A/N: Yay! Chapter 2 is up!
P.S. Also in this story, there are 2 Mollys. 1st is the grandmother of the next generation. The other is Percy's child. The Molly that decided when to read the story, is the grandmother. Just so there was no confusion.
P.P.S. All the grandchildren in this story are real, but I don't know the ages, so I made them up. I looked them up on J.K. Rowling's website.
I forgot to do the disclaimer in the last chapter, so here I go:
I do not own Harry Potter, or anything you may recognize in this story.
Chapter 2: The Boy Who Lived
After lunch, everyone met in the living room; Molly and Arthur on the most comfortable chairs, the adults on the sofa and other chairs, and all the children on the floor.
"So now that we've finished our lunch, we will read the first book to teach the children a little, or a lot, of their parents' past," Arthur said, looking at the children, who were all staring at him with wide eyes.
"Who will read first?" Harry asked.
"I will," Molly said.
"Chapter 1," Molly started. "The Boy Who Lived."
"So this is where the nickname that Harry LOVES begins," George said.
"George!" Angelina, George's wife, said, hitting him on the arm.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
"Why would you thank someone for being normal?" Charlie asked. George looked at Percy, who said, "I am not normal, and even if I was, I wouldn't want anyone to thank me."
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.
"What is their definition of nonsense? Because I have a feeling it's different from ours," Fred, George's son, said.
"Anything to do with magic or wizards." Harry said.
"So Cousin Dudley doesn't like magic! Then why does he sometimes let us come over?" Lily asked.
"At first, Dudley and his parents hated magic, but now Dudley doesn't exactly 'hate' magic," Harry said.
"Why?" Lily asked.
"Later," Harry said. "Continue, Molly."
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings,
A few chuckles at that.
which made drills.
"What are drills?" Ron asked. Arthur started to open his mouth, but Hermione said, "Ronald, honestly, we have one in our house."
He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blond 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. The Dursleys has a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
All the adults burst out laughing at that. About 5 minutes later, when everyone stopped laughing, Molly continued.
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 if anyone found out about the Potters.
"There's nothing wrong with the Potters!" everyone yelled.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they haven't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister,
"Why would she do that?" Victoire, Bill's oldest child, asked. "I love my sister," she said, putting an arm around her younger sister, Domonique.
because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish
"That's not a word," Rose said.
"Rose, you really do act a lot like your mother," Ron said.
"How?" Rose asked.
"You're a smart aleck like her," he said, getting both very similar death glares from his wife and daughter. "Oh, there's the death glare, too."
as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to thick what neighbors would think if the Potters arrived in the street.
"How about, 'Oh, they're so cool and awesome,'" Molly, Percy's oldest child, said. Everyone laughed, and George said, "Mols, I have no idea where you get your sense of humor from. It's certainly not you parents."
The Dursleys know that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
"But you eventually did, didn't you, Dursleys?" Harry said.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday, our story starts,
"No, it started with 'Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive,' etc," Fred said.
"Good one, son," George said, high-fiving his son, while the others laughed.
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,
"A boring tie for a boring person," Louis, (A/N: It is pronounced like Louis Vuitton, the designer.) Bill's youngest child, said.
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.
"And there's the first sign of magic," Angelina said.
"But they really should have been more careful," Hermione said.
"Well, we didn't have much to celebrate for eleven years," Molly said.
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.
Harry, Ron, and George burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" Albus asked.
"You can call Dudley a lot of things," Harry said, "but he's not little."
He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.
It was on the corner of something peculiar—a cat reading a map.
"Cats can't read maps," Rose said.
"Rose, you'd be a great magical lawyer, just like me," Hermione said.
"No way! I'm not working with my mom!" Rose said.
"Don't worry, it's probably not even a real cat."
For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he has 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.
"Is that what Muggles think of magic?" Lucy, Percy's youngest child, asked. "A trick of the light?"
"Only this Muggle, Lucy," Harry said.
Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back.
Everyone who had Professor McGonagall in their third year laughed.
"I hope she has her famous stare even as a cat," Ron said.
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 can't read maps or signs. 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 strangley dressed people about. People in cloaks.
"Really guys," Teddy said, "wearing cloaks in the Muggle world."
"Well, in our defense, we thought Voldemort was gone," Arthur said.
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.
"It definitely isn't new, Dursley," James said. "It's been around since the first wizard."
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes 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
More chuckles also there, too.
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. Most of them hadn't even seen an owl at nighttime. He yelled at five different people. He made several important phone calls and shouted a bit more.
"Wow, this man really likes screaming," Roxanne, Fred's twin, said.
"Roxy, you should've seen how many times he screamed at me," Harry said.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when 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.
"You shouldn't do that," Domonique, Bill's middle child, said. "Or else they'll turn you into a toad or something."
He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy.
"Probably because they were thinking about what spell to use on him," Domonique said.
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—"
"Why would you talk about our world in the Muggle world? It's dangerous," Hugo said.
"Well, we certainly didn't do that," Arthur said.
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. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid.
"Well, that's a first," Bill said sarcastically.
Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. 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.
