The Boy Who Lived
It was a Sunday morning like many others in Privet Drive, but from the early hours of dawn, something unusual had begun to manifest in the perfectly maintained streets of this quiet neighborhood. Mr. Dursley, resident of number 4 and director of a drill manufacturing company, woke with a start to the sound of strange cries coming from outside. He approached the window, rubbing his eyes, and saw something he would never have imagined: a flock of owls crossing the sky in broad daylight, flying in seemingly random directions as if they’d gone mad. There were dozens of them, and they didn’t seem inclined to stop.
In the streets of Little Whinging, Mrs. Figg, an elderly woman with a passion for cats, watched the owls from her window and wondered what might have disturbed them. But the owls weren’t the only unusual thing to happen that morning. Showers of stars—tiny golden sparks—had fallen from the sky like magical dust throughout the night and had been reported in various parts of England, from London to the most remote villages. Anyone who looked at the sky that day was amazed and tried to come up with an explanation. Some suggested it was a new meteorological phenomenon; others believed it was the sign of a rare astronomical event.
In London, families out to enjoy their weekend were stopped at the pedestrian crossing on Charing Cross Road, noticing groups of men and women dressed in absolutely bizarre outfits. Purple cloaks, flashy top hats, clothing that seemed straight out of another era. A middle-aged man in a green cloak, enchanted by the display windows of a watch shop, laughed loudly with others dressed in the same way, exchanging handshakes and warm embraces. Some passersby looked at them suspiciously, others thought it was some kind of advertisement or a peculiar festival.
What the Muggles couldn’t know was that these people belonged to a parallel society, a hidden society very different from the one they lived in. A world of magic, secrets, and fantastic creatures—things that seemed impossible. These people were wizards and witches, and their world invisibly overlapped with the ordinary world, the world of Muggles, a term used to describe those who possessed no magical powers. On this particular day, something had brought them immense joy, something that justified their choice to momentarily ignore the Statute of Secrecy they had sworn to uphold for centuries. It was an extraordinary day, a day of celebration they hadn’t experienced for many, many years.
On a brick wall just outside Privet Drive, a tabby cat sat still as a statue. It wasn’t an ordinary cat. Its golden eyes keenly observed the comings and goings of people and vehicles, with an expression that seemed almost judgmental. At one point, the cat did something incredible: with a fluid motion that would have startled anyone watching, it extended a paw to pull out a small folded map it had been sitting on and carefully unfolded it.
If anyone had dared to approach, they would have noticed that the map didn’t show the streets of Little Whinging, but a series of curious, blinking symbols moving from one point to another, as if tracing an invisible path. The cat examined the map attentively, tilting its head slightly before refolding it carefully and returning to its motionless position. Anyone passing by would have thought it was just a normal cat. But anyone with even a hint of intuition would have sensed something very unusual.
Some older people remembered another time when something similar had happened. It was May 1945, and Britain had witnessed other strange occurrences. Owls flying in broad daylight, colorful spells lighting up the sky, and eccentric figures who seemed to share a profound secret, a secret of happiness that ordinary Muggles could never understand. Anyone who noticed these strange phenomena had quickly attributed them to the end of World War II, believing they were simply expressions of joy by bizarre but harmless people. No one had ever questioned the true reason for those celebrations, and wizards and witches had continued to live in secrecy, keeping their world intact.
On this early November Sunday, they were celebrating something extraordinary once more. Something that marked an epochal change, an event that had driven wizards and witches to forget their fears and take to the streets with joy and hope. None of the Muggles knew exactly what was happening, but they could certainly feel it in the air: this day was not like the others. That unusual day, filled with mysteries and peculiarities, was drawing to a close. The sky over Privet Drive was now as black as ink, and the street rested in an eerie silence, as if the entire neighborhood were holding its breath.
A tabby cat, still as a statue, remained seated on the wall at the end of the street. It hadn’t moved an inch for hours, its golden eyes fixed on a specific point at the opposite corner. Its rigid, watchful posture betrayed a hidden tension. Even when a car door slammed loudly in the adjacent street or when two owls swooped above its head, it didn’t budge an inch.
