Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived

November 1st, 1981

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 with such nonsense.

As the director of Grunnings, a firm specializing in the production of drills, Mr. Dursley commanded an air of authority befitting his position. His imposing stature, meticulously cultivated over the years, served as a testament to his determination to assert dominance in any situation. A thick, meticulously groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, meticulously tended to under the watchful eye of Mrs. Dursley, whose reminders ensured that not a hair was out of place.

She had looked frail in comparison to her husband, but in truth her nature was that of a different flavor—but still lent to the same end. Her free time was typically spent preening over her garden and craning her neck over garden fences and listening out for the gossip out on Privet Drive.

Each of the Dursley pair had complimented the other, and their time together had been happy—at least, if you were either Mr. or Mrs. Dursley. From the start of their settling down came The Dursleys' son, a small boy they thought could exist no finer anywhere else. His name would be Dudley, after Mr. Dursley's father who had served in the army—highest commendations from the crown, thank you.

Dudley had been a year old on the day that everything had changed for the Dursleys—but they had not yet known just how much that would be so. The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. With it revealed—there would be no end to the talk that would result of their family—their reputation. It would all be up in tatters and that would simply not do. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Queen forbid the rumors that would spread around Grunnings.

Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but the truth of the matter was they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. Their issues had stemmed from childhood—sure. Most siblings who don't speak tend to have their issues rooted in how they grew up—but Mrs. Dursley—then known as Petunia Evans—would tell you her sister Lily was always the sort to grow up like that. Trouble always brewed with that side of the family—much less the brutish man she chose to marry.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived on their doorstep—knocking on their front door in their—it sounded crude but it was ultimate true—monstrous ways. Very little separated the Potters from base level animals with such little sense of manner or propriety.

Mrs. Dursley had known that the Potters had a small son of their own—younger than The Dursleys by a month and change. She could have sworn her sister was obviously rushing to try to match their Dudley—it was as obvious a ploy as any. Lily being the younger sister—it was obvious when her antics were in attempt to draw attention to herself. Mrs. Dursley had let Mr. Dursley know of the Potter child in an offhand comment—and he most assuredly agreed they would not let their Dudley associate with a boy like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on that fateful Sunday morning—the overcast clouds seemed an omen for their normalcy. Mr. Dursley would have considered it a perfectly average November morning, as omens and anything like them were strictly UnDursley and not to be followed. Of course, this would blind him and Mrs. Dursley to the strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.

Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his tie—the colors coordinated perfectly for his work attire. To anyone else it would have seemed the most boring tie imaginable, but to Mr. Dursley, it was as Dursley as could be. Mrs. Dursley, on the other hand gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. Each of them focused in their own perfectly decorated worlds—none of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he stepped out of the door with a spring in his step. It wasn't a full on skip—as that might catch the attention of the neighbors, but if he were stopped for an interview on the state of his lawn, he would have had the confidence to flash a grin. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—it had looked like a cat that was studying a piece of parchment spread out against the stone it sat on. It had almost passed his notice entirely—but there was a strange call in the back of his head that told him to slow down and look again.

The tabby cat was standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but it had now been looking at him. He caught the glint of the cat's eyes and could have sworn it was looking directly at him. Where had the parchment gone? That voice that rang at the back of his mind tried to tell him that the cat had been looking at a map of all things, but here, clear as day there was no map in sight.

Of course not, Mr. Dursley thought. Cat's do not read maps, and nor do they stare at people in cars. They mind their business just as he should. It must have been a trick of the light—surely it was nothing more than that. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, looking at the sign. Cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people wandering about.

People in cloaks.

Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes—the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion trend that was started by some uppity music star or some other. What would their parents think?

He let his confusion and frustration spill out as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close on the street nearby. They were whispering excitedly together. The colors adorned in the group seemed to have no restraint whatsoever—something Mr. Dursley couldn't even begin to imagine. He then noticed as a few of them turned his way that a couple of them weren't young at all—one even looked to be even older than he was! The rage that boiled in Mr. Dursley's gut had gone past the point of being stunted by steering wheel drumming. The oldest of the group was wearing an emerald green cloak that seemed to reflect the sun's light itself! The absolute nerve—if Mr. Dursley were not on a very strict time table he would give the man a piece of his mind. The accidents that could be caused by that nonsensical garb.

His anger halted momentarily as it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt—these people were obviously collecting for something...yes, that would be it. That was the only explanation that made sense. There must be some joke he was not in on—while jokes were not to his preference on this scale, it was the only thing that could come to his mind that could put to reason why otherwise ordinary people would deign themselves to dress in such a manner.

The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills as he preferred.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime.

Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted more than he thought he would get the chance to do. It helped that the ninth floor had been more open—it meant that his voice would carry down the halls past his office—and there was something about hearing the remnants of his voice that eased the little voice in his head that previously nudged what little of his curiosity remained.

He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery. He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. There was a sickening feeling that sunk in his stomach at the very sight of them. It wasn't one aspect in particular—but a culmination of their most unDursleyish traits. Their clothes were unsightly—garish to the eyes in public. They whispered excitedly like unmannerly children and—they even seemed to walk with a skip in their steps he would not dare attempt.

Just what could have them so irritatingly excitable? He tried to push it out of his mind once more as he stepped in for his lunch, but his curiosity was absolutely piqued when he was walking back to his office when he came across a separate group of robed hooligans yet again whispering their excited shenanigans. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry."

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him as his blood ran cold. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, like he wanted to grasp their ruddy cloaks tightly in his fists, but he thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind.

He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her—if he'd had a sister like that...but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground.

On the contrary, his countenance transformed into a radiant grin, stretching across his features like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His voice, unexpectedly high-pitched and filled with exuberance, caught the attention of those nearby, drawing curious glances from passersby. "Don't trouble yourself with apologies, dear sir," he exclaimed, his words laced with an infectious joy that seemed to defy all odds. "For today, nothing could dampen my spirits! Let us revel, for the dark shadow of You-Know-Who has finally lifted! Even Muggles such as yourself should join in the jubilation of this momentous occasion! Oh, what a day of jubilant celebration it is!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood—was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"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 newscaster 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 not until next week, 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...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Petunia, dear—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" His voice was almost that of a squirrel—a far cry from the tone he used when shouting at work. He handled delicate subjects with the subtlety of a jackhammer.

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?" Her neck craned in a concerned state.

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled, coughing to get a hold of the increasing tension in his throat. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought...maybe it was something to do with...you know, her crowd." He had avoided looking at her directly, now.

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "Their son—he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"

"Harry. Nasty, common name, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden.

The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it. The talk that would rumble through the town like an active volcano spilling its contents through the earth.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind...He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on—he yawned and turned over—it couldn't affect them...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on 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. 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 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 ever been seen on Privet Drive. 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 was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something hidden from plain view. 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. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse 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 once. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness just like the first. Twelve times he clicked the device, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the device back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He hadn't been looking at the cat, but after a moment of silence, he began speaking.

"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 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?" she asked.

"My dear Minerva, 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.

"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 no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls...shooting stars...Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Daedalus 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, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it 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," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for, that much is to be certain. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of. I hear they don't even have to grow them on trees."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall 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? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to not fear something so simple as a name. You can call him what he was—Voldemort."

Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying his 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."

"Voldemort had powers you've chosen not to have. And the only reason is 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 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 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 told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was eyeing another lemon drop among the assortment in his hand, choosing another and popping it into his mouth and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are...are—that they're dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head somberly. 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 Potter's 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, Voldemort'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. The time that has gone into this long fight...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 heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess," said 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?" He had turned to McGonagall and cocked his head slightly.

"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."

"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 fit. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here?!"

"It's the best place for him," said Dumbledore firmly. "His aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he's older. I've written them a letter explaining everything pertinent."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous—a legend—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. He had enunciated every syllable of the word firmly. "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! 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, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his 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," said Dumbledore. "There is not a question of it."

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"

A low, ominous rumbling reverberated through the silent streets, stirring Harry and Hagrid from their quiet contemplation. The sound grew steadily louder, like an approaching storm, prompting them to scan the deserted street in search of its source. Their eyes darted nervously, seeking any sign of headlights piercing the darkness, but found none. As the noise reached a deafening crescendo, they instinctively turned their gaze skyward, only to witness a breathtaking sight unfold before them.

From the heavens above, a massive motorcycle descended with a thunderous roar, hurtling toward the ground with breathtaking speed. The vehicle crashed onto the road before them, sending plumes of dust swirling into the air in its wake. If the motorcycle itself was awe-inspiring, the figure astride it was downright astonishing.

The man seated atop the motorcycle defied all conventional notions of size and proportion. Towering over the street, he stood nearly twice as tall as an average man, his imposing figure dominating the scene. With a wild, untamed appearance, his unkempt mane of bushy black hair and beard obscured much of his face from view, lending him an air of mystery and intrigue.

But it was not just his towering stature that set him apart; it was the sheer magnitude of his physical presence. His hands, each the size of trash can lids, hung at his sides like formidable weapons, while his feet, encased in sturdy leather boots, resembled those of mighty sea creatures. Despite his intimidating appearance, there was a gentleness in the way he cradled a bundle of blankets in his massive arms, a tenderness that belied his formidable exterior.

