A man appeared on the corner of Privet Drive, his silhouette sharp against the golden glow of the streetlights.
The quiet hum of suburban life surrounded him- neat houses, parked cars, the distant rustle of leaves- but beneath it all, the air felt charged. Tonight, something impossible had happened.
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, better known as Albus Dumbledore, reached into his pocket, patting it absentmindedly. Empty. Of course.
His long robes weighed heavy on his shoulders. The crisp autumn air stung against his skin. But beneath it all, something was wrong.
Because he wasn’t Albus Dumbledore. Not really. He was something wedged between himself and the legend, trapped inside the skin of a man he had no right to be.
He could feel the weight of the name pressing down on him, heavier than the long, flowing robes and cloak.
Two days ago, he had woken up in this body, and with it came the tangled web of memories that weren’t his. Flickering images. Half-formed thoughts. Spells he had never cast, people he had never truly known. It was like trying to wear someone else’s skin.
His jaw tightened. And yet, here he was.
He pulled his cloak aside, reaching into the pocket again. The plastic bag crinkled under his fingers as he felt around it for the small metallic object that lay deeper inside. He muttered under his breath, “I should have known.”
A tabby cat perched on the garden wall flicked its tail, its eyes never leaving him. He could feel its stern gaze digging into him. He knew exactly who it was.
Professor Minerva McGonagall.
Waiting for him. Watching him. Expecting him to act like the man she knew.
He needed to be careful.
He smiled faintly and pulled the Deluminator from his pocket. With a single click, the streetlight closest to him blinked out. Click, click, click, click- the remaining lights followed, plunging the neighborhood into darkness as he started walking forward.
His grip tightened slightly around the Deluminator as he stumbled, high heeled boots catching the hem of his robes.
Hopefully, it was too dark for her to see.
A few tense seconds later, he reached the stone wall and swiftly sat next to the cat. He didn’t meet its gaze directly. He wasn’t sure if McGonagall was a Legilimens, but it was better to assume so.
Summoning his best impression of Dumbledore’s calm confidence, he said, “Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to the tabby- only to find it gone. In its place stood a severe-looking woman in an emerald cloak, her eyes sharp with scrutiny behind her square glasses.
The shift had been smooth, almost seamless, but when she stood looking down at him, he could see the exhaustion on her face.
She was studying him closely. Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile. “How did you know it was me?”
He looked at her. Of course he knew. How could he not?
Inhale. Exhale. He recalled the bullet points he had made regarding this scene in his head.
“My dear Minerva, I have never seen a cat sit so perfectly still.”
It was the right answer.
McGonagall let out a tired sigh and adjusted her glasses. “Albus, I suppose you know what they’ve been saying?”
He kept his face composed. “What are they saying?”
Her lips pressed together, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to say it.
“That he’s gone. That You-Know-Who-” she stopped, took a breath, then continued, “Is You-Know-Who truly gone?”
“It does seem like Voldemort is gone.”
There was a slight flinch at the name, but it wasn’t from him. It was from her.
Ah. Right.
He inhaled slowly. Voldemort. The name lingered in his mind. He wasn’t afraid to say it- neither of them ever had been.
But he had said Voldemort’s name without hesitation. No pause, no ingrained caution. Just like any other word.
McGonagall’s eyes sharpened ever so slightly, “But at what cost?”
The weight of her words pressed into him. He already knew where this was going, and he didn’t want to hear it.
She hesitated again.
“What they’re saying is that last night, You-Know turned up in Godric’s Hollow to find the Potters. The rumor is that-” She swallowed. “That Lily and James Potter–”
The world seemed to tilt.
He had expected this- of course he had- but expectation and reality were two very different things.
James and Lily Potter. Gone.
Their names weren’t just words on a page anymore. They weren’t backstory, or echoes of a tragedy long past. They were real. Had been real. Young. Brave. Parents.
And now- dead.
His grip on the Deluminator tightened.
Could he have done something? Should he?
McGonagall pressed on, voice hoarse. “It’s true then? Lily and James. They’re…they’re gone?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
McGonagall’s breath hitched. “And Harry?
He kept his voice steady. “Survived.”
Silence. And then, softly, almost disbelievingly- “He survived?”
Her tone wavered somewhere between grief and awe.
He nodded.
McGonagall exhaled sharply, her hands covering her mouth in shock. “How?”
And that was the question, wasn’t it?
How did a one-year-old survive the Killing Curse? How did Voldemort- one of the most powerful dark wizards of all time- just vanish?
The real Dumbledore had always spoken about Lily’s sacrifice, of the “ancient magic” that protected Harry, but now that he was here, experiencing this world firsthand. The explanation felt… incomplete.
Magic was unpredictable. It didn’t always follow logic. It worked because it did. But still, it felt… unsatisfying.
McGonagall was waiting for an answer.