It was almost midnight before something finally made it react. A man appeared so suddenly and silently it seemed he had sprung from the ground. The cat’s tail twitched, and its eyes became two slits, gleaming in the dim light.
Nothing like this had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, both so long they were tucked into his belt. He wore long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled boots with buckles. Behind his half-moon glasses were bright, twinkling blue eyes, and his nose was very long and crooked, as if it had been broken at least twice. The man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.
As the cat observed him without blinking, Dumbledore reached under his cloak and pulled out a silver object. With a click, one of the nearest streetlamps went out with a small pop. Another click, and then another: the lights of Privet Drive extinguished one by one until the only illumination left was the pair of small golden sparks—the cat’s eyes staring at him.
When he was finished, Dumbledore walked slowly toward number 4, but before reaching it, he stopped by the wall where the cat was perched. He bent slightly and spoke in a calm yet amused tone.
“What a coincidence! Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”
He turned to the tabby with a smile, but it had vanished. In its place stood a rather severe-looking woman wearing square glasses that matched the markings around the cat’s eyes. She, too, wore a cloak, but it was emerald green. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I have never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff, too, if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” retorted Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? On my way here, I’ve passed at least a dozen parties and feasts.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed irritably. “Oh yes, they’re celebrating all right,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they’d be a bit more cautious, but no... even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It’s been on their news.” She turned toward the darkened window of the Dursleys’ living room. “I heard it myself. Flocks of owls… shooting stars... Well, they’re not completely stupid. They’re bound to notice something. Shooting stars over Kent—I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He’s always been a bit eccentric.”
“You can’t really blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know, I know,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding exasperated. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out in the streets in broad daylight, not even bothering to dress like Muggles, swapping stories.”
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, hoping for some comment, but he didn’t reply. She went on, “It would be a fine thing if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have finally disappeared, the Muggles found out about us. Are you sure he’s 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 them.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for sweets. “As I was saying, 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’ve been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.”
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unwrapping a lemon drop, 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 afraid of.”
“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”
“Only because you’re too noble to use them.”
“Thank goodness it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey complimented me on my new earmuffs,” said Dumbledore with a slight smile.
Professor McGonagall gave him a sharp look before saying, “The owls are nothing compared to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It was clear that this was the real reason she had been waiting all day on that cold, hard wall, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she ever looked so intently at Dumbledore. It was clear that whatever “everyone” was saying, she wasn’t going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. However, he was busy with his lemon drop and didn’t reply.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to the Potters’ house. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are… are… that they’re dead.”
Dumbledore lowered 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 gravely.
Professor McGonagall continued, her voice trembling. “And 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 Voldemort couldn’t kill Harry Potter, his 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 astonishing… 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 glasses. Dumbledore gave a great sigh, pulled out 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.”
“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. “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 declared 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 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 headlights; 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 sound stopped abruptly. The silence of the night was suddenly broken by a low rumble that grew louder and louder. Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore scanned the street, peering into the darkness, as the noise swelled into a roar. From above, a gigantic magical motorcycle appeared like a flash of lightning, descending rapidly toward them. With a surprisingly gentle landing, the motorbike touched down on the asphalt right in front of number 4, Privet Drive.
As colossal as the motorcycle was, it seemed nothing compared to the man sitting astride it. He was about twice the height of a normal man and at least five times as wide. He seemed almost too big to be real, with a wild appearance: long, shaggy black hair and a thick beard that hid much of his face. Each of his hands was as large as a trash can lid, and his feet, clad in leather boots, resembled small dolphins. In his immense, muscular arms, he cradled a bundle of blankets.
“Hagrid!” exclaimed Dumbledore with relief. “At last! But where did you get that vehicle?”
“A kind loan from young Sirius Black,” the giant said as he carefully dismounted the motorbike. “He offered to help me and the baby get here. Here he is, sir,” he said, nodding toward the bundle of blankets.
So imposing was Hagrid’s presence that Dumbledore and McGonagall hadn’t noticed the giant wasn’t alone. At the motorbike’s helm was a young man, handsome, with black hair disheveled by the wind and piercing gray eyes filled with determination. He wore a black leather jacket and gloves with holes at the fingers. His figure was initially hidden behind Hagrid’s enormous bulk. The young man turned off the engine and jumped off the motorbike with agility, his face marked by tension that seemed ready to erupt.