"Hagrid," Dumbledore's voice rang out, infused with a palpable sense of relief. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," the giant replied, his words carrying a hint of pride as he carefully dismounted from the motorcycle. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. It rides well enough to get us both here. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?" Dumbledore inquired, his brow furrowing with concern.

"No, sir," Hagrid responded confidently, his deep voice resonating with assurance. "His 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 leaned in, their expressions solemn as they gazed upon the bundle of blankets. Nestled within was a baby boy, his features serene in slumber. Amidst a shock of jet-black hair, a distinctive mark caught their eye—a lightning-shaped scar etched into his forehead.

"Is that where...?" Professor McGonagall whispered, her voice barely audible as she clutched her hand to her chest.

"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed, his tone grave as he nodded. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" McGonagall pressed, her concern evident in her furrowed brow.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't," Dumbledore replied, his voice resolute. "Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give him here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore cradled Harry in his arms, feeling the weight of responsibility pressing heavily upon him. With a determined stride, he turned toward the Dursleys' house, his expression grave yet resolute.

"Could I—could I say good-bye to him, sir?" Hagrid's voice trembled with emotion as he leaned in closer to Harry. With a tenderness belied by his rugged appearance, he planted a whiskery kiss on the baby's forehead. Then, overcome by grief, Hagrid's anguish burst forth in a howl that echoed through the night.

"Shhh!" Professor McGonagall hissed urgently, her eyes darting nervously toward the neighboring houses. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," Hagrid sobbed, his massive frame shaking with emotion as he fumbled for a large, spotted handkerchief. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily an' James dead—an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles—it just ain't right."

In the stillness of the night, the air was heavy with solemnity as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid stood on the deserted street. Shadows danced across the dimly lit houses, casting an eerie glow over the scene. Professor McGonagall's voice was barely above a whisper, her words carrying a weight of urgency as she sought to console the distraught Hagrid, her slender fingers offering a gentle reassurance as they brushed against his arm.

With measured steps, Dumbledore crossed the threshold of the low garden wall, his imposing figure silhouetted against the faint moonlight. Carefully, almost reverently, he placed Harry on the doorstep, the small bundle cradled in his arms like a fragile treasure. From within the folds of his cloak, he withdrew a letter, its parchment crisp against his fingertips as he tucked it into the folds of Harry's blankets, a silent message for those who would find him.

A heavy silence settled over them as they stood in quiet contemplation, the gravity of the moment palpable in the stillness of the night. Hagrid's broad shoulders trembled with silent grief, his sorrow echoing in the empty street. Professor McGonagall, usually composed and unflappable, blinked back tears, her usually sharp gaze softened by the weight of their shared sorrow. Even the twinkle that typically danced in Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have dimmed, replaced by a somber reflection of the burden they bore.

Breaking the solemn silence, Dumbledore's voice cut through the night like a knife, his words carrying a sense of finality. "Well," he said softly, "that's that. We've no business staying here any longer. We may as well go and join the celebrations with the rest of them."

With a heavy heart, Hagrid muttered his goodbyes, his voice thick with emotion. "Yeah," he managed, his words muffled by his grief, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Hagrid's departure was marked by the thunderous roar of the motorcycle's engine as it surged into life, its powerful vibrations resonating through the night air like a symphony of farewell. Tears still glistened in his eyes, remnants of the emotional turmoil that had gripped him moments before, but determination now burned bright in his gaze as he mounted the bike with practiced ease.

With a deft twist of his wrist, Hagrid revved the engine, and the motorcycle surged upward, casting a fleeting shadow against the moonlit sky before disappearing into the darkness. The sound of its departure lingered in the air, a fading echo of farewell that seemed to hang in the stillness of the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore's voice broke the silence, his tone carrying a sense of quiet assurance as he nodded in acknowledgment. Professor McGonagall, her eyes still watery from tears, offered a muted reply, her nose reddened from the strain of emotion.

Dumbledore turned away, his footsteps echoing softly against the pavement as he retraced his path down the deserted street. Pausing at the corner, he withdrew a gleaming silver device from the folds of his robes—the Deluminator. With a practiced motion, he clicked it once, and the darkness that had cloaked the street was banished as twelve balls of light streaked back to their rightful place atop the street lamps.

In the newfound illumination, Privet Drive took on an otherworldly glow, the houses bathed in a warm orange hue that lent an ethereal quality to the familiar surroundings. At the other end of the street, a tabby cat slinked into view, its movements graceful and purposeful. Dumbledore's gaze lingered for a moment before drifting to the bundle of blankets nestled on the doorstep of number four, a silent testament to the events that had unfolded that fateful night.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. "I wish you nothing but the best."

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 over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside 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 scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his 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!"