"Dad, I'm glad you weren't named that," Albus said.
"Why?" Harry asked.
"Because Harvey Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World doesn't have a nice ring to it. Neither does Harold Potter."
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 a 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 can upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"
"Oh my God," Teddy said. "Saying stuff like that to Muggles?"
"I bet that was Dedalus Diggle," Harry said. "He can't keep stuff in for very long."
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.
"That's not going to work," Hermione said.
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 a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley 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 watch the last report on the evening news:
"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have been 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.
"Maybe he's a wizard, a Squib, or someone that knows a wizard," Lily said.
"Maybe, Lily," Ginny said.
"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 yesterday, 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."
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 . . .
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 you sister lately, have you?"
"If I were Petunia, I would've thought that that was a great thing to start off a conversation with," Hermione said.
As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.
"No," she said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there where a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . ."
"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.
"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 casual as he could, "Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"
"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.
"Isn't his name Howard?"
"Yeah, that doesn't sound good either," James said.
"Harry. Nasty common name."
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horrible. "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.
"Of course it is," Ginny said. "It's obviously McGonagall."
It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.
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 want to think about it.
The Dursleys got in bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley.
"You were very wrong, Dursley," Harry said.
The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about then 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 easy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleeping. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of the street. It didn't quiver when a door slammed on the next street, or when two owls swooped overhead. It was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner of the street. He 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 long hair and beard, which could both tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles and his nose looked as if it had been broken at least twice.
"It actually has been broken twice," Ron said.
This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
"Isn't that the man I was named after?" Albus asked.
"Yes," Harry said. "The reason we named you after him was because he was my role model and a very wise person."
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 was rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize that he was being watched, because he looked at the cat, which was staring at him. For some reason, he seemed to find the sight of the cat amusing, because he chuckled and said, "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter.
"Dumbledore smokes?" Hugo asked, shocked.
"No, Hugo," Ron said. "It's a Deluminator. I have it right here," he said, pulling it out of his pocket, and clicking it. All the lights it went out. Then he clicked it again. The lights came on again.
"Wow, that's so cool, Dad," Hugo said.
"Yep, and this is the exact same one Dumbledore used."
"That's even cooler."
He flicked it open, held it up, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights on the whole street were the pinpricks of the cat's eyes. Even if Mrs. Dursley looked out the window, she wouldn't be able to see anything happening outside. Dumbledore put the Put-Outer back in his cloak and set down the street toward number four, where he sat down next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment, he spoke to it.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
"I knew it," Hermione said.
He turned to smile at the cat, but it was gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing glasses the same shape as the markings around the cat's eyes. She was also wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
"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.
"All day? When you could've 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 a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed. It was on their news." She jerked her head toward the Dursleys' living room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls . . . shooting stars . . . Well, they're not completely stupid.
"See, McGonagall agrees with me," Hermione said.
They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I 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."
"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,
"She just wants to see if the rumors are true," Teddy said.
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, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"Really, Dumbledore," the young Molly said. "A lemon drop at this time?'
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "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."
"Yeah, I also tried to do that for 7 years at school," Harry said.
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."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Not really," Ron said. "They both did amazing, complicated spells that even Hermione couldn't have mastered."
"Only because you're too — well —noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
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 they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
"You, Dad, right?" Lily asked.
"Yes, and think about a one-year-old defeating the second greatest wizard of that time," Harry said.
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."
Everyone looked down. Lily stifled a sniff.
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. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's 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.
"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."
"But I bet you do know, Uncle Harry?" Lucy asked.
"Yes," Harry said, "But I bet in the book, they say why."
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.
"Oh, so this is where we meet Hagrid?" Rose asked.
"Yes, I think so," her mother said.
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.
"Thank you, Professor for siding with me," Harry said. "I would rather have lived with a wizard family than with them."
"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. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter."
"That's all they give him," Roxanne said, in horror. "Just a bloody 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 —
"I'm really glad that that didn't happen," Ron said. "More attention to him."
there will be books written about Harry —
"Including these," Audrey, Percy's wife, said.
every child in our world will know his name!"
"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 he won't even remember! Can 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?"
"How could you doubt Hagrid, McGonagall?" Angelina said.
"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.
"Sirius's bike," Arthur said. "I remember fixing that," he said, then, catching the look on his wife's face, said, "Um, never mind, continue."
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.
"Dad!" Al said.
"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."
"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."
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's forehead. He looked uncomfortable.
"Just stop!" he yelled.
"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.
"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, it's 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.
"Oh my gosh, I can't believe that they just left you there, Uncle Harry," Louis said.
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."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I 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.
"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.
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, 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…
"Ah, those were the days," Harry said, "even though I can't remember them."
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!"
"There's the end of the chapter," Molly said. "Arthur, do you want to read next?"
"Sure," Arthur said.
A/N: Well, there's the second chapter. Hopefully, the third chapter will be up in, at most, a week.
Did you like it, did you think hate it? I can't know if you don't review. Review telling me ideas for future chapters or just your comments!
Thanks for reading!
~Read-a-holic2200