A/N: I'm sorry to anyone who was reading The Best of Friends, I know many of you were enjoying it and I was greatly enjoying writing it, but I simply don't know where to take it next. I feel I may have tried to push too many ideas into one story and now I have no idea how to tie them all together, so unfortunately, it is unlikely I will be continuing that story. On the plus side, I came up with a brilliant idea for a new story and this time I'm going even further back than before. This is going to be a long rewrite of all seven books, from start to finish. The story will begin similarly to how the canon story did, however the rules of the world are very different, especially in regards to magic. I will try to avoid making too many OC's as I don't think I'm that good at writing them, but one or two may show up with a minor role. Pairings have not yet been decided, but I have a few ideas ready for several different pairings and I will try to go for the ones which feel most natural for the characters. This first chapter isn't too different from canon, but the differences are important. I hope you enjoy the reading.

A Day with The Dursleys

There was nothing remotely special about Privet Drive. To the naked eye, it was the same as any other street one might find in the area of Little Whinging. The houses and gardens were all perfectly maintained to the point of uniformity, the only obvious defining features being the difference in cars which sat upon the driveways and the small brass numbers affixed to the doors. If one were to look closer, perhaps they would notice small differences in these structures, such as the single chipped tile from the roof of Number 7 or the battered welcome mat which sat outside the entrance to Number 1. Regardless of this, you would be forgiven for believing that Number 4 was just as unimportant as those around it. The second house on the left hand side, Number 4 was as bland and unimaginative as the rest of the street. The lawn was better kept and the car more expensive, but it boasted nothing to show that was in any way unique.

The house was the residence of the Dursleys, a family of three. Vernon Dursley was a beefy man with hardly any neck and an impressive moustache. He was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. Vernon was a very proud man, particularly of his job, as he should be, for one thing he was very good at was shouting at other people to do things for him. Many people found Mr Dursley to be intimidating, but nobody could deny that under his iron fist the company had become far more successful.

Another aspect of his life which Vernon regarded with great pride and affection was his family. His wife, Petunia, was about as far as one could be from the appearance of Mr Dursley. She was tall and thin, with a neck which was already large and made to look even more so by the presence of her husband. Petunia Dursley was a woman of very little ambition or passion, in fact she was perfectly content with her role as the mother and housewife of a successful family. She was, however, insatiably curious about the goings on around her. Be it through gossip, magazines or craning her neck over the fence to spy on the neighbours, Mrs Dursley would always find a way to poke her nose into everything she shouldn't.

The last member of the family was their son, Dudley Dursley. There is very little to say about Dudley, for he was merely a boy of one. Dudley was larger than average for his age, just as Vernon had been when he was younger, and it was clear that he would not resemble his mother when he was grown. While some babies enjoy grabbing or biting or throwing, the youngest Dursley took pleasure from hitting things. Whether it was the table or walls or his mother, there were few things in the house that had not felt the pounding of Dudley's tiny fists.

Again, there was nothing at all about this house which marked it as a place where strange or impossible things may happen. However, this is where our story begins, in this very house on the 2nd of November 1981.

The day began in a way that was typical for the family. Petunia was the first to rise and prepared breakfast for the three, before waking Dudley and proceeding to wrestle him into his high chair. While she did this, Mr Dursley prepared himself for work upstairs. While he absent-mindedly picked out a tie and moved to comb his hair in the mirror, he failed to notice the large tawny owl which flew past his window.

At half past eight, Vernon kissed his wife goodbye and attempted the same with Dudley, but was instead met with smack on the nose from the boy's open palm. Chortling at his son's behaviour, the large man stepped outside and observed the sky above him. The weather forecast had predicted rain later in the day and the grey clouds above seemed to confirm it.

As Mr Dursley pulled out of his driveway and set off down the road, humming a little tune as he went, he noticed the first oddity of the day sitting on the street corner. There on the grass, was a tabby cat poring over a map. Vernon blinked and shook his head to be sure he was not imagining things. When he looked again the cat was still there, but there was no map in sight.

Grumbling to himself about not getting enough sleep last night, Vernon turned his attention away from the cat and continued on. As he reached the turning, he shot a quick glance back at the tabby. It was now reading the sign which said Privet Drive.

'No,' Vernon pointed out in his head, 'It's looking at the sign. Cat's can't read signs, or maps for that matter.'

Satisfied that his world was still working as it should, he made his way into town without incident.

