The Price of Trust
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold such nonsense.
A cat sat perched on the wall of a house belonging to the peculiar Muggles, showing no outward sign of weariness. It remained as still as a statue, its eyes unblinking as they focused on the far end of the street. Without a sound, a man appeared from the corner the cat had been watching, so quietly that one might believe he had materialised out of thin air.
Albus Dumbledore had just arrived on a street where everything about him—from his name to his boots—seemed out of place, making him an odd and unwelcome guest. He glanced at the cat and said with a smile, “Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.” Minerva, in her animagus form, was far from amused by his casual greeting. She had been sitting stiffly on that brick wall all day, enduring bizarre news and watching wizards openly gossip and parade around in their robes, without the slightest effort to hide themselves from the Muggles.
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore, hoping he would offer some explanation. But when he remained silent, she pressed on. "I’ve heard whispers—about You-Know-Who's disappearance. From the flurry of owls to the gossip in the streets. Is it true, Dumbledore? Has he really gone?"
"It certainly seems to be so," Dumbledore replied calmly. "We have much to be thankful for. But, my dear Professor, don't you think it’s time we stopped with all this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense? He does have a proper name: Voldemort." McGonagall flinched at the name, but Dumbledore paid it no mind.
The news of Voldemort’s apparent defeat had already spread like wildfire through the Wizarding World, even before the Potters’ bodies had grown cold. McGonagall took a breath, her voice wavering slightly as she asked, "The rumours... about Lily and James. Are they—are they really dead?" Dumbledore bowed his head in solemn confirmation. McGonagall gasped, the weight of the truth settling in.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she continued, "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 failed to kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and now, he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded gravely.
"It’s true?" McGonagall exclaimed, her shock evident. "After all he's done... all the people he's murdered... all that power... and he couldn't kill a child? It's astounding. But how—how in Merlin's name did Harry survive?"
Dumbledore's expression turned contemplative, his eyes clouded with thought. "We can only guess. We may never know for certain," he said softly. But deep inside, a part of him suspected it wasn’t Harry who had thwarted Voldemort—it was something Lily had done.
Only time would reveal the truth.
Professor McGonagall took a moment to steady herself before asking the question that had been gnawing at her all day. "And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me whyyou’re here, of all places?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses as he replied, "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?" She cried, horrified, pointing at Number Four. "Dumbledore, you simply cannot. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two people who are less like us! Harry Potter cannot grow up here—he needs to be raised by our people, by magicals!"
"It’s the best place for him," Dumbledore said, his tone firm and unyielding. "His aunt and uncle will explain everything when he’s older. I’ve written them a letter."
"A letter?" McGonagall repeated faintly, disbelief etched in every syllable. She took a deep breath, her voice more insistent now. "Headmaster, really—these people will never understand him! He’ll be famous—a legend, even. I wouldn’t be surprised if Harry Potter’s name is already on the lips of every household! He’ll be a hero, a role model to every child in our world."
Dumbledore remained unmoved, his expression hardening slightly. "Precisely why he cannot grow up in it. Fame before he even knows what it means? Famous for something he won’t remember, something he didn’t even do? No, Minerva, can’t you see? He’ll be much better off here, away from all that. He needs to grow up humble, untouched by the fame that would surround him if he stayed in our world."
McGonagall shook her head in disbelief, her heart aching for the child. She had hoped Dumbledore would see reason, but his mind was made up. The Harry Potter she had envisioned—growing up loved, cherished, and celebrated for the boy he was—was instead to be hidden away in a place that would never understand his world.
As Minerva continued to grapple with the heavy decision of leaving the child in such an unremarkable, unwelcoming place, a sudden thought struck her. "You said you're here to leave Harry with his relatives, but…" She glanced around, realizing something crucial. "Where is the boy? I don’t see him with you. Who’s bringing Harry, then?"
"Hagrid’s bringing him," Dumbledore answered calmly.
McGonagall’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her frustration, already simmering from the day's events, boiled over once more. "You entrusted Hagrid—the least responsible person I can think of—with this? Did you truly think that was wise, given the gravity of this situation?"
Dumbledore remained unfazed. "I would trust Hagrid with my life."
Minerva pressed her lips together, clearly unconvinced but not wanting to insult the gentle half-giant further. "I'm not questioning his heart, Albus. It's in the right place, I know that. But surely—"
Her protest was cut short by a low rumbling sound approaching from the sky. They both turned to see a motorbike, enormous in size, descending from the clouds. But even the great bike paled in comparison to the man astride it. Hagrid’s immense figure filled the air as he touched down gently, holding a bundle of blankets in his vast arms.
