The Boy Who Lived
It was a strange Sunday. Strangely enthusiastic celebrations started so early that it was still dark outside. But it seems that the cloudy weather that day did nothing to discourage anyone from joining in. Every bystander unaware of the joyous occasion would swear that most partying individuals wore extravagant cloaks of all colours with odd, tall, spiky hats. 'Maybe it was some strange, chaotic Halloween afterparty?' would be the majority's common sense reasoning.
But how did all those facts make themselves known on Privet Drive number four? Well, the strangeness of that Sunday was even greater than those grand parties that seemed to be thrown without occasion. Mysterious happenings were so vast that they made it into the evening news.
Now. What is so special about Privet Drive number four? The answer for most would be: 'Nothing at all'. People who lived there - Mr and Mrs Dursley - would appear to be the most normal, simple, ordinary, down to earth couple one could find. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious.
Mr Dursley - the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills - was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck (it seemed that his moustache had stolen its growing spurt for itself). Mrs Dursley, on the other hand, had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which she fully took advantage of to spy on her neighbours. She was a thin woman and liked to tie her blond hair into a bun on the top of her head. The Dursleys also had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere (which was completely untrue as he was a very naughty child).
But nobody in the neighbourhood knew about one thing that the Dursleys were very happy (and also desperate) to keep hidden. That was the Potters. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's sister and she and her husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. So naturally, the two families haven't met for several years, but Mrs Dursley kept in contact with her sister by occasional letters. That is how the Dursleys knew that the Potters had children too. They had never seen them though.
"These spawns are another good reason for keeping those Potters away. We don’t want Dudley mixing with kids like that, do we Petunia?" Mr Dursley would often remark. He liked to complain about things to his wife and his favourite subjects to do that were 'the wretched, abnormal Potters' (only in the safe space of their home and when Dudley couldn't hear - can’t have anyone overhearing the dirty secret).
When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Sunday, they didn’t know that there were some out of the ordinary things going on outside. Their day went on and on with no special happenings. After a perfectly normal lunch and some much needed rest Mrs Dursley wrestled a screaming Dudley into a coat, then the strolley and the whole family went on the planned walk along their streets.
They were chatting about all and nothing when a peculiar man jogged right past them. He had a long, greying beard and was dressed in a burgundy cloak with a green pattern along the rims! He slowed to a stop at the turn of the alley right next to other funny looking individuals and started whispering excitedly with the group. Mr Dursley’s eye twitched. He really couldn’t stand people like that - acting bonkers. Halloween was yesterday! Get a grip and stop fooling around! He quickened his pace and stirred his family in the opposite direction.
Another sign that something mysterious was happening got noticed by Mrs Dursley. She tried to listen to her husband’s rant about a rude, but wealthy client, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing behind them. She was sure that that tabby cat with strange rectangular markings around its eyes had been sitting next to their house as they were going out. Was it following them? She hoped it would get bored soon…
But even more abnormal was a small flock of owls they saw flying above the local market. Mr Dursley didn’t notice their walk continued so far until he saw the closed shops. He brought to his wife's attention that they should start their way back when he noticed her staring at a specific point in the sky. Sure enough, just after turning to check what caught her eye he noticed the birds. Both adults observed the nighttime animals for a few moments. Mr Dursley hoped he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination. They glanced at each other and coming to a silent agreement they headed home the shortest way.
It was the last string when another huddle of weirdos walked past them from straight ahead. They overheard a few words of their conversation.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard –”
“– yes, their son, Harry –”
The Dursleys stopped dead. Did they hear that right? Impossible. No one knew about their connection to Potters… They exchanged another glance and hurried even more.
“How could they have known, Petunia?” Mr Dursley whisper-shouted to his wife as they finished dinner.
“They could have been talking about someone else. There are surely a lot of families with that surname.” She tried to sound reassuring, but it came out worried. Another spoonful of baby food landed in Dudley’s mouth.
“But with a son named Harry?!”
“It’s a very common name. Really Vernon, we shouldn’t trouble ourselves with this.”
Mr Dursley reluctantly dropped the subject. He went into the living-room in time for the evening news. The last report hit him like a hammer:
“And finally, 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.” The news reader allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as 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 have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it’s still nearly a week away, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”
Mr Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters …
He quickly turned off the TV and went upstairs to join his wife. She was already in the bathroom and Dudley tucked to sleep.
Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? Or their lot ? Anger and disgust bubbled up his throat. If it did … if it got out that they were related to a pair of – well, he didn’t think he could bear it.
Finally, the Dursleys got into bed and both slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep. An action in which a cat on the wall outside seemed to be completely uninterested. The exact same cat Mrs Dursley saw on her stroll. It was sitting as still as a statue - unflinching and unblinking while it stared down Privet Drive.
Around midnight the cat finally moved. It narrowed its eyes on a man who appeared on the far corner of Privet Drive the cat had been watching.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive. Tall, thin, in a purple cloak to the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His silver hair and beard were both long enough to tuck into his belt. His blue eyes were sparkling behind half-moon spectacles resting on his very long and crooked nose.
This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore and he didn’t seem to realise that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. Yet his senses were sharp enough for him to realise he was being watched. He found the offender and for some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him.