Unfortunately for him, the strangeness occurring on this day did not end at an oddly behaving feline. Whilst sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he noticed a small huddle of people stood in the shadow of a nearby building. They had their heads pressed together and appeared to be whispering about something.

This behaviour could be considered suspicious if seen by somebody with enough paranoia, but it was not what drew Vernon's eye. It was their clothes. The people were all wearing long cloaks, though that was where the similarity ended. The man closest to Vernon wore a cloak of midnight blue fringed with white, while the woman next to him was garbed in cloth covered by swirls of green and gold and next to her stood a short man wearing a tattered cloak of dull brown and a pointy black hat with a broad rim.

Mr Dursley openly stared at the strange group in disbelief and irritation. He could understand the need to wear something warm on a chilly day like today, but that did not excuse abandoning all sanity in your choice of clothing. His hands tightened on the wheel as he observed them, but he made himself take a deep breath. 'Probably some new craze some youngsters thought up,' he decided grumpily, 'or maybe it's just some big stunt. Yes, they'll be collecting for something I bet.'

If there was one trait that could be found in the entire Dursley family, it was an intense dislike of anything or anyone they did not understand. In most people this trait would be considered irrational and unfounded, however this was not the case with this family. The Dursleys had more reason than most to be wary of unexplainable occurrences.

Fortunately, Vernon had already managed explain away the strangeness and therefore these events would not have any further impact on his mood today. By the time Mr Dursley arrived at his workplace, he had forgotten all about the people in cloaks and the mysterious tabby cat.

The moment Mr. Dursley pulled into the car park, he was in his element. He shouted at five different people on the way up to his office on the ninth floor. When he arrived, he settled back in his chair and immediately dialled a very important number into his phone. He made several other important calls and shouted at three more people, before the day began to get interesting again.

It was just after midday when it happened. Mr Dursley was leaning back in his chair staring out the window, when he saw a most peculiar sight. A large owl flew right past his window, in broad daylight. Vernon blinked, unsure of what had just happened, before rushing over to the window and throwing it open. He stuck his head out and looked around, but he couldn't see the bird anywhere, not even a feather.

Vernon shook his head and pulled it back inside. 'What was I thinking? An owl? It was probably just a pigeon.'

Promptly deciding that this little hallucination was his body's way of telling him he needed food in his belly, Vernon went for little walk across the street to the local bakery, where he bought himself a hot pasty and an iced bun.

When he was returning to his office though, the strangeness continued. Just outside the bakery, there was a man wearing a thick cloak of crimson. He was turning on the spot and throwing his head around as if he were looking for something, his foot tapping the pavement impatiently.

Mr Dursley had already seen enough of these weirdos and was ready to walk by without stopping, but it was just as he was approaching that a barn owl swooped down and landed on the man's outstretched arm. Vernon froze, his jaw slack. He hadn't imagined the owl after all. Obviously it belonged to this strange man, maybe he was an entertainer of some kind. That would explain the strange clothing, he was probably from the same group Vernon had spotted earlier.

This story made sense in Vernon's mind, but something about it didn't feel right. He had this strange feeling in his gut that whatever this was wasn't going to be explained away so easily. He hated that feeling. It was the feeling he got when his world was acting in a way it shouldn't be.

In the very back corners of his mind, he began to wonder if all of these little moments of strangeness had anything to do with them. His eyes widened when he realised where his mind was drifting and he pushed the thought away quickly.

He resolved not to think any more of the odd people and walked briskly back towards his work. Sadly, his new plan developed a fatal flaw when he bumped into another cloak-clad group just outside the building. He grit his teeth and tried his hardest not to look at them, but of course, he did and he noticed them beckoning in his direction.

He stopped in his confusion and glanced over his shoulder, to see the man with the owl moving past him towards the others. When he reached them they huddled closer and began whispering again excitedly.

Vernon was not a man who eavesdropped on others, especially when the others happened to be people he decided to forget existed, but he still felt the little feeling in his gut that he needed to know what they were talking about. That is how he found himself walking closer to the group than was necessary as he passed, straining his ears to hear what was being said.

And what was being said chilled his blood and nearly stopped his heart.

"You're sure then? Absolutely sure?" one woman asked disbelievingly.

"Of course," replied the man with the owl, "You think I'd lie about this? Like I said, two days ago at the Potter's house-"

"But, how?" interrupted another man, "Is it true what they're saying about the boy? About little Harry?"