"Hagrid, at last," Dumbledore said, sounding relieved as he stepped forward.
Both Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent down to peer at the bundle. Nestled inside, just barely visible, was a small boy, fast asleep. His tousled raven hair fell across his forehead, revealing a thin, delicate spiral scar. This scar, a remnant of an ancient and powerful ritual crafted by Lily, holds significance that remains unknown to all—for now.
Dumbledore gazed at the boy's forehead and remarked, "He will carry that scar with him always."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" Minerva asked, her voice laced with concern. She couldn't bear the thought of these Muggles having yet another reason to see him as an outsider.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't," Dumbledore replied firmly. "Scars can serve a purpose. Now, we must proceed. Hagrid, please hand him over to me." Dumbledore gently took Harry into his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
Hagrid, overwhelmed with emotion, began to cry loudly, prompting Minerva to hiss at him to quiet down.
Dumbledore carefully placed the sleeping child on the doorstep of Number Four Privet Drive on that chilly November night. He reached into his cloak, retrieving a letter and tucking it into Harry's blankets before returning to join the other two.
For a moment, they stood in silence, taking in the sight of the little boy nestled in his bundle. Hagrid's shoulders shook with sobs, while Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, praying that Lily and James wouldn't resent her for leaving their son in such a mundane place. Dumbledore, too, hoped he was making the right choice in leaving Harry here, trusting that the boy would grow up kind, humble, and capable of forgiveness.
At long last, Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh, “Well, that’s that. We have no further business here. We might as well join the celebrations.”
Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid revved Sirius's motorbike with a thunderous roar and took off into the night sky. Dumbledore turned to Professor McGonagall, who was still transfixed by the sight of the young child on the doorstep. “I expect to see you soon, Professor,” he said softly. Minerva merely blew her nose in response, her emotions too raw for words.
Dumbledore walked down the street, his mind occupied with strategies for the looming war. He had just taken the first step in ensuring that the child of prophecy would grow up malleable and unaware of the wizarding world. In doing so, he aimed to shape Harry into a weapon, one ready to be wielded against Voldemort when the time came.
With a final glance at the sleeping bundle, he then apparated back to Hogwarts. Minerva, too, would soon be leaving—possibly to her home, where she could mourn the Potters and all the others who had perished that night, their sacrifices likely to be overshadowed by the celebrations of victory in the Wizarding World.
Meanwhile, on the other side of London, Sirius was already beginning to regret his decision to chase after Peter. The rat was nearing the crowded Muggle streets, creating chaos and unrest. Without any regard for the Statute of Secrecy, Peter began attacking Sirius openly, casting curses recklessly into the gathering crowd. Sirius, torn between his desire to stop Peter and his rage over the deaths of his best friends, struggled to protect the innocent bystanders.
Peter, fully aware that he had Sirius cornered, played his hand expertly. The secret-keeper ruse had been a perfect double bluff. Only a select few knew that Sirius wasn’t the actual secret-keeper, but most—including the public—believed he had been. Peter used this to his advantage, shrieking loud enough for everyone to hear, “Sirius! You betrayed Lily and James, and now you're here to finish me off for your Dark Lord!”
The Muggles around them gasped, confused and panicked, while Sirius could only stare in shock as Peter expertly twisted the situation to appear the victim.
Peter seized the opportunity, casting a powerful Blasting Curse that ripped through the street, killing twelve innocent Muggles in an instant. The explosion served as the perfect distraction. In the chaos, Peter severed a finger from his right hand, leaving it behind as a gruesome clue. Then, without hesitation, he transformed into his Animagus form—a small, unassuming rat—and darted into the sewers, vanishing from sight.
The scene he left behind was one of utter devastation, with shattered glass, debris, and lifeless bodies scattered across the street. But worse than the destruction was the immediate fallout: every eye turned to Sirius, who stood at the centre of the carnage. It was all too easy for the remaining Muggles, and soon the authorities, to assume that Sirius Black had been the culprit—the betrayer of the Potters and now the murderer of twelve innocent lives.
The trap had worked. Peter had vanished, and Sirius would soon find himself at the heart of a storm of accusations, left to shoulder the blame for crimes he hadn't committed.
