Chapter Text
The Dursley-Evans appeared to have been drifting into an uneasy sleep in their bed, the soft moonlight illuminating their apparently slumbering figures. In fact, it seemed like the whole of Aspen Avenue was sound asleep under the starry night, dark but illuminated by the dozen street lights of the Avenue.
But there was one particular visitor of One Aspen Avenue that was showing no signs of sleepiness at all – and who else would it be, but the cat on the wall?
The cat sitting on the wall outside was as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Aspen Avenue. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all, and, even then, it was just a simple twitch of its tail, and a narrowing of its eyes.
The cat broke its motionlessness because a man appeared at the corner the cat had been watching. He appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched, as it narrowed its eyes, peering at the man.
The man was reminiscent of one of Mr. Dursley-Evans theatre roles, to be frank. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots could be used for inspiration for a new West End production. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. Just like Mr. Dursley-Evans, the sight of the cat amused him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”
He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a pop! He clicked it again – pop! – and the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer – pop!s sounding a dozen times – until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance: the eyes of the cat watching him.
If anyone looked out of their window now, even wide-eyed little Darius, they would barely see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number one, 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 very ruffled.
“I don’t see the similarities between myself and a cat – but apparently, even a Muggle was able to identify me,” she said, slightly glum.
This caused some initial confusion within Dumbledore, but he quickly recomposed himself. “Well, 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,” remarked 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. “You’d think they’d be a bit more careful but even the Muggles have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news – flocks of owls… shooting stars…”
“You can’t blame them,” Dumbledore gently said. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I suppose You-Know-Who really has gone, Dumbledore?” Professor McGonagall inquired, hopeful.
“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for.”
Professor McGonagall sighed and said, “The owls are nothing next to the rumours that are flying around, though. You know what everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was anxious to discuss, the 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 told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was simply staring into the cloudless night sky.
“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night You-Know-Who turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter 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…”
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know… I know…” he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall’s 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. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, You-Know-Who’s power somehow broke – and that’s why he’s gone.”
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
“It’s – it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done… all the people he’s killed… he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of Merlin did Harry survive?”
“We can only guess,” whispered Dumbledore. “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 watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”
“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”
Professor McGonagall gaped at Albus Dumbledore, almost as if she suggested they throw Harry into a cauldron and bring him to a rolling boil. But then, as the mental image of the cauldron transformed into a wooden crib, she closed her mouth and gave a small, warm, smile.
“I see what you’ve done here. I’ve been watching them all day. This family reminds me so much-” and it was here Professor McGonagall had to hold back tears “-of Lily and James. Her sister – Petunia – she’s just like her… smart, sensitive, caring, and sweet. And her husband – Vernon – he apparently knows everything about us, James didn’t hold anything back.”
Both Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall sat in silence for a minute, thinking about the loss of such brilliant members of magical Britain.
“Well, they were practically brothers, and it’s the best place for him.” Dumbledore said, in barely a whisper. “They’ll be able to explain everything to him when he’s older.”
“Yes – yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it – wise – to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” countered Dumbledore.
“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” Professor McGonagall grudgingly said, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to – what was that?”
Professor McGonagall had noticed a slight rustling in the bushes in front of Number One Aspen Avenue, but she quickly noticed a low rumbling sound that broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; they didn’t notice the bushes’ movement next to them as the noise swelled to a roar. Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore both looked up at the sky – and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front 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 so wild – 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,” sighed Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. Were there any problems?”
“No sir – house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
“Is that where -?” whispered Professor McGonagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we’d better get this over with.”
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursley’s house.
“Could I – could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog. The bushes rustled once more.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief – it was almost like a picnic blanket, really – and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it – Lily an’ James dead – an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles –”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found; besides, it’s not as if these Muggles don’t know anything,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door.
“WE’LL BE TAKING HIM, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!”
A booming baritone voice rang out across all the houses of Aspen Avenue, which caused a ruckus among the trio. Hagrid haphazardly reached into one of the many inner pockets of his coat and retrieved a pink umbrella, Professor McGonagall whipped out a – a stick, and Dumbledore, with a flick of his wrist, ejected a very old looking stick from concealment; he held baby Harry close to his heart, keeping him safe.
They all pivoted to face behind them, where there was sure to be a Death Eater or some other Dark being, come to finish off their Lord’s failed work, but instead, they found a lumberjack with thick, green goggles, dressed in stylish white pyjamas and a blonde woman in a white nightgown who, aside from the hair, and her blue eyes, looked very much like the late Lily Potter. Both of them, it seemed, had twigs and leaves stuck to their otherwise pristine sleepwear, almost as if they had just run through a dense forest.
“I’LL TEAR DOWN TA LOT OF YOU! HOW DARE YA TRESPASS ‘ERE ON THIS PROPERTY, TA THREATEN DA LIFE OF ‘ITTLE ‘ARRY! A’LL SHOW YA!”