To most people, this little snippet of conversation would seem completely harmless, if they ignored the suspicious circumstances it was spoken under, but to Vernon Dursley, the word Potter was enough to bring every one of his fears to the surface.

He did not remain outside a moment longer. He ran up the stairs to his office so fast that he even forgot to shout at anyone as he went. It was only after he made it there that he barked at his secretary that he didn't want to be disturbed and flopped back into his chair.

"Potter," he muttered angrily, "The Potters. The bloody Potters."

Vernon was related to a family called Potter by marriage. His wife's sister, Lily, had married someone with that name. Vernon knew almost nothing of the family, most of the time Petunia acted as though she didn't even have a sister. He didn't even know the name of the husband.

What he did know was that they had a son, a boy around Dudley's age. He and Petunia had received a letter about their nephew when he was born. Vernon hadn't paid much attention to it before Petunia had thrown it away, but he wished now that he had. He was certain the boy's name had been mentioned, but couldn't for the life of him remember what it had been.

The only other thing Vernon knew of the Potters was their biggest secret, one that he still had a hard time believing. It was this secret that had him afraid, because it gave him an answer. If he chose to admit that the Potter's were involved, then he would have the perfect explanation for everything. The people in cloaks, the owls, even the cat.

This was one explanation that Vernon would not consider, not even in the slightest. He knew what the Potters were mixed up in and he wanted no part of it, for him or his family.

The large man evened out his breathing and tried to rationalise his thoughts. There was no proof that the Potters had anything to do with any of this. Potter was a common name, so was Harry, there were probably lots of people out there called Harry Potter.

The people in cloaks were just some silly entertainment act, strutting around with their fancy owls and collecting tins.

But, the cat-

'The cat is just a cat!' roared Vernon in his mind, 'There's nothing to say that this cat is connected to these people in any way!'

Vernon worked hard to rid his mind of the Potters for the rest of the day. He was more irate than usual and probably shouted far more than was necessary. More than one potentially beneficial phone call was ended prematurely due to Vernon's foul mood.

It was five o'clock when Vernon finally set off home and his head was still buzzing with thoughts of owls and people in cloaks. By the time he got home, he had at least three different theories on who they might be, despite his promise to forget about them.

As he pulled onto his drive, he noticed something sat on the low wall surrounding the front garden. It was a cat, the same one as earlier. It fixed the large man with a piercing stare, as though he was on trial and it was the judge.

Vernon could not explain it, but something about that cat scared him and with Mr Dursley, fear could be just one step away from anger.

"Shoo!" he called, waving his hands in the cat's direction, "Go on, shoo!"

The cat remained unmoved. It barely even blinked.

Vernon was getting increasingly frustrated at the situation today and this stubborn cat was just the icing on the cake. He stepped towards it, his face colouring in anger, and began shaking his fist aggressively.

"I said get lost!" he thundered, "Go on! SHOO!"

"Vernon!"

Mr Dursley turned. His wife was stood in the doorway, her face pulled into a mix of curiosity and irritation, "What are you shouting at, dear?"

Vernon looked back at the cat and went to point at it, but stopped mid-gesture. The cat was gone. He blinked and looked between his wife and the bare wall. It suddenly came crashing down on him what that must have looked like.

'What's gotten into me?'

He glanced around the street anxiously and saw more than one pair of curtains snap shut as he did. Grinding his teeth, he straightened his tie and stomped through the open door of his house, leaving Petunia to close it behind him.

"Vernon?" she called after him, a hint of concern now evident in her tone, "Vernon?"

Her husband barely heard her and quickly deposited himself in his chair by the TV. His body was still tense as he tried and failed to forget the events earlier.

"Vernon, are you all right?" Petunia asked, seating herself on the couch across from him.

"I'm fine!" he snapped and she visibly flinched at his tone. He didn't blame her, he rarely raised his voice at his family, usually reserving his temper for people he didn't particularly care about.

His face softened a fraction and he finally relaxed back in his chair with a sigh, where he began to stroke his moustache in thought.

"Sorry, dear. I'm just tired. I've- it's been a long day, is all."

Petunia nodded stiffly and stood, her chin raised slightly as she always did when she spoke. "Well, I'm glad it's nothing serious and I'm glad it was today, we're having that beef for dinner and I know how a good roast always cheers you up. Oh, have I told you about the old lady that moved in yesterday down the road..."