Sirius stood amidst the wreckage, disbelief swirling in his mind as he tried to process the enormity of what had just happened. Peter Pettigrew—the bumbling, seemingly harmless friend—had outwitted them all. The idiot of their group had orchestrated a betrayal so profound, and now, in an instant, he had managed to frame Sirius for it all.
The irony was almost unbearable. Sirius let out a bark of laughter—harsh, broken, and wild—like a man who had lost everything. His best friends were dead, his godson was lost, and now, his own reputation lay in ruins. He couldn't stop the manic laughter that bubbled up from his throat. To anyone watching, he looked like a madman.
And it was in that state—laughing like a crazed figure at the centre of a massacre—that the Aurors arrived. They took in the scene: the bodies of the Muggles, the destruction, and Sirius Black standing there, wand in hand, evidence of his supposed crime lying all around him. The severed finger of Peter Pettigrew was the only trace of his so-called victim.
Everything pointed to him, and Sirius knew in that moment that the world had turned against him, just as Peter had planned.
And so, the authorities arrested Sirius on the spot. He didn’t resist. What would be the point? Despite his years of fighting for the Light, despite his defiance of his family's legacy, Sirius knew that none of it would matter now. He was a Black, and that name carried with it a weight he could never fully escape. The world would always equate him with darkness, with betrayal, even if he had never once faltered in his loyalty.
The rumours would spread. People would whisper that he had always been the spy, a traitor hiding in plain sight, pretending to be the Potters' best friend while secretly working for the Dark Lord. They would assume it had all been part of a grand deception. Sirius Black, the Dark Wizard—how could it have been any other way?
His only hope lay in the possibility of a trial, a chance to speak the truth. But would it be fair? Would anyone believe him? He could only hope for justice, but it felt like a faint, far-off dream. All he really wanted was to hold his godson—his blood-adopted son—and grieve together for James and Lily. But that reunion seemed further away than ever now.
Unfortunately for Sirius, with the sudden influx of captured Death Eaters and the Ministry of Magic overwhelmed by the chaos following You-Know-Who's downfall, he was forgotten amidst the frenzy. The system that should have offered him a chance to defend himself was collapsing under the weight of the war’s aftermath. There was no trial, no chance to plead his case, and no justice.
Sirius Black, a man who had risked his life for the Light, was swept aside like debris in the storm. Without so much as a hearing, he was sent directly to Azkaban, condemned to rot in the Wizarding world’s darkest prison, where no one would hear his story or his truth.
While all this was unfolding, the last of the Marauders, Remus Lupin, returned from his mission. He had been sent as an ambassador for the Light side, tasked with negotiating with a pack of werewolves, hoping to sway them away from Voldemort’s influence. But when he arrived back in the city, everything had gone to hell. The devastation in the wake of Voldemort's downfall and the betrayal among his own friends left him hollow.
He had lost his two best friends—James and Lily—to the Dark Lord’s cruelty. And now, he was told that Sirius, his other closest friend, had betrayed them all. Not only that, but Sirius had allegedly killed their last surviving friend, Peter, along with 12 Muggles. Remus didn’t know what to believe anymore. His heart screamed that Sirius would never harm James, never betray Harry. Yet a darker part of his mind whispered doubts—Sirius had a reckless streak, one that had nearly cost lives in the past, all in the name of a prank.
The thought gnawed at him, leaving him distraught and paralyzed by grief and confusion. How could he reconcile the Sirius he loved and trusted with the man who had supposedly done such horrible things? Remus was lost, wandering the streets of a world that felt suddenly unfamiliar and without the friends he had once believed would always be by his side.
With the night finally giving way to a new dawn, everything appeared as usual on Privet Drive—a perfectly normal morning in a perfectly ordinary neighbourhood. As she did every morning, Petunia Dursley of number four opened her front door to collect the newspaper. But today, instead of the crisp, neatly folded paper she expected, she was met with the most abnormal sight imaginable.
A bundle—small, quiet, and mysterious—was placed on her doorstep. Petunia froze, eyes darting around the street to make sure no one was watching, that none of her nosy neighbours would witness this bizarre intrusion into their carefully maintained life of normalcy. She couldn't believe her eyes; this was not the kind of thing that happened to people like the Dursleys. Inwardly, she panicked.
Her heart raced as she leaned down cautiously, her sharp features contorted in distaste, and her fingers trembled as she touched the blanket.
She brought the bundle of blankets inside the house, her mind already racing with questions. As she unwrapped the soft layers, her breath caught in her throat. Inside was a baby, fast asleep, with a small note pinned to his blanket. Petunia unfolded it with trembling hands, revealing neat, flowing handwriting addressed to her.
