The Boy Who Lived

Privet Drive lay in the suffocating stillness of a typical Surrey night, a cul-de-sac cloaked in darkness and the comfortable banality of suburban life. The rows of identical red-brick houses stood, their darkened windows reflecting the faint glow of the street lamps that flickered uncertainly, as if sensing an impending shift. Each manicured lawn, meticulously tended, seemed to hold its breath, unaware that something unusual was about to disturb their carefully constructed normality. An unsettling silence enveloped the neighbourhood, where only the occasional rustle of leaves dared to break the tension. Yet, beneath this unassuming facade, a sense of foreboding lingered, hinting at secrets waiting to seep into the stillness of the night.

At the very end of the cul-de-sac stood Number Four, home to the Dursleys, who prided themselves on their ordinary existence. Mr. Dursley, a portly man with a booming laugh, and Mrs. Dursley, slender and perfectly coiffed, embodied the ideal suburban couple. Their son, Dudley, was the picture of an average child – according to Mrs Dursley – with his round face and insatiable appetite for sweets. In the Dursleys’ neatly arranged living room, the television flickered softly, casting a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the encroaching darkness outside. The Dursleys were as mundane as the rest of the street, blissfully unaware of the peculiarities that lay just beyond their carefully drawn curtains, wrapped in their nightly routines.

At last, the air was still, thick with the weight of anticipation, as the Dursleys finally climbed the stairs to their bedrooms, the final echoes of their footsteps fading into silence. With the soft click of their bedroom light being turned off, it marked the end of illumination on Privet Drive, leaving only the flickering street lamps to cast their pale glow over the darkened homes. Unbeknownst to them, a watchful presence lingered in the shadows—a cat perched atop the garden wall. Its fur glimmered under the muted light, its posture so motionless it could have been mistaken for a statue. Its gaze, sharp and unblinking, remained fixed on an empty corner of Privet Drive, shrouded in the calm of midnight.

As the hour approached, the scene shifted. Without a sound, a man emerged at the very corner the cat had observed so vigilantly. His sudden appearance stirred only the slightest reaction from the cat—a subtle twitch of its tail and a narrowing of its green eyes. There was something distinctly unusual about this man, an air of mystery that set him apart from anything Privet Drive had ever known.

He was tall, with a frame both thin and commanding, his age evident in the silver strands that flowed from his head and beard, each long enough to tuck into his belt. His robes, an ornate purple that billowed around his ankles, seemed more suited to an ancient tale than the modern streets he stood on now. His boots, buckled and high-heeled, clicked softly on the pavement, and behind half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous light. This man was Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely unaware that his very presence was an oddity in this neighbourhood of prim hedges and quiet cul-de-sacs. Instead, he busied himself rummaging through the depths of his robes, searching for something, though the faint sensation of being watched prompted him to glance up. His eyes met those of the cat across the street, still as ever on its wall. A soft chuckle escaped him.

"I should have known," he murmured to himself, amused.

From his robes, Dumbledore drew out a curious object—a silver cigarette lighter, though its purpose was far from ordinary. He flicked it open with a practised hand, raising it to the nearest street lamp, and with a click, the light vanished. He clicked again, and another lamp extinguished, its soft glow snuffed out. Twelve clicks later, the street was plunged into darkness, save for two tiny points of light: the eyes of the cat, gleaming from its perch. Satisfied, Dumbledore tucked the lighter away and made his way toward the very house where the Dursleys now slept, oblivious to the strange happenings outside.

He sat down beside the cat, though he did not look at it, speaking softly into the night.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

In the blink of an eye, the cat was gone, replaced by a stern-looking woman in a dark emerald cloak, her square glasses perched precisely on her nose, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. The lines of tension on her face betrayed a long day of waiting.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, her voice sharp.

"My dear professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly," Dumbledore replied, his tone light.

Professor McGonagall sniffed, clearly unimpressed. "You’d be stiff too if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day."

"All day?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes, celebrating," she said, her voice tight with irritation. "You’d think they’d show a little more discretion, but no—people are parading in broad daylight, swapping stories, not even bothering to hide from the Muggles. It was on the news, Dumbledore! Owls flying everywhere, shooting stars down in Kent. Dedalus Diggle, no doubt."

Dumbledore smiled faintly. "You can hardly blame them, Minerva. It’s been eleven years. We’ve had little to celebrate."

"I know that," she said, her frustration barely contained. "But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being reckless, careless. On the very day that You-Know-Who is finally gone, and still they risk exposing us all."

She paused, eyeing Dumbledore as if expecting him to confirm the rumours swirling around them. But Dumbledore merely continued to twirl a sherbet lemon between his fingers, offering none of the reassurances she sought.

“We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?” 

“A what?”

“A sherbet lemon. 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 sherbet lemons. “As I say, even if you-know-who has gone-”

“My dear professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so confusing if we keep saying.” 

“I know you have,” 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 this much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new ear muffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a sharp look and said, “the owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone is 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 say, 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 sherbet lemon 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 rumpus is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they are - dead.” There was a pause.

"Is it true?" McGonagall pressed, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "The Potters? Lily and James... they're really—?"

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, and with a heavy sigh, he nodded.

