The boy who lived
The Dursleys, number four on Privet Drive, were a small family of three. A mother, a father, and a son. And they were perfectly normal. They were the last people you'd expect to see in relation to anything weird, and the last to be seen anywhere near anything weird, very simply because they refused to tolerate any of the nonsense.
Mr Dursley was a fine, working man. He was always presented as a large man, with very little neck, a large mustache, and quite usually, a tight-looking suit. Mrs Dursley was a thin woman, with charming blonde hair, and she was often craning over a fence due to her long neck. Twice the amount of neck anyone usually had, she had. The youngest Dursley, their little son, Dudley. To them, there was no finer boy in the world, though many would beg to differ.
They were the most normal on the street. But they too had a secret they hadn't wanted anyone to know. Dare it be said, their deepest fear.
The Potters.
Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's sister, though it had been long since she'd acknowledged the fact. They had no reason to meet, and nearly a decade since they had any reason to get along. They would never again, she swore, because Mrs Dursley took it the way any woman would. She pretended she had no sister, no Mrs Potter, no Mr Potter, and no idea who the Potters even were aside from the most unDursleyish family to ever be met. It was, in fact, a fear of there's that the family would ever step foot on Privet Drive, and it made them shudder to think about whatever may happen should they dare.
Mr and Mrs Dursley knew the Potters had a little family of their own, and a small child, just a month or so apart from their own sweetie in age, and that was all they knew. This, they used as another excuse to not have to meet the Potters. They didn't want their darling Dudley mixing in with it. They didn't know what trouble that baby could be; For anyone to insist they even meet was absurd.
One grey Tuesday morning, the Dursleys woke as they always did. To the cries of small baby Dudley, wanting his breakfast. Mrs Dursley found it a fine morning. In fact, today was a great day. Nothing about the colourless skies made the day worse or better, and it made all the sense in the world that no odd or mysterious thing aught to happen. Mr Dursley picked out his best tie- the most boring but the most expensive-- and Mrs Dursley babbled away happily about some recent gossip, pretending as though she were not trying to peek through the open curtains of her neighbours while she wrangled Dudley into his high chair.
The morning was so fine, that not a single one of them noticed the owl fly past the window. By the time it was half-past eight, Mr Dursley headed out to work. It was a dashing day in the making for him; That was, until a tabby cat looking to have been reading a map caught the side of his eye. He turned around, full force, and rubbed his eyes when he saw the cat had no map at all, but was rather simply sitting there. No map anywhere to be seen.
What had he been thinking? Maybe just a trick of the light, he told himself. He stared at the cat, and it stared back. He went to his car, and drove up the road. The whole time, he watched in the mirror as the cat read the sign that said Privet Drive-- no, not reading it. Staring at it. Cats can't read. Mr Dursley gave his head a slight slap and shook his whole body two times over for good measure. He clearly wasn't fully awake. While he sat in the morning traffic, ignoring the senseless music of the radio, he thought of the large order of drills he had been hoping to get today. For a little bit, that was all he thought.
That is, until, crossing the street, right as he was the first car in the line, there were a number of people dressed in cloaks. He couldn't stand the "trends" these days; All these young people wearing ridiculous clothing! No sense at all, of style nor in general. Mr Dursley nearly jumped out of his car when he saw what looked to be a man older than himself in a cloak the colour of emeralds! But then it struck him, it must be something new that was popular. Yes, even he used to be engrossed in what was most popular... blissfully unaware of how silly he looked. Or, perhaps, all these people were in some new neighbourhood group. Nonetheless, he'd ask Mrs Dursley about it later; She was always hooked on the latest news and trends.
When he finally reached the building of Grunnings, he took no time to, as he always did, go to his office on the ninth floor and do his work. Mr Dursley always sat facing away from the window, for the sun was always shining too bright whenever he wasn't. Perhaps it was a good thing as such, because he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He did not ever spot the owls swooping past in broad daylight, but the people in the street clearly did; They pointed and glazed, open-mouthed and shocked as owl after owl and the next sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl, even at nighttime.
Mr Dursley, however, had an absolutely perfect, normal, owl-free morning. He'd yelled at only five different people, much less than normal; He made several important telephone calls and only had to shout just a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, in which he thought it'd be nice to stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.
He'd forgotten all about the questionable people wandering in cloaks until he passed a whole group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed, but they seemed too happy to mind. They made him terribly uneasy, with their excited whispering and cheerful faces... perhaps they'd gotten their hands on some unsavory substances, and he didn't see a single collecting tin, nor were they asking anyone for spare change...
It was on his way back that Mr Dursley managed to catch a few words of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard..."
"And nobody knows if it was a boy or girl... yes, their little child, Harry, a boy, I bet, with that name--"
Mr Dursley stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran cold at the thought, and he glanced back at the whisperers, almost as if he wanted to say something to them, but he got another thought. One much more calming.