Petunia continued her narration of the day over dinner. Mr Dursley was mostly concentrated on the plate of food in front of him, but he listened enough to know that Petunia had had a completely normal day. Dudley was his usual little self. He had learned a new word today and was using every opportunity to shout it out, which made it very difficult to move him, since the word was shan't.

Although it did nothing to make him forget today's events, the good food was certainly helpful at clearing Vernon's head and allowing him to think more rationally. While Mrs. Dursley put Dudley to bed, he sat down in his chair to watch the evening news, as usual.

The news stories were nothing too unusual; a missing person had been found in Europe a few days ago, the strangely cold weather that had hit some places had finally begun to lift. It was all fine, up until one of the final stories. Vernon's ears pricked up and he leant forward in his chair as the reporter spoke.

"Experts are baffled by the sudden astronomical event last night, stating that they had no prior warning that such showers would occur. The meteors were seen in a number of places all across Europe, with confirmed sightings not only in Britain, but also from France, Germany, Switzerland and Denmark..."

Vernon's eyes widened and he gripped the arms of his chair as he watched images of the strange meteor showers flash up on screen and scientists talk about the impossibility of the whole situation.

'It's nothing,' he told himself, 'It can't be. It's not connected to the owls or the cloaks or the blasted cat! But- but what if it is?'

"Vernon?"

Mr Dursley nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his wife's voice from the door. She was watching him fearfully, as though she thought he might explode again at any moment.

"Vernon are you quite sure you're okay? You've been very quiet today, it isn't like you."

Vernon looked at the screen and stroked his moustache again. 'Should I tell her?' It was reaching the point now where Vernon felt like he needed to tell someone about this, but how should he do it?

"Petunia," he began uncertainly, turning back to her, "Do you- I mean, have you heard from your sister recently?"

Petunia's face changed in a heartbeat, where before she looked concerned, she now looked like she'd swallowed a bug.

"Of course not," she scoffed, "Our kind aren't supposed to mix with theirs, they made that very clear. So did you," she paused and gave him a puzzled look, "Vernon what is this about?"

Mr Dursley did not answer straight away. It was good few seconds of silence and moustache stroking before he did.

"When I was at work today, I saw these people. Odd people, wearing cloaks. And- and there was this owl too, swooping around in broad daylight like anybody's business. And, as well, just now on the news, all these freak shooting stars. It's all a bit them, wouldn't you say?"

Petunia's eyes narrowed, "So? I doubt it has anything to do with her lot. They're all about secrets and keeping us little people out of the way."

Vernon paused again, before he replied, "Yes, I thought so too, but I overheard some of them talking. They said something about- about the Potters."

Petunia gasped and her hand flew up to her mouth. She stepped inside and sat down on the couch, giving her husband her full attention. Vernon fixed her with look and asked seriously, "Petunia, what was the name of her son?"

Petunia began to shake her head, "What does that have to do with-"

"Just, answer the question!" he hissed.

Petunia quivered and choked out, "Harry. His- his name was Harry."

"And he'll be about Dudley's age now, won't he?"

She nodded.

Vernon paled and sank backwards, running a hand down his face.

"Did they... mention him. Is that why you're asking?" she said.

He shook his head in disbelief, "They said something about the Potters and then one of them mentioned little Harry."

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

Vernon pondered this for a moment, then stood up abruptly, coming to a decision. "Nothing," he said, "We'll do nothing. I don't care why that lot are here or what it has to do with your sister, we're staying out of it. I don't my family, my life, mixed up with theirs."

Petunia nodded in agreement, "I don't want them anywhere near us, not now that we have my little Dudders to look after."

"Then it's settled. We ignore them. We stay out of their business and they stay out of ours."

It was not long after their conversation that Vernon and Petunia went up to bed. They both lay awake for a long time, the thought of the Potters weighing down on them like a sack of bricks. Petunia succumbed to sleep first and Vernon shortly after, repeating in his mind constantly, 'It's nothing to do with us. They'll leave us alone. Nothing will happen if we ignore them.'

He had no idea how wrong he was.

o0o0o0o

Outside Number Four, the night was deathly still. No life could be seen behind the windows lining the street, nor in the gardens beneath them. Then, as though it appeared from thin air, there was the cat. It did not stalk out of the shadows like a predator or in fact appear to move at all. It seemed like one moment the wall was empty and then the next there it was, as still as if it were made of stone.