After a moment of rummaging through his robes, he fished something out of an inside pocket. It looked like a silver cigarette lighter, but when he opened it and clicked the nearest street lamp went out. No fire flickered to life also the next thirteen times the mechanism clicked. Whole length of Privet Drive was dark though. So he pocketed the Put-Outer and set off towards number four where he claimed a seat on the wall next to the cat.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.” He turned to smile at the tabby, but sitting there now was a rather severe-looking woman with glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. Her black hair drawn into a tight bun matched brilliantly with her emerald cloak. Something clearly upset her.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.
“My dear Professor, I'd recognise your charming grace anywhere.”
“You won't soften me with flattery Albus.” He could have spoken his mind freely. She knew that to the people who met her she was more famous for her glare rather than grace. “I've been here all day and you well know why,” said Professor McGonagall.
“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “Even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news. Shooting stars down in Kent – I’ll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless. A fine thing it would be if, on the very next day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Albus?”
“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “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,” she said coldly. This wasn't the moment for sherbet lemons in her opinion. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone –”
“Professor McGonagall, 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 .” the woman flinched. Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, pretended not to notice. “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 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 so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at him. “The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone’s saying? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that this was the point Professor McGonagal was most anxious to discuss. She drilled the man with the most stare piercing she had used since they started talking. 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 to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James are – are – that they’re – dead .”
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
“Lily and James … I can’t believe it … I didn’t want to believe it … Oh, Albus …" She pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Her voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But – he couldn’t. No one knows why, or how, but Voldemort’s power somehow broke – and that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s – it’s true ?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “How in the name of heaven did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”
He gave a great sniff as he examined an odd, golden watch from his pocket. Its twelve hands and little planets moving around the edge must have made sense to him, because in a moment Dumbledore remarked, “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 now, who can take care of him.”
“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. She looked downright horrified. “ Dumbledore – you can’t . I’ve been following them all day out of some misplaced curiosity. Now I'm glad I did, since I can talk some sense into you." Her face set in a grimace that told clearly just how repelled she was by the man's idea. "You couldn’t find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all afternoon, screaming for sweets–”
“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.” he smiled as if reassuringly. “I’ve written them a letter.”
“A letter ?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Honestly, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter ?”
"I think I've done a decent job gathering everything they need to know on this paper." His eyes twinkled in that way so characteristic of him. "Really, my dear Professor, there is no better place for him to spend his childhood in. I'm convinced."
"But, Dumbledore, all that man did all day was either complain or eat. I can't see their child not following those footsteps with such a weak-willed mother."
“My dear Professor, you judge them too harshly after just one day of observation. I am sure this is the best course of action,” he repeated. “Harry should have a childhood with his remaining family. He’ll be happiest with them.”
“But– but they are awful!” she complained, still unconvinced. “These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous – a legend – I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as 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 again, but changed her mind at last. She swallowed and then said, “Yes – yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?”
“Hagrid’s bringing him.” The woman looked taken aback.
“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 is that?” The low rumbling sound her ears caught grew steadily louder and swelled to a roar. They both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
The size of the man sitting astride it was astounding! He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. The long tangles of bushy black hair and unkept beard hid most of his face. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorbike?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike. “Young Sirius Black lent it me. I’ve got ‘em, sir.”
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir – house was almost destroyed but young Sirius already got ‘em out. Both fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” Dumbledore blinked a few times.
“Both?” the woman was very confused now. Wasn’t Hagrid supposed to bring Potters’ son? Who else did he bring? There was no sign of anyone other than the giant. She turned to the silver haired man to see the strange twinkle in his eyes flickering more than usual. Or she could have imagined that. It was back to normal when he looked at her amused.
“Ah, yes. Potters had more than one child.” He said it unusually slowly, but smiled with a strange satisfaction. “A vastly unknown fact among the public.” Ah, of course - an exclusive information that only the all-knowing Albus Dumbledore could have had.
Professor McGonagall visibly wanted to ask more about the kids, at least the other little one’s name, but Dumbledore ignored her curiosity once again that night. He bent forward over the bundle of blankets and in search of some answers she copied him. Inside, just visible, were two babies, fast asleep. The first one’s cheek was squished against the other’s temple as their arm curled around the other’s chin. Their palm rested on the soft cheek creating a comforting embrace. They both had jet-black hair, but over the cradled one’s forehead was a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning. Within a closer inspection the adults noticed also smaller, weblike lines around it - truly a menacing picture.
“Is that where –?” whispered Professor McGonagall unsettled.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar for ever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give them here, Hagrid – we’d better get this over with.”
Dumbledore took the twins in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys’ house.
“Could I- could I say goodbye to them, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over the two and gave each what must have been a very scratchy kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall. “You’ll wake them up, or worse – the Muggles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ this poor little two off ter live with Muggles –”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but please do be quiet Hagrid,” Dumbledore whispered, then he stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. Professor McGonagall, patted Hagrid gingerly on the arm to calm him a little.
Once the babies were gently laid on the doorstep, he reached into his purple robe for an envelope, which he tucked inside the blankets. The man lingered there and Professor McGonagall could have sworn he swiped a finger across the paper a few times. Maybe he was adding some lines to his explanations afterall?
Then he came 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, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir.”
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve he turned to the vehicle and in just a few moments he was 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 to the corner of the street he first appeared on. At his destination he turned around and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their rightful spots, bathing Privet Drive in an orange glow. A tabby cat was just rounding the other corner of the street. He could just make out the dark bundle on the step of number four.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured 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. Harry Potter rolled even closer to his sister inside their blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the light green sleeve under his chin and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing they 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 he and his sister would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley … He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter – the boy who lived!”