This is a work of fanfiction based on the characters and world created by J.K. Rowling in the Harry Potter series. All characters, places, and most magical elements belong to J.K. Rowling and the respective copyright holders. I do not own any of the original material, and this work is purely for fun and not for profit.

This fanfiction is a reinterpretation of the original story where there is virtually no conflict whatsoever and the relationships between the characters are wholesome and full of love. The content is intended for entertainment purposes only.

Chapter 1 The Boy Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were a pretty normal couple. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just came across as normal.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with a hearty neck, and he sported a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in handy whenever she heard a noise over her garden fence and wanted to check to make sure her neighbors were okay. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer or well behaved a boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, which was also their greatest pride so it pained them that they couldn't shout it from the rooftops and hoped that one day the world would discover it. They would be so happy if someone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, and although they used to meet frequently, unfortunately they hadn't met lately and Mrs. Dursley had grown very concerned. In fact, Mrs. Dursley loved her sister so much along with her amazing, charming husband that it pained her greatly that she had not contacted her for quite some time. Although they were told to keep the Potters a secret, they smiled at the idea of the Potters arriving in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had been expecting a son who would certainly have been born around the same time as their own and they were very excited to meet him. This boy was another reason they wanted the Potters to come by, they couldn't wait for Dudley to have a friend he loved as much as the Dursleys loved their friends the Potters.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on that 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 interesting tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley sang gospels joyfully as she put a smiling Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, kissed Mrs. Dursley straight on the mouth, and kissed Dudley on the top of his head. He smiled up at him happily and was so well behaved it was crazy. "Love you Dudley!" Mr. Dursley said and smiled as he left the house. 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. 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 how much he loved his family and the 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 finely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley loved people who weren't afraid to dress in unusual clothes — ah, to be young again! He supposed this was some intriguing new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these intriguing people standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was pleasantly surprised to see that a couple of them weren't young after all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! If only he were that brave! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this might actually be a silly stunt — these people might even be collecting for something… yes, that might very well 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. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a pretty normal, owl-free morning, which was just as well, he needed to concentrate on working hard to support his family who depended on him. That day he promoted five different people! He made several important telephone calls and was able to spread even more goodwill. He thought to himself that he was happy to be in such a very good mood, and that was before 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 curiously as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him excited. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, but he didn't see any collecting tins. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large healthy sandwich 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. They were talking about the Potters and it sounded like something bad had happened. Surely it couldn't be his Potters. 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, asked his secretary politely not to disturb him, grabbed 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 just overthinking. 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 even began to doubt himself that his nephew was even going to be called Harry. He'd unfortunately never seen the boy. They might have been going to name him Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she would be devastated at any mention of something possibly having happened to her sister. He didn't blame her — if he'd had a brother or sister he loved that much… 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.

"So sorry," he apologized, as the tiny old man stumbled, but he caught him before he might have fallen. 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 accidentally 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! Everyone should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot, a smile spreading across his face. He had just been hugged by a complete stranger! He wondered what made this day so happy. He was feeling a bit conflicted, on one hand, he was very concerned something had happened to the Potters, but on the other, he had a sense of trust that maybe something good had happened as well. He went to his car and set off for home, hoping that everything was right with the world, even saying a prayer for the Lord to be with the Potters, just in case. He didn't like how his imagination tended to think the worst of things sometimes.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and thankfully it did improve his worrying 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.

"Here, kitty kitty," said Mr. Dursley softly. He still had a bit of that healthy sandwich on him from lunch earlier.

The cat approached him. It sniffed and then took the bit of sandwich and ate it happily. It looked up lovingly at Mr. Dursley. Mr. Dursley reached and gently pet the cat which began purring and stretched its head out the way cats do when they show affection. "Precious kitty" Mr. Dursley said. He said goodbye and let himself into the house. He was still torn on whether or not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, uneventful day. She told him over dinner all about her pleasant lunch she had with her next-door neighbors and how well their daughter was doing in school and how Dudley had learned a new word ("indefatigable" a word Dudley used to describe his daddy). 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 McMuffin 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. She had a right to know. 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 worried and tears began to well up in her eyes. After all, they used to spend so much time laughing together and at this point the silence was deafening.

"No," she said, trying to hold back a sob. "Why?"

"There's been some funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley said. "Owls… shooting stars.. and there were a lot of interestingly-dressed people in town today…"

"So?" Mrs. Dursley asked, interested.

"Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you know… your sister's crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea, downcast. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided against it. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son — he would be the same age as Dudley, right?"

"Yes." she said, tears starting to flow freely down her cheeks. It killed her inside that she still hadn't met her nephew, hadn't heard about the delivery, nothing.

"What were they going to name him again? It wasn't Harry, was it?"

"Yes that's right. A fitting name I think."

"I thought so," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He chose not to say another word as he couldn't bear to upset her and have her worry herself sick unnecessarily. 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.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters after all? If it did… if something did happen to them — 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 if something did happen to the Potters, there was no reason why they wouldn't be the first to know. The Potters and their friends knew very well how much they loved the Potters and their crowd… surely someone would have contacted him immediately if something was going on — he yawned and turned over — surely.

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.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, 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 hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept 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.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was uncommon to the area. 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."

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. 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 Mrs. Dursley, 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.

"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 have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed sadly.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said a bit impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more restrained, but no — even the world at large has 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 oblivious. 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 never had something this wonderful to celebrate for years."

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall sadly. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright reckless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in normal 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 seems to have disappeared at last, the Normies 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 worldly sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall. She wasn't sure this was the time 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 the '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."

"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 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 everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

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 Godrich's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they're — dead."

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 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.

"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 an 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."

"I suppose that makes sense," said Professor McGonagall, rising to her feet and looking at number four. "I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are more kind and pleasant. And they've got a son — a precious, well behaved little boy. Harry will be well taken care of to be sure. To think, Harry Potter living a normal life…"

"Yes, it's the best place for him," said Dumbledore gently. "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. "You think you can explain all this in a single letter? Do you think they'll understand it? 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!"

"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'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 nodded solemnly, swallowed, and then said, "Yes, you're right, of course. So 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."

"I think it's wise you trusted Hagrid with something as important as this."

"Thank you. I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"Me too," said Professor McGonagall warmly, "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.

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."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before any normal people started coming around. He fell asleep as we was flying' 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.

"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.

"Shh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the whole neighborhood!"

"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 normies —"

"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. 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'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.

"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 cuddled and tickled 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!"