No more than a second after the cat appeared, another figure did too. In the same way, the man who approached from the end of the street looked as if he had appeared from thin air. He stopped just upon the edge of the light cast by the street lamp above.

In this dim illumination the man's appearance was revealed. He was tall, though it was difficult to tell any more of what his build might be, for he was hidden beneath long blue robes and a deep purple cloak. His hair and beard were shimmering silver and both were long enough that they could be tucked into his belt if he wished to. A pair of half-moon spectacles rested on a nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice. Behind them were two twinkling blue eyes which managed to look warm and inviting, yet at the same time seemed to see directly into your soul.

The man slowly pulled back his cloak and reached into one of the many pockets in his robes. From within he pulled a small yellow candy wrapped in thin plastic, which he opened with a tiny snap. He popped the sweet into his mouth, while with his other hand he reached into another of his pockets. This time he withdrew a strange device. It was made of what looked like silver and adorned with strange symbols. It almost looked like a cigarette lighter, but where the flame would normally appear, there was instead a tiny red gemstone.

The man held the device high in the air and clicked it once. The street lamp above him went dark with a sound like a candle being snuffed. The light almost seemed to move, as if it was sucked out by the device, however it all happened too fast to be certain.

The man clicked it several more times until the street was completely dark. Despite the sudden lack of light, the man did not have any trouble seeing and strode purposefully down the street. It was as he approached Number 4 that he noticed the tabby. He stopped and smiled, shaking his head.

"I should have known you would be here already, Minerva," his voice was deep and powerful, but not in the rough, intimidating way that Mr Dursley's was.

The cat's ears twitched and it pushed itself to its feet. As it did so, it's legs began to grow longer and its front paws changed shape. It's fur began to change colour and consistency until it resembled clothes. Meanwhile the head morphed itself into something less catlike and more human.

After a second or two, the cat which sat before him was no longer a cat, instead there stood a severe looking woman in dark robes and an emerald cloak. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore square glasses the same shape as the markings around the cat's eyes.

"Professor Dumbledore," she greeted the man in a stern voice.

The man called Dumbledore smiled at her and continued his walk until he was sat upon the wall next to where she stood. He frowned and looked up at her, "I do hope you haven't been sat here all day, this wall is dreadfully uncomfortable."

Minerva grimaced and if possible managed to adopt an even stiffer posture. Dumbldore shook his head and chuckled, "I thought so. I merely asked you to meet me here tonight, it would have been perfectly acceptable for you to spend the day somewhere else."

"Where else would I be? We have a job to do."

"Yes I know, but word is starting to spread about what happened and the first few feasts and parties have already started, I think I passed at least three today."

Minerva's lips tightened, "You think I didn't notice the parties? The whole continent noticed them! I mean, shooting stars? I understand people are excited and with good reason, but that is no excuse for these ridiculous stunts they insist on pulling."

"You can't blame them, we've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years," said Dumbledore.

"Still, I felt I needed to be here. I wanted to see the family for myself," she said.

"Did you?" chuckled Dumbledore, before growing more serious, "Tell me, what do you think of them?"

Minerva sighed, "From what I saw, the mother treats her child well, perhaps a little too well in fact. I'm just not sure how she will react to, well us. From what I've heard of her, she doesn't seem very fond of our kind, but it's the father I'm worried about."

"Tell me," said Dumbledore.

"The man has a temper like a powder keg," she explained, "I've not seen him raise his voice or his fist at either of them, but he reacted to me simply for being here. I believe he is scared of us, because he doesn't understand us. It worries me."

"You do not think he will treat Harry as he treats the rest of his family," said Dumbledore.

"I don't think either of them will," she said, "But it is him I worry about the most."

Dumbledore sat for several moments staring into the distance, running a hand down his beard. "We have no choice," he said.

"Are you sure?" Minerva asked, "We could find someone surely, anyone would be willing to take him in. Someone we know perhaps, who could give him a proper childhood."

"Minerva, it is not merely the family we must protect him from," Dumbledore said, "There will books written about him, his name will be marked in history forever. To expose him to that at such a young age- it would change him and I do not believe it would be for the better. Then there are the Death Eaters. Voldemort may be gone, but the war is far from over. We must keep him safe, away from it all."

Minerva flinched at the word Voldemort and gave Dumbledore a strange look, "Albus, about that. I- I know there's a lot of rumour flying about now and a lot of it most likely isn't true, but what happened last night, at the Longbottom's. Is it- are they really-"

Dumbledore bowed his head and nodded.

