mr. Roberts to Harry. "If you're his father why are you so young surely you're not old enough? And I thought all your family save Petunia died?"
"Teddy is adopted, Mr. Roberts, and that was his maternal grandfather Ted Tonks on that broadcast he died before Teddy was born." said Ginny.
Mr. Roberts nodded at the information.
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters ...
The muggles in the room were itching to know what happened to the Potters. It was obvious to them now that Petunia lied about the car crash, but what was the real story. The suspense was killing them.
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
Petunia sighed. Maybe she had been wrong to do that to Lily, after all she had tried to keep in contact, yet she, Petunia had pushed the sister she missed father away.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls ... shooting stars ... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today ..."
"So?" snapped Mrs.
"Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to do with ... you know ... her crowd."
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son - he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."
He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
"That's not a cat."
Everyone blinked.
Who had said that?
"I don't what it is but it's no cat."
It came from the spot beside Dudley. Meredith had spoken up, "It isn't a cat is it Harry?"
She reminded so inexplicably of Luna that he almost said; "No, Luna." "Er, no Meredith she isn't."
He had said she. Did that mean what they thought he meant? But it couldn't be, could it? There was no way that cat was actually a human.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out that they were related to a pair of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.
The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. ... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on - he yawned and turned over - it couldn't affect them. ...
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside 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 on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
"I agree dear," said Dudley a little late on the uptake. "I'm not sure what it is but it is most definitely not a cat."
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.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
The invisible knife that had imbedded itself in Harry's chest since the mention of Ted Tonks gave a vicious twist.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.
"He most certainly wouldn't be welcome," sniffed Mrs. Lewis snobbishly. She'd never heard of anyone so garish in all her life.
He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring 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."
"Known what?" queried Petunia before she could stop herself.
"That Professor McGonagall would follow him" said Harry.
He found what he was 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.
"Wow," said Mr. Roberts. He was awed and a little frightened to that there were people in the world with this kind of power.
He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley,
"My eyes are not beady," snapped Petunia.
they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"You magic people, I mean wizards can turn into animals?" questioned Marge curtly.
"Very rarely," answered Ginny just as stiff.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"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.
Dudley couldn't help it he snickered loudly. They spoke as if cats turning into people was an everyday thing. Then Dudley reminded himself that in this world it was.
"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.
Ginny sniffed angrily too a little boy had just had his family ripped away from him and they had danced in the streets like it was an American Mardi Gras celebration. Sometimes wizards had no common sense. She suspected it was the inbreeding but she hoped this melding of the worlds would fix that problem.
"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it.
Flocks of owls ... shooting stars. ... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"Eleven years," repeated Dudley. This community had suffered that long, and longer according to Harry, under that kind of tyranny.
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going 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
"If this man's name is Tom or what was it- oh yes Voldemort -then why are they calling him You-Know-Who?" asked Mr. Roberts.
"Because they are frightened, completely terrified of what happened to their friends and families could happen to them. They didn't know who to trust where to turn. This one man had run amok with his magic and world suffered horribly for it," Harry's explanation was strained like every word caused him pain.
Mr. Roberts was sorry he asked, but he had a feeling from the way Harry spoke he'd known Tom Riddle well.
seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"I love lemon drops!" piped up Al.
"We know Al," said James rolling his eyes. Neither he or Lily paid much attention to the adults, they were bored. Albus' love of books had him paying wrapt attention however, and it was a book about his hero, Daddy.
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops.
"Why doesn't she like lemon drops, Daddy?" asked Albus.
Harry smiled, "I don't know,son."
"As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"Why was this Voldemort fellow frighten of a feeble old man?" asked Mrs. Lewis .
"Albus Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard, far from a feeble old man. Not to mention the extreme amount of influence he had over Wizarding Britain," said Harry.
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."
"It's lucky its dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
"Ew," Ginny wrinkled her nose. Harry laughed at her expression thinking it was charming the way she did that.
"You know he didn't mean it like that Gin."
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
The muggles leaned forward in their seats. Ginny snuggled into Harry's side knowing what was coming, and leaning her forehead against his soothingly letting him know it was okay.
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead."
I knew it, thought Mrs. Lewis. Petunia's a liar, wait until I tell the rest of the street.
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James ... 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 heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on.
The muggles were surprised there was more. They listened closer still.
"That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"What villain is this? What kind of sick person goes after a child!" cried Mr. Roberts disturbed.
"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done ... all the people he's killed ... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"
"I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"
"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly.
That old man was wrong, thought Dudley. This was the worst place for any child both him and Harry had been damaged by there time here, Harry much more so than him.
"His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future - there will be books written about Harry - every child in our world will know his name!"
Dudley remembered what that Hestia had said, the great position he held in the anti-Voldemort movement. He didn't it a good thing for people to put their lives in the hands of one child. Not good at all.
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk!
Famous for something so horrid, thought Mr. Lewis.
Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
"Hagrid's bringing him."
"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
The muggles all looked scandalized. Harry grinned at what was now his bike, he'd promised it to Teddy when he came of age, seeing as he, Harry hadn't really had time to go out on it anymore.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."
The knife in Harry's heart dug a bit deeper.
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Ginny smiled she'd seen Harry's baby pictures and he'd been adorable.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
Everyone looked at Harry who shifted in his seat. "Can I see it?" asked Mr. Roberts.
The was only curious and he was being quite polite. So though he really didn't want to Harry pushed the hair back from his face and Mr. Roberts approached.
"Is that where - ?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I - could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
Harry, Albus, and James laughed. Ginny rolled her eyes. The muggles smiled hesitantly.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, yes, its all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"I understand these people thought they were doing what was best for you, but surely they could have waited until the next day to bring you here. That way they could have explained to Petunia better than some letter. You could have gotten sick or someone else could have taken you," said Mr. Roberts concernedly.
Harry simply shrugged.
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"It's a wonder they didn't wake the whole street with that racketing around out there!" Vernon said loudly.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
"Oh Dad has lots of good luck!" said James.
"Nope I don't Jamie," said Harry. "I just have luck both good and bad."
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous,
Too bad it didn't stay that way, thought Harry. His fame really was awful.
not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley. ... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"