“Lily Potter,” he said slowly, carefully choosing his words, “gave her life for her son. That kind of love- pure, selfless, absolute- has a power of its own. One that Voldemort did not anticipate.”
McGonagall stared at him in utter disbelief. “Love?”
He nodded.
She shook her head slightly, trying to process his words. “You’re saying that love is what stopped You-Know-Who?”
“I am.”
She looked down, her expression conflicted.
He could understand why. It sounded ridiculous, didn’t it? A mother’s love stopping the most feared dark wizard in history?
Even he wasn’t entirely convinced.
There had to be something more to it. Some deeper magic, some unexpected mistake Voldemort had made.
But in the end, it didn’t matter. Because magic in this world wasn’t like science- it wasn’t about cold, hard logic. It was about belief, about intent, about forces beyond understanding.
“I don’t know if I believe that,” McGonagall admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
He met her gaze, offering a small, knowing smile. “Neither did Voldemort.”
She flinched and fell silent.
And just like that, the conversation shifted.
“What are we doing here then, Albus?” said McGonagall, changing her focus onto something more actionable.
He nodded his head towards the house in front of them. “I’m here to deliver Harry to his relatives.”
McGonagall exhaled sharply. “And you’re really leaving him with these people?” she demanded, gesturing toward Number Four.
He hesitated.
McGonagall pressed on. “I’ve watched them all day, Albus. You couldn’t find anyone less like a wizard. They’re the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. Their son–kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. And you’re going to leave Harry with them?”
He wanted to tell her she was wrong. That Petunia Dursley would rise to the occasion. That Harry would have a childhood filled with love.
But he knew better than to cling to false hope.
A low rumble filled the air before a great roar of an engine shattered the silence and interrupted his train of thought. It was Hagrid.
The flying motorcycle descended from the sky, landing with a soft thud. Hagrid climbed off carefully, cradling a bundle in his massive arms. “Professor Dumbledore, sir,” he sniffled. “I got him.”
His breath caught as he looked at the bundle. A tiny face, round and soft, with wild black hair.
Harry.
He reached out hesitantly, taking the child into his arms. For a moment, he simply held him. Harry’s tiny hand curled into the fabric of his robes, his breathing soft and steady. So small. So unaware. And already carrying the weight of a world that had stolen his parents.
This was a child. A real living, breathing child. An orphan.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He looked at the infamous lightning shaped scar - already inflamed on his pale skin- and gently stroked the boy’s forehead.
McGonagall leaned over. “Is that where–?”
“Yes. He’ll have that scar forever.”
He headed towards the Dursleys’ house.
Hagrid took a half step forward. “Could I - could I say goodbye to him, sir?” He bent his head over Harry before letting out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Shhhh!” hissed McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”
Dumbledore took a quick glance in either direction, everything was still.
Hagrid was sobbing, burying his face into a large spotted handkerchief. “I can’t stand it- Lily an’ James dead - an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles-”
Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He placed him gently on the doorstep, grabbed his wand and cast a spell- one to keep Harry warm, one to keep him asleep.
And then, as a final touch, he conjured a small deer plushie and tucked it into the blankets alongside a letter explaining to Petunia the fate of her sister and asking her to keep her nephew safe for the next few weeks.
McGonagall was watching him, her expression unreadable. “You’re really leaving him here?” she asked.
He gave a sharp nod as he walked back towards the pair.
A part of him was still screaming that this was wrong. That he knew what Harry’s childhood would be like. That he should do something.
But he also knew that changing things, especially something this big, could have consequences he couldn’t even begin to predict.
For a minute, the three of them stood watching the small bundle on the doorstep.
“Well– that’s that. We’ve got no more business staying here tonight,” he said, forcing himself to turn away.
“Yes lots still to do” nodded Minerva, wiping her eyes as she transformed back into a cat and slunk away.
“I’ll be takin’ Sirius his bike back then G’night Professor Dumbledore, sir” said Hagrid before swinging himself onto the motorcycle and flying off into the night.
Sirius.
His breath caught. He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to turn away. Not yet.
The urge to act burned within him. He knew Sirius was innocent. He knew Pettigrew would escape. He knew how the pieces would fall.
But changing fate, changing too much, could be dangerous. He needed to be sure. He needed to understand the rules of this world before making his move.
He turned and walked back down the street. Once he reached the corner he appeared on, he took out the Deluminator and with one click, all the streetlights on Privet Drive shone once more.
He looked back at the doorstep. At the child swaddled in blankets, unaware of the destiny that had already begun to shape around him.
This wasn’t fair. But fairness had never mattered to fate. And fate, it seemed, had already made its move.
He exhaled, fingers tightening briefly around the Deluminator.
“Good luck to the both of us, Harry.”
With a flick of his cloak, he vanished into the night.