"No," Minerva let out a strangled gasp, "No, they can't- I didn't- I didn't want to believe-"

Dumbledore patted her on the back in comfort as she wiped her eyes.

"I just- I can't believe- even after he's gone it doesn't stop," she continued, "Lily, James, Peter and now Frank and Alice as well."

She took a gulp of air and composed herself more, "I'm sorry, I should- I knew this was likely to happen. It's like you always said, the war doesn't end over one death."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," said Dumbledore, "We all held onto the hope that it would just end once he was gone. There is nothing shameful about that. We just need to hope that it won't last much longer now that he is."

Minerva nodded and wiped the last tear from her eye. The two remained in silence for several minutes, before Dumbledore pulled out a golden pocket watch. The watch had twelve hands and little illustrations of planets instead of numbers. Dumbledore glanced at it before saying, "Hagrid's late."

"Are you sure it was wise to trust Hagrid with something like this?" she asked.

"Minerva, I would trust Hagrid with my life."

"As would I. There's no questioning his loyalty, but I feel this requires a certain tact which Hagrid lacks."

Dumbledore laughed, "You mean you think he will get drunk and blurt out to everyone in the Leaky Cauldron where to find Harry Potter."

Minerva gave him a look, "You can't deny it's a possibility."

"No," agreed Dumbledore, "I cannot, but I feel his loyalty is required now, especially after what happened with Sirius."

"That was not your fault," said Minerva.

"Was it not?" he asked, "I trusted him, I believed in him and his friendship with the Potters. You cannot deny that I am partly to blame for this."

"You couldn't have known, none of us could."

"Exactly. That is why only you and Hagrid will know where Harry is staying. Until we can be completely sure we have to keep everyone else in the dark."

Minerva was about to respond, but stopped and turned her head slightly, "Do you hear that?"

Dumbledore did indeed hear it and took it as his sign to stand. The noise was a low rumbling which was growing steadily louder. The two of them looked up and saw a dark shape descending in the moonlight. As it came closer they took a step back, just to be safe, right before an enormous motorbike dropped to the ground in front of them and skidded to the end of the street.

It was immediately obvious why the bike was so large, for the man sitting astride it was twice as tall as a regular man and nearly five times as wide. The rider dismounted and pulled his helmet off with one hand the size of a dustbin lid. He had long tangles of wild black hair and a bushy beard which hid most of his face. From inside this mass of hair, two black eyes glittered like beetles. The giant strode towards the pair with his helmet in one hand and a bundle of blankets in the other.

"Was that really the best means of transportation you could find?" Minerva asked quietly, eyeing the motorbike.

Dumbledore smiled, "Portkeys and Floo can be traced and perhaps one day they will create a broomstick large enough for Hagrid, but I have not yet found one."

The man, Hagrid, stepped up in front of them and nodded in greeting, "Good evenin' Professor Dumbledore, sir. Professor McGonagall."

"Hagrid, at last," greeted Dumbledore, "There were no problems I take it."

"No, sir. It's been smooth flyin' an' there's been some good cloud cover up there, so I don' reckon any muggles spotted us."

"Good, good," said Dumbledore, moving to peer at the bundle of blankets with McGonagall by his side.

Inside was a baby, a boy. He had a tuft of jet black hair and was sleeping soundly. On his forehead was a strange cut shaped like a lightning bolt.

"Is that where-" asked McGonagall.

"Yes," replied Dumbledore simply.

"How?" she said, "How did this even happen? How did he survive where no one else did?"

"I do not know," said Dumbledore, keeping his eyes on the boy, "I have theories of course, but we may never know for sure."

"I reckon we should just be glad he's alive and that bastard You-Know-Who is dead," growled Hagrid.

Neither professor responded to that. After a moment, Dumbledore looked up and smiled, "Shall we get on with it then."

Together, the three of them moved towards the front door of Number 4. Once they reached the doorstep Hagrid stopped and said, "Could I- could I have a momen' to say goodbye?"

Dumbledore nodded and Hagrid smiled at him. He looked down at the boy in his arms, "Time to go now 'arry. I'll- I'll see yeh again, in a few years I guess, but fer now- well-" Tears had begun to fall and Hagrid bent his head and placed a very scratchy kiss on his forehead. The big man slowly lowered the boy to the ground and placed him on the step, before straightening and wiping his eyes.