Hagrid was about to open his pink umbrella, which was caked with mud, threatening to dirty the clothes of the couple in front of them.
“Hagrid, no!”
Professor McGonagall stepped in front of the soon-to-open pink umbrella, grimacing as its tip stained her emerald cloak.
“This is… Vernon and Petunia. They’re Harry’s family, the only ones he has left.”
Hagrid slowly lowered the pink umbrella and the lumberjack stepped forward, saying, “It’s true. We were hiding in the bushes. We heard everything. Saw everything, too, since James gifted me these goggles Charmed to see in the night,” he spoke, tapping at the goggles on his head.
“We would like to be the ones to receive Harry, thank you very much,” the blonde woman said, stepping forward as well. “What were you thinking, leaving him on the doorstep? Anyone could have taken him!”
Dumbledore opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and then said, “I do suppose you are right… leaving him on the doorstep might’ve not been the brightest idea…” Dumbledore looked down at his feet, a twinkle in his eyes gone.
“Well?”
It was here all three of them looked up at the couple, the blonde woman with her hands on her hips, tapping her bare feet as if annoyed.
“Well… what?” Professor McGonagall asked, still shocked at how these Muggles managed to hide from her and Albus.
“Is it – is it true? That Lily and James are – dead?”
Professor McGonagall slowly nodded, hoping the woman wouldn’t shoot the messenger, but was surprised when her brave façade broke down and she collapsed in the arms of the lumberjack, sobbing.
“I didn’t want to believe it – I thought the owl, those people in cloaks you talked about, even the news – I wanted to believe it was all just a coincidence.” The blonde woman shook in the arms of the tan man, his moustache and beard rubbing into her hair.
Dumbledore uneasily lowered his wand as well, unsure of whether the woman’s crying was genuine or just a ruse.
“Listen we – we heard everything,” the blonde woman said, wiping away tears. “And we’d very much be honoured to raise Harry. It’s – it’s what Lily and James would want.” She gave a tight-lipped smile, and combed through her hair once with her hand, miraculously bringing it back to its pre-cry splendour.
“And… you’re the tabby cat, I presume?” asked the lumberjack with a grin, extending his hand to Professor McGonagall. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
“The name, my dear sir, is Professor McGonagall. Although, yes, despite James’ stories of you having reached even the portraits at Hogwarts, we haven’t properly met,” Professor McGonagall said, stepping forward and shaking his and the woman’s hand.
“Me name’s Hagrid. Sorry I scared ya lot back there, I dint mean ta. Merlin knows there’s plenty of us who’d love ter take a stab at baby Harry,” Hagrid sheepishly grinned, also shaking the hands of the couple.
“I do hope this is the last time we see each other,” Dumbledore said, bringing out baby Harry from concealment. “If we must,” he intoned, placing the infant in the blonde’s loving embrace, “that means something has happened.”
The lumberjack looked quizzically at Dumbledore, a mask of disbelief apparent on his face. “And when the time comes for Harry to begin his magical education? We don’t know how to get him a wand, let alone where to exchange our pounds to galleons.”
Dumbledore was, once again, caught off guard. “Not to mention Platform 9¾, Dumbledore,” Professor McGonagall spoke up. “Worst case scenario, the lovely Dursleys and Harry suffer from a concussion from high speed collision at King’s Cross!”
Neither the blonde woman nor the lumberjack had the slightest clue of what Professor McGonagall was talking about, but they nodded their heads, concern radiating from their aura.
“I do suppose… Professor McGonagall will come and show him the ropes, then,” Dumbledore murmured, unsure of how to approach the situation. “Then she can take all of you to Diagon Alley, the two of you and Harry both.”
“That seems about right,” the blonde woman said, smiling at the three. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got a new baby to take care of.” Petunia Dursley looked down at the bundle in her arms, where baby Harry was still fast asleep.
“See you in a decade, then!” Vernon roared, clapping Hagrid and Dumbledore on the back. “And you, fine madam, I expect to spend time with,” he said, kissing her on the hand. Professor McGonagall blushed profusely then pulled back her hand as Vernon walked to his wife, who laughed at his “knightly” behaviour. The two of them disappeared into the house, locking the door behind them.
For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the closed door of One Aspen Avenue, the sounds of a mother tending to her babe muffled through its thin walls. Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, (blush still on her cheeks, however) and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes had been fully extinguished.
“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, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a brrRRR! it rose into the air and off into the night.
“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. She 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 in a whoosh so that Aspen Avenue glowed with the warmth of a crackling fire and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the outline of Petunia and Vernon in the window of Number One.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A breeze ruffled the rose bushes of Aspen Avenue, which lay humming and asleep under the starry sky, the very first place you would expect astonishing things to happen, but the very last place you’d expect a miracle. Harry Potter was changed into a onesie and placed in a crib, all without him waking up. One small hand closed on the delicate, birch-like finger outstretched to him, and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s gentle rocking as she prepared his milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few months being taken on walks in the park with his cousin Darius… 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!”