As the two approached Dumbledore, McGonagall bent down toward the bundle, her breath catching at the sight of the tiny face of a baby, fast asleep, wrapped snugly in blankets. The young man switched off the engine and jumped down nimbly, tension still etched on his face. Hagrid followed more cautiously, cradling the bundle as though it were the most precious treasure in the world. When the two approached Dumbledore, McGonagall leaned closer to the bundle, her breath hitching as she gazed at the tiny, sleeping face of the baby wrapped in blankets.
“Any problems?” Dumbledore asked.
“No, sir,” said Hagrid. “The house was destroyed, though, but I managed to get him out before Muggles swarmed the place. Sirius was already there, and he offered to bring us here on his motorbike. He wanted to speak to you, sir. The boy fell asleep while we were flying over Bristol.”
Dumbledore nodded at Hagrid and then stepped forward, his gaze resting on Sirius. His expression was calm, but a subtle chill in his demeanor caused Sirius to tense. The headmaster’s piercing blue eyes examined Harry, then Sirius, as though searching his very soul.
“Sirius Black…” said Dumbledore in a measured tone. “Was it not your duty to keep the Potters safe? Foolish of you to show up here after what has happened.”
The question fell like a hammer blow. Professor McGonagall held her breath, watching the two men with growing apprehension. Sirius stiffened, his fists clenching at his sides, though the pain in his face was evident.
“It wasn’t my duty anymore,” Sirius said hoarsely, his voice thick with restrained emotion. “There were changes only James, Lily, and I knew about…”
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp enough to pierce the young man.
“Really? And who could it possibly have been, if not you?”
“That damned Peter,” Sirius spat, the name laced with venom. His pain was turning into rage. “We changed it at the last moment. No one knew, not even you. It was the perfect plan—no one would have suspected him.”
Sirius’s voice faltered slightly as he continued.
“We thought we’d fool Voldemort… but that worm betrayed us. I… I didn’t suspect him until it was too late. It’s my fault, Professor Dumbledore, but I would have died before giving up their location.”
Dumbledore remained still, his face impassive as he scrutinized Sirius with eyes that seemed to search his very soul. The silence stretched on, heavy as a stone. Then, slowly, Dumbledore lifted his chin, nodding slightly.
“I believe you,” he said at last, his voice warmer but still grave. “A tragic misjudgment. You and the Potters placed your trust in the wrong person…”
Sirius lowered his gaze, the pain in his expression deepening.
“I know. I’ll never stop blaming myself for it. But now I want to do my part. Harry is all that’s left of them, and I will protect him.”
Dumbledore nodded again, the frost in his gaze melting into understanding.
“Very well, Sirius. I believe you. But he cannot live with you. It is not safe.”
Anger flared in Sirius’s storm-gray eyes once more.
“Why not? James and Lily chose me as his godfather. It’s what they would have wanted!”
Dumbledore raised his gaze, calm but resolute.
“This must be his home, Sirius. Out there are followers of Lord Voldemort, thirsty for revenge, and reporters who will want to uncover who brought about Voldemort’s downfall. As long as he stays here, no one can harm him.”
Sirius stepped forward, his fists clenched.
“I can protect him, Professor Dumbledore! James and Lily would never have wanted this. They chose me as his godfather for a reason. Harry should stay with me—it’s what they would have wanted.”
McGonagall watched the scene with concern, while Hagrid remained silent, holding Harry gently. Dumbledore sighed, removing his glasses and looking at Sirius with a seriousness that seemed to pierce him.
“James and Lily would have wanted Harry to be safe above all else,” Dumbledore said firmly. “I do not doubt your ability to protect him. But the protection this place can offer is the best option. It is essential that he remain with his relatives. The only living relative he has is Petunia Dursley, Lily’s sister. She is the key to keeping him safe. I’ll explain in due time, Sirius, but it is crucial that he grows up with his aunt.”
“Petunia?” Sirius spat, nearly hissing the name. “Petunia hated Lily. She always despised the magical world.”
Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement. “Sirius is right. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find people less like us. And that boy they have—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets! Do you think it’s right for Harry Potter to live here?”