Dumbledore crouched by the bundle and carefully tucked a sealed letter into the blankets. He reached into his robes and removed a long, thin piece of polished wood. He slowly waved the wand over the child's head, murmuring strange words as he did so. As he finished, a warm breeze fluttered around the group and Harry squirmed slightly, his little palm closing over the letter beside him.

The professor stood and turned to his companions. "It is done," he said, with an air of finality, "Now, we have urgent business to attend to."

"All right, sir," said Hagrid with a great sniff, "Jus' tell me what needs doin'."

"If you need to rest Hagrid, I would do so now," advised Dumbledore, "I need you to cross the channel and determine what is happening in the continent. The giants and werewolves are still a problem that we must contend with, even now that their master is gone."

"I'm fine to fly, sir. I'll get going right now," Hagrid turned and strode over to where his bike remained, pulling his helmet on as he did. In one great movement, he mounted the bike and kicked the engine to life. The bike travelled a few metres down the road before it soared off into the sky, growing smaller and smaller till it disappeared into the clouds.

Dumbledore and McGonagall watched as the bike vanished and remained in that position for some time after it did.

"Events are moving quicker than I anticipated," said Dumbledore finally, "I assumed that we would have more time. A great many things I have assumed in the past few months have proven false."

"You're a great man Dumbledore," said McGonagall, "But you're still human. I do believe that's more than could be said for You-Know-Who."

Dumbeldore chuckled, "You know me too well to think I will ever believe that. Our enemies, no matter how dark, are still men and women, even Voldemort."

McGonagall flinched and glanced at Dumbledore, "I don't think tonight is the night to argue this," she said, "What do you need me to do, Albus?"

Dumbledore gave her a serious look, "You were right Minerva," he said, "These celebrations are dangerous. Fairly soon the Ministry will be sending people to clear them up before the Muggles start to notice. It would be the perfect opportunity for any Death Eaters hiding inside the Ministry to launch an attack. I want you to gather some people together, find the most likely targets and ensure that they remain safe."

McGonagall nodded to show that she understood and began a brisk walk away from the house. When she reached the gate, Dumbledore called out to her. "Minerva," he said, she turned to him, "Take care who you trust. We're not out of the woods yet."

She nodded again, "Take care, Albus. I will see you soon." As she stepped through the gate, she morphed back into a cat and crept away into the shadows with one fluid movement.

Dumbledore was now alone in front of the house. He took several steps forward until he stood by the gate, then turned to face the building and raised his arms. In his right hand he held the wand and his left was empty, with an open palm facing outwards.

In a low, echoing voice, he began to chant. The words were strange and twisted, like nothing the human tongue should be able to pronounce. It was clear that these words were not of the same language as those he had murmured on the step. These words were far older and rang with a great power that anyone in hearing distance could feel. As he spoke, Dumbledore waved his wand back and forth in front of him, leaving a dim trail of golden light from the end of it. Mostly his movements were random, but every so often, he would deftly trace an archaic symbol in front of him, which would flash red for a short second before vanishing.

This strange ritual continued for at least ten minutes, until Dumbledore brought the wand to rest, point up, about an inch from his nose. He grasped the wooden handle in both hands, continuing his chant while he did so. Surrounding him was the same golden glow he had used to draw the symbols, growing steadily more intense as the old man began to chant faster. On the doorstep, the boy in the blankets was writhing in his sleep, his stubby fingers gripping the parchment like a vice.

Suddenly, Dumbledore threw both arms out to the side and ended the chant with one final, bellowed word. The aura which surrounded him flashed blood red and a great wind swirled down the street with a roar like thunder, whipping the old man's hair and beard from side to side.

Just as quick as they had come, the wind and the light vanished. Dumbledore slumped forwards and barely managed to break his fall with his hands. He remained on his knees for several minutes, panting and gasping like he had just run a marathon. Eventually, he stood and straightened his robes, surveying the house before him with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

He turned and left through the gate, coming to a stop in the centre of the street. He stowed the wand in his robes and removed the same device he had used to extinguish the street lamps. He clicked it once and the lights immediately relit themselves.

Dumbledore cast one last look around Privet Drive, before his gaze landed on the sleeping form in front of Number 4. His lips curved upwards and his eyes twinkled in a smile.

"Good luck, Harry Potter."

And with that, he turned on his heel and began his walk down the street, popping another yellow sweet into his mouth as he did so.