Professor McGonagall’s gasp was soft, yet filled with a deep, raw sorrow. "I didn’t want to believe it," she whispered.

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know.. I know…” he said heavily.

But it wasn’t just the Potters that troubled McGonagall. "And the boy? Harry? They say You-Know-Who tried to kill him too. But he couldn’t."

Dumbledore nodded once more, his gaze distant. "Yes. Somehow, the curse failed. We may never know why."

Professor McGonagall dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, her emotions warring with her usual stern demeanour. Dumbledore, meanwhile, checked his peculiar watch, its many hands moving around tiny planets rather than numbers.

"Hagrid’s late, I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?" he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes, and I don't suppose you're going to tell me why here of all places?”

“I've come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now.”

“You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter, come and live here!”

“It's the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “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 - 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 boys 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 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 coak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrids bringing him.”

“You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life.”

“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?”

Moments later, the distant roar of an engine filled the night air, growing louder until a massive motorbike descended from the sky, landing before them. Its rider, a giant of a man, climbed off the bike with surprising care, a bundle cradled in his vast arms.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore said, his voice steady but relief palpable in the stillness. “At last. Where did you find that motorbike?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” Hagrid replied, carefully dismounting. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?” Dumbledore asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“None, sir—though the house was almost wrecked. I got him out just before the Muggles started swarming in. He fell asleep while we were flying over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Triling from under a tuft of his jet-black hair, a large sprawling scar like a lightning strike over his forehead and eyes, one particularly long tendril spread down his little face to his neck underneath the blanket. It looked like many scars that all joined to one patch just under his hairline where it seems as though he was struck by something.

Professor McGonagall gasped, her eyes widening with disbelief. “Is that where—?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded, a sadness in his voice. “He’ll carry that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can be useful. I have one myself, above my left knee, a perfect map of the London Underground.”

McGonagall's head snapped to Dumbledore, appalled. This wasn’t just any scar, this covered half his face; it bore the weight of a past that could never be erased. Though she figured it must be unable to be removed.

“Now, Hagrid,” Dumbledore said gently, “hand him over. We mustn’t linger here.”

With great care, Dumbledore cradled Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys’ house.

“May I say goodbye to him, sir?” Hagrid’s voice trembled, a mixture of sorrow and affection.

He lowered his shaggy head over Harry, planting a kiss that was scratchy but full of warmth. Suddenly, a mournful howl escaped him, breaking the night’s silence.

“Shhh!” Professor McGonagall hissed, her eyes darting around. “You’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” Hagrid stuttered, pulling out a large spotted handkerchief to wipe his tears. “But I can’t bear it—Lily and James gone, and poor little Harry sent to live with Muggles—”

“Yes, yes, I know, but please, Hagrid, we’ll be discovered,” McGonagall whispered, patting him gently on the arm. Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door, laying Harry gently in a basket that had suddenly appeared on the doorstep. He retrieved a letter from his cloak and tucked it inside the blankets, then returned to join the others.

For a moment, they stood in silence, gazing at the little bundle. Hagrid’s shoulders shook with silent sobs, and McGonagall blinked back tears.

“Well,” Dumbledore finally said, breaking the heavy silence. “That’s that. We have no business staying here. We may as well join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” Hagrid replied, his voice muffled with emotion. “I’ll be taking Sirius his bike back. Goodnight, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes with his jacket sleeve, Hagrid climbed onto the motorbike, kicking the engine into life. With a roar, it rose into the night.

“I’ll see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore said, his voice firm yet soft as he turned away. McGonagall could only nod, overwhelmed with emotion.

As Dumbledore walked down the street, he paused at the corner, retrieving the silver Put-Outer. With a flick, he clicked it once, and twelve glowing orbs of light returned to their street lamps, bathing Privet Drive in a warm, comforting glow. He spotted a tabby cat slinking around the corner, then glanced back at the bundle resting on the doorstep of number four.

“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured softly. With a swish of his cloak, he vanished into the night.

Harry lay on the doorstep, shivering against the chill that crept through the air, the darkness pressing in around him like a heavy shroud. Just when it seemed that the night would swallow him whole, a figure emerged from the shadows—a sleek, tabby cat, her fur catching the faint glimmer of the street lamps. With a grace born of practised stealth, Professor McGonagall, in her feline form, approached him, her emerald eyes reflecting a knowing warmth. She wove her way through the shadows, slipping silently into the basket beside him. Curling up tightly, she offered her comforting warmth, a shield against the cold that nipped at Harry's exposed skin. In that moment, the world around them seemed to hold its breath, as if acknowledging the quiet bond between them, and the secrets that lay just beyond the horizon of the ordinary.

A gentle breeze rustled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, where silence reigned under the inky sky—the last place anyone would expect extraordinary events to unfold. Unaware of the magic surrounding him, Harry Potter rolled over in his blankets, instinctively curling toward the warm creature beside him. One small hand closed around the letter tucked close, and he slept peacefully, oblivious to the fact that he was special, famous even. He had no inkling that in just a few hours, Mrs. Dursley would scream as she opened the front door to collect the milk bottles, nor would he know of the prodding and pinching he would endure from his cousin Dudley. At that very moment, people across the country were raising their glasses in celebration, toasting, “To Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived!”