Dumbledore remained silent for a long moment, as if carefully weighing their words. Finally, he nodded slowly.
“It is the best place for him,” Dumbledore said firmly. “His aunt and uncle can explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter?” Sirius asked incredulously. “And you think a letter is enough to convince Petunia Dursley and her husband to take him in? They don’t understand our world.”
Professor McGonagall nodded in agreement. “These people will never understand Harry Potter. He will become famous—legendary! I wouldn’t be surprised if today is one day celebrated as Harry Potter Day. There will be books written about him; every child in our world will know his name!”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, gazing seriously at both Sirius and McGonagall over his half-moon glasses. “That would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can even talk or walk! Famous for something he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better it will be for him to grow up away from all of that until he is ready to handle it?”
“And all at the cost of growing up hated, alone, without knowing who his parents were, without knowing who he really is?” Sirius said fiercely. “I want to be part of Harry’s life. He deserves to have someone who cares for him.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sirius, and I know you have the best intentions. Harry deserves to know who his parents were and to grow up with someone who loves him. But he cannot live with you. Not now. It would be too dangerous; he’s not ready.”
Sirius clenched his fists but didn’t speak. Dumbledore studied him for a moment before adding:
“However, we can find a solution. Do you see that house to the left of number 4? Tomorrow it will be vacated. The elderly couple living there will decide to spend their remaining years somewhere warmer and sunnier. That house will be yours. You can live there, next to Harry. You can be part of his life, teach him about the magical world, and be a guide for him. But you must never tell him about his fame or his parents’ sacrifice until he is ready to hear the truth.”
Sirius stood frozen, his face rigid as he battled with his emotions. Finally, he nodded slowly.
“Fine. But if anything goes wrong, Dumbledore—if the Dursleys don’t take care of him, if they mistreat him—I will step in.”
Dumbledore placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder and smiled.
“And that makes you the godfather James and Lily would have wanted for him.”
Sirius nodded, determination shining in his gray eyes.
“Well,” Dumbledore said at last, “that’s that. There’s no reason for us to stay here any longer. We might as well join the celebrations.”
“Yes,” Hagrid said in a choked voice, “I’d best get back to Hogsmeade. G’night, Professor McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore, sir.”
Then he approached Sirius and gave him a bone-crushing hug. “Take care of him, Sirius,” he said, wiping his tear-soaked eyes on his sleeve. Sirius nodded and smiled at him, then watched as Hagrid left.
“I suppose we’ll see each other soon, Professor McGonagall. Sirius, don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything,” said Dumbledore, giving them a nod. In response, Professor McGonagall blew her nose, while Sirius thanked Dumbledore and bid him farewell.
Dumbledore turned and walked down the street. At the corner, he stopped and took out his silver Put-Outer. With a click, twelve balls of light returned to the streetlamps, illuminating Privet Drive with a warm orange glow. In the light, he could see a tabby cat slinking away around the corner at the far end of the street. From that distance, he could just make out the bundle of blankets on the doorstep of number 4.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. Then he turned on his heel, and with a swish of his cloak, he disappeared.
A light breeze ruffled the neatly trimmed hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and orderly beneath a sky as black as ink—the last place one would expect astonishing things to happen. After Dumbledore had left, Sirius sat beside the doorstep. His pain-filled gaze rested on the bundle of blankets containing little Harry Potter. Sirius kept watch over him through the night, the weight of guilt and responsibility heavy on his heart like a stone. With one final look at the house and a deep sigh, he crouched down, resting a hand on the step. An instant later, the figure of the handsome young man was replaced by that of a large black dog.
The dog had a powerful, regal air, with gray eyes that glimmered in the darkness like dull gemstones. Its glossy, dark coat rendered it a shadow among shadows. It barely moved, crouching beside the step to protect the sleeping child.
Under his blankets, Harry Potter shifted in his sleep without waking. A tiny hand closed around the letter beside him as he continued to sleep, unaware that he was special, unaware that he was famous, unaware that in a few hours he would be woken by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the door to put out the milk bottles. He could not know that at that very moment, across the country, people were gathering in secret to raise their glasses in a toast: “To Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived.”