Potter wasn't an uncommon name. And neither was Harry. He didn't even know if the Potters' boy was named Harry. Harold, or Harvey, maybe. Or maybe they didn't even have a son. It had been months since the Potters called about their little baby, and he nor Mrs Dursley didn't listen anyway. But he still felt displeasure at not knowing.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to the ninth floor, snapped at his secretary to not disturb him, seized the telephone, and.... He'd nearly finished dialing his home number when he realised how silly he'd sound. She hated any mention of the Potters, as did he. Hell, if he had a sister like that, he'd...
He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache worrily, thinking... those people in the cloaks... perhaps... they were odd too, just as the Potters were. But they wouldn't dare do anything- not in broad daylight... truly, he best not ruin Mrs Dursley's day as his own had been.
But, think of this; On Mr Dursley's way out of the building at five o'clock, he was still so distracted that he walked right into someone just outside the door.
"Sorry," He grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and nearly fell. It was a moment or two before Mr Dursley realised the man was wearing a bright violet cloak. And to his surprise, he didn't seem at all upset; No, on the contrary, his face broke 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, yes, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this joyous day! Praise be, joyous, joyous day!"
He hugged Mr Dursley round the middle and walked off without another word. Mr Dursley was rooted to the spot. He'd been hugged by a complete stranger, called a Muggle, whatever that was, and he was absolutely certain there was just something in the air. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was simply off his rocker, which he had never hoped ever since he'd gained some sense, because he didn't approve of such vile things. Imagination was strictly forbidden in his own mind, because it kept him from what was important.
The nerve of people these days! When he pulled into the driveway of number four, his mood had nearly soured at the sight- that same tabby cat sat still on the curb. The same markings around it's eyes.
"Shoo!" Mr Dursley loudly said, waving his hand at the small cat. Rather than moving, he just got a stern look. Did cats normally act like this?, Mr Dursley wondered. He'd never owned a cat, ridiculous creatures. Too abnormal and furry for his normal. He attempted to collect his thoughts, and allowed himself to walk into the house. He was very simply determined to not say a word to his wife.
Mrs Dursley, however, had a delightful day. Over dinner, she chattered cheerily about how Mr and Mrs Next Door were having behavioral problems with their little daughter and how Dudley learned a new word— "Won't!"— while Mr Dursley tried to act as cordial as possible. When the tyke went to bed, he sat in the living room just in time to listen to the last report of the day:
"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... most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said Jim McGuffin, smoothing down his small moustache, "I don't know about that. It's not only the owls that have been acting wild today, mate. Viewers 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 've started celebrating Bonfire Night early-- try and keep that spirit reeled in until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight. Ha- hopefully!"
Mr Dursley tensed up in his chair. Shooting stars? Owls flying in daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? A whisper- a whisper about the Potters...
Mrs Dursley walked in with two cups of tea, and He almost twitched. He had to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously, and she looked up at him delicately. "Er... Petunia, dear-- you- you haven't heard from your sister lately, er, have you?"
As per expectation, Mrs Dursley had a look of angered shock. After all, she was not the only one who pretended as though she didn't have one.
"No!" She spat sharply. "Why?!"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr Dursley mumbled. "Owls, shooting stars.... And there were a lot of funny-looking people in the streets.."
"So?" Snapped his wife.
"Well, I just thought... maybe it had something to... to do with her crowd."
Mrs Dursley sipped her tea with tight lips and her eyes squinted. Would he dare tell her he had heard the name "Potter?" He decided he'd rather not. He brought up, as casually as possible; "They had a child, didn't they? He'd be about Dudley's age now, hm?"
"I suppose so, but I don't quite care." She replied stiffly.
"What was his name, Howard or Harrison or that?" He asked.
Mrs Dursley scoffed. "They always called that little baby Harry, or something. Never elaborated on whether it was a boy or girl, figured I'd know. Nasty common name, I say."
"Oh, yes," Mr Dursley replied. "Yes, I quite agree. Horrid name for a wretched brat in the making."
He hadn't brought it up again for the rest of the night. When they had gone to bed, Mr Dursley saw out the window something that shocked him; That same cat. As if it was waiting.
Was he imagining things? Could this all have been to do with the Potters? If it did... if it got out that they were related to... he didn't think he could bear it.
He shook the thought away. The Potters, even if they were involved, knew better than to come anywhere near him and Mrs Dursley. The Potters knew very well how he and Petunia felt about them and their horrid kind... he couldn't see how they could get mixed up in anything their kind dare do, anyhow... he yawned and turned over... it couldn't affect them....
Little did Mr Dursley know.
Mr Dursley may have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat sitting up on the wall outside showed no sign of such. It was sitting still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly upon 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, hooting back and forth. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.
A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently that 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 Privet Drive ever seen; He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, both long enough to tuck into his belt. He wore long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles that lined his long, crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken atleast twice.
This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome, and in more ways than one. No, he was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which still stared at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled, muttering, "I should have known."
He found what he had been searching for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter; He flicked it open, held it just above his head, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again- the next lamp flickered out. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only remaining lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. Had anyone looked out their window, even beady-eyed Mrs Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see a single thing that was happening down on the pavement.
Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back into his cloak pocket 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 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?"
"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 gruffly, flexing her neck.
"All day?" repeated Dumbledore. "When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen or so feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating, alright," she muttered impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, no matter how happy they may be, but no- even the Muggles have noticed something's off. It was on their news." she jerked her head towards the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent! I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle-- he never had very much sense."
"Ah, well, you can't blame them," Dumbledore said gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know," Professor McGonagall said irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors..."
She paused to throw a sharp, sideways glance Dumbledore's way, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on.
"A fine thing would be, if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," nodded Dumbledore. "We've much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"Pardon?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you," Professor McGonagall said, rather coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment 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? I understand the current fear, but now, there is no such need. All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense-- for eleven years, I have been trying to persuade people to call him by a better name- a proper name, at the least. But now, you may-- Voldemort."
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was pulling apart two lemon drops which were stuck together, seemed not to notice.
"It all gets so confusing if we keep saying You-Know-Who. I've never seen any reason to be so frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"Yes, I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admirant, "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Who-- oh, alright-- Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," chuckled Dumbledore lowly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too-- well-- noble to use them."
"Oh, 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 finally 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 himself 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 Godric's Hollow. Went to find the Potters. The rumor is... that... that Lily and James Potter have- are- are- that they're- they're dead."
Dumbledore bowed his head lightly. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I-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... but, I have been informed by St.Mungo's that there is hope for Lily. To my knowledge, she had a bit of life left in her."
Professor McGonagall nodded, but she had more to say, and her voice trembled as she continued. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's children... but all I've heard is 'Harry.' But, even, he- he couldn't. 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. It's impossible, I'm sure- Lily and James never had a son. Only two daughters, and neither of them were named Harry, correct?"
Dumbledore nodded glumly. "Yes, there has been some sort of, er, entire misunderstanding. I believe the one they've been meaning is Harley."
"And what about Harmony? If- if it's true?" Professor McGonagall countered. "After all Voldemort's done, all the- the people he's killed... he couldn't stop a pair of little girls?"
"We were unable to find Harmony," said Dumbledore quietly, bowing his head once more.
"But... then... it's utterly astounding, I... of all the things to stop him, not two, but just one. How in the world did Harley survive?"
"We can only guess, dear Professor. 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 pocket watch from his cloak and examined it. It was an odd sort of pocket watch; It had twelve hands but no numbers- instead, little planets moved around the edge. It must've made sense to Dumbledore, however, because he put it back in his cloak 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'm here to bring Harley to her aunt and uncle. I'm afraid they're the only family she has now, the only remaining relatives closely related enough within the country."
"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 of their own-- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. You're kidding-- Harley, come and live here!"
"As much as I would agree, this is the best place for her." said Dumbledore firmly. "Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to her when she'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 her! She'll be famous- an utter legend! I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harley Potter day in the future- Harry, whoever! There will be books written about Harley-- every child in our world will know her name! The wrong name, yet, still!"
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy or girl's head. Famous before she can even walk and talk properly! Famous for something she won't even remember! Can you see how much better off she'll be, growing up away from all that until she's ready to take it?"
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes... yes, you- you're right, of course. But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harley underneath.
"Hagrid will be bringing her."
"You- you think it-- wise-- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore simply.
"Not to say 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 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 infront 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 too wild to the eye-- 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 in the world did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrow'd it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black len' ih' to me. I've go' her with me, sir."
"No problems, were there?"
"Eh, no, I wouldn' say. House was almost destroyed, but I got her out alright before the Muggles started swarmin' 'round. Couldn' find the other one in time, but I don't... er... well, Harley's just alright. 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 girl, fast asleep. Underneath a tuft of curly, nearly jet-black hair over her forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, much like a bolt of lightning spread across her face.
"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore quietly. "She'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, yes-- give her here, Hagrid, if you will. We'd better get this over with."
Dumbledore took Harley in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Co- could I... could I say goodbye to 'er, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harley and gave her what must've been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," Hagrid sobbed, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. But I-I ca- I can't stand it-- James n' Harmony, d-dead-- an' Lily gon', an' poor lil' Harley off ter live with Muggles--"
"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 on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. Hesitantly, he laid Harley gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harley's blankets, and then walked 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, his voice very quiet, "that's that. We've no business staying here too long. We may as well go and join the celebrations before any of us get any particular ideas."
"Yeah," Hagrid mumbled, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. Let 'im know his niece made ih' safely.... 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, still entirely asleep.
"Good luck, Harley," 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.
Harley Potter rolled over inside her blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside her and she slept on for the entire night; Not knowing she was special, not knowing she was famous, not knowing she 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 she would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by her cousin Dudley.
She would not know that she would no longer be Harley Potter, no longer a little girl, but rather a little boy, known by the name that nearly every witch and wizard would say in admiration for years to come, as, at this very moment, all over the country, people met in secret, holding up wine and champagne glasses, saying in quiet voices...
"To Harry Potter-- the boy who lived!"