As she read the letter, her expression shifted from confusion to utter horror and fury. It was a letter from him—that strange, bearded man her sister had spoken of once. The words confirmed her worst fears: her estranged sister, Lily, and that good-for-nothing husband of hers were dead. Petunia was stunned for a moment, but the shock quickly faded. While she had long since pushed her sister out of her life, the thought of her sudden death in a "freak accident" stirred a faint flicker of sadness in her. However, it wasn't enough to make her feel anything close to regret or compassion.
But then the rage bubbled up. Petunia's lip curled in disgust as she continued reading the letter. Not only had her sister died, but this Dumbledore—this presumptuous man—had the audacity to leave her sister’s child on her doorstep and expect her to take him in? She wanted nothing to do with that boy. There was no doubt in her mind that he would inherit all the same abnormalities, the same unnaturalness, that had poisoned her sister's life. Petunia could barely contain her indignation.
"How dare he?" she spat aloud, her hands shaking as she crushed the letter in her fist. This wasn’t just an inconvenience—it was an imposition, a violation of the careful, perfectly ordinary life she had worked so hard to cultivate. She would not allow this boy to ruin everything.
Vernon Dursley trudged down the stairs, already irritated by the disruption to his morning routine. His brow furrowed further when he saw his wife in an unusual state of agitation, pacing the living room with a bundle of blankets on the sofa and a crumpled letter clenched tightly in her hand. Petunia’s face was flushed with anger, her normally controlled demeanour unraveling before his eyes.
"What’s all this, then?" Vernon asked, his voice gruff, but curious. It wasn’t often his wife looked so worked up—something was clearly amiss. His gaze flicked from her to the bundle on the couch, and a sinking feeling began to form in the pit of his stomach.
Petunia quickly explained, her words sharp and filled with venom. "It’s her child—Lily’s child!" she hissed. "They—they’re dead! Lily and that Potter man! Killed by some madman named Voldemort—and now we are expected to look after their son!"
Vernon’s face turned a dangerous shade of red as the words sank in. He sputtered for a moment, trying to wrap his head around what he was hearing. "You mean that lot? Your freak of a sister and her no-good husband?" he roared. "And now they want us to take in their child? What kind of nonsense is this? We have our own family to think about!"
His outrage only grew as he paced back and forth, ranting about the unfairness of it all. "After everything we’ve done to live a perfectly normal life, this is how they repay us? Dropping off this… boy like he’s a lost parcel? We can’t have this kind of thing in our home, Petunia! Think about Dudley! What will the neighbours say? This is absolutely unacceptable!"
Petunia, still fuming herself, nodded in agreement. But deep down, there was a part of her—a small, frightened part—that feared what would happen if they didn’t take the boy in. She knew the people in her sister's world had a strange way of making things happen, whether they liked it or not. But even that didn’t ease the bile rising in her throat at the thought of raising her sister's son.
"We’ll write back to that Dumbledore—tell him to come and take him away," Vernon declared with finality. "We want nothing to do with this mess!"
And so, the Dursleys, still seething with indignation, sat down at the dining table to draft a letter to this Dumbledore person. Petunia’s lips were thin as she wrote out their refusal, each word dripping with disdain for her sister’s world and everything connected to it. Vernon hovered over her shoulder, offering curt suggestions and adding his own touch of irritation.
However, as they finished, an uncomfortable silence settled between them. Neither of them had any clue how to send the letter to this Albus Dumbledore. There was no address, no contact information—just that cryptic name. Vernon, already nearing his limit of strangeness for the day, scowled deeply at the letter.
"I'll just post it," he grumbled, grabbing the envelope. "Might as well try. Some strange thing is bound to happen when it reaches them. They always seem to have their ways."
Petunia nodded, relieved that Vernon would take care of it. "Good. Just get rid of it, Vernon. And quickly."
Without another word, Vernon left the house with the letter in hand, determined to rid their lives of this unwanted complication. He planned to post it on his way to the office, assuming that once the letter was gone, so too would this unnatural burden.
Meanwhile, Petunia remained behind, fretting as she cleaned obsessively. She prayed that soon, this strange boy, this intrusion into their perfect, normal life, would be taken off their hands. One way or another.
However, when they were informed that they were the only remaining relatives left for the boy, the Dursleys were forced to adjust to this major inconvenience. There was no escaping it. And let’s not even get started on the strangeness of the boy. Harry was an unusually quiet child, hardly ever crying or fussing. He would look around with unnervingly intelligent eyes, eating and drinking only when something was placed in front of him, but never asking or demanding anything. It was as though he was waiting for something—something only he knew would happen soon. This quietness unsettled the Dursleys, though they did their best to ignore it.
Despite their discomfort, they ensured Harry was fed and kept clean, but that was the extent of their care. The rest of their time and affection went to their perfect son, Dudley. Dudley was everything Harry wasn’t: loud, demanding, always wanting attention—just as a normal child should be. "Do you hear that, boy?" Vernon would mutter under his breath when Harry remained silent. "A perfectly normal child."
And to them, that was all that mattered—being normal, and Harry, with his strange silence and unnerving gaze, was anything but.
Life carried on in its dreary monotony at Number Four, Privet Drive, with Harry growing up in the shadows, unnoticed and unloved. The Dursleys went about their days, pretending the boy didn’t exist, focusing all their energy on spoiling Dudley, while Harry became just another piece of furniture.
Meanwhile, across the Wizarding World, Sirius Black languished in Azkaban, locked away without a trial, consumed by guilt, rage, and grief, left to rot in the darkness with no hope of clearing his name. Remus Lupin, on the other hand, was lost in his own isolation, tormented by the devastating loss of his friends and haunted by the questions surrounding their deaths. Trust was shattered, and in his solitude, he didn’t know what or who to believe anymore.
And then there was Dumbledore. He moved quietly and meticulously behind the scenes, pulling strings with the skill of a master puppeteer. His many titles and the authority they brought him gave him the power to control more than anyone knew. With a few discreet conversations and well-placed decisions, he ensured that the Potter wills, which held truths no one could imagine, were locked away deep within the Ministry—never to see the light of day. For now, Harry’s future was secured—just as Dumbledore had planned.
But truly, the Headmaster should have known better. While James Potter followed him with unwavering loyalty, trusting Dumbledore’s every word, Lily Potter was not so easily swayed. Despite her Muggle-born status, Lily was known as the ‘brightest witch of her age’ for a reason. She understood the politics of the Wizarding World, the tendency of those in power to bend rules to suit their own agendas.
Lily, ever cautious and meticulous, had prepared for this very possibility. She knew that there was a chance their wishes, outlined in their wills, might be conveniently disregarded if it didn't align with the plans of certain individuals. So, she took matters into her own hands. Unbeknownst to Dumbledore, she had set up her own countermeasures—ancient protections and contingencies—to ensure that Harry would be safeguarded, not merely hidden away. Her goal was for her son to grow up in a home filled with love and warmth, far from the cold manipulations of the political machinations Dumbledore sought to control.
Lily’s love for Harry was a force far stronger than anyone realized, and the spells she wove were more than just protective—they were designed to outmanoeuvre even the most powerful of wizards. Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, had underestimated the one witch who had thought of everything.
As Chief Warlock of the British Wizengamot, Dumbledore presented his carefully orchestrated version of events. He assured the court that Harry James Potter had been placed in a safe, loving environment, where he would be nurtured and treated like a prince. The room of witches and wizards readily accepted these assurances—after all, who would dare question the great Albus Dumbledore? With no reason to doubt him, they returned to their lives, blissfully unaware that their saviour, the hero of their world, was growing up in a home where he was not only unloved, but also unwanted.
Dumbledore, confident that his plan had taken root, returned to the routine of overseeing Hogwarts and juggling his myriad responsibilities. After receiving the Dursleys' angry letter, he had written back firmly, informing them they were Harry’s only remaining family and had no choice but to raise him as their own. Surely, he thought, they understood the importance of their new duty.
For a full week, everything in the Wizarding World went according to Dumbledore's plan. Peace settled, and it seemed as though the crisis had passed smoothly. But just as Dumbledore began to relax, everything collapsed. His meticulous plotting was rendered useless when the unthinkable happened: Lily Potter, in her brilliance and foresight, had unleashed a safeguard that blindsided the entire Wizarding World.
A bombshell revelation exploded across the Wizarding community. The secret Lily had kept, the countermeasure she had planned for, came to light. And in that moment, Dumbledore scrambled—desperate to regain control, desperate to steer the narrative back into his hands before fingers began pointing at him. He needed to act quickly, to ensure that his image as the benevolent leader of the Light remained untarnished, even as the truth began to unravel around him.