-THE BOY WHO LIVED… condemned to hell-

-Oct 31st 1981, late night-

Michael stumbled out of the door, his head ringing from the aftermath of the drinking he had done throughout the entire time he had been at his coworkers costume party. He adjusted the pointed hat on his head and leaned slightly on the front yard fence of the developmental four story red brick condo before deciding to sit down as the street kept swinging back and forth. It had been an incredible night, great company, a good time all around, and Rebecca from work had kissed him full on the lips after she had accepted his semi drunken proposal for a date. It was now well past midnight and he deicide… hold that thought. Quickly reaching up to his costume wizard had Michael pulled it down over his mouth and used it as an impromptu bucket, before realizing he was only dry heaving. 'Oh right I already threw up in the bathroom' his hazy mind reminded him. Tomorrow morning was going to suck, he could already imagine the raging headache and cotton mouth.

Placing his hat back on his head Michael adjusted his thin purple robes against the chill air before starting off towards his own home, which was only ten minutes away on foot, living near the business district of London the buildings where rather closely packed together, and therefore almost mazelike in their layout of the streets. Leaning against an old red phone booth that had been there since before he moved into central London Michael stopped to take a breath as another bout of nausea and vertigo struck him. When he got home he was definitely going to pass out on the couch. Even if Michael had been sober he would have never noticed anything odd about that specific phone booth, after all similar ones were located all throughout London.

However this one In particular was very special indeed. Unbeknownst to the general populace or government, deep below that exact red phone booth, through meters of asphalt, dirt, concrete and sewers, underneath the subway and service tunnels and even further down beneath an immense atrium lined with polished dark ebony-green marble tiles there was a seemingly non-descript office. In this office sat a middle aged man of unassuming and yet robust physique. His thinning brown hair was cut military short on his scalp to the point of only being slight fuzz from his receding hairline; his oval face and wide triangular jaw were complemented by his straight Romanesque nose. He wore a monocle in his left eye, similar to his friend and coworker Amelia Bones, and dressed in an almost muggle like fashion, with a steel gray business coat and silver tie underneath his iron grey cloak resembling a western duster coat. When on duty to most he was simply known as Director, only those that he considered close friends or family knew his real name, though he had a preference for going by his last. This man was Saul Blackwood; head Unspeakable for the last 35 years and wizard on par with the likes of Merlin himself. Or so he told everyone who hadn't heard it at least twice since meeting him.

Blackwood currently sat in his executive muggle leather reclining chair he was given as a Christmas gift last year by his underling Croaker under the excuse he had to learn to relax more as he poked and prodded the enigmatic wooden puzzle cube floating above his desk while taking meticulous notes on the reactions the cube gave off as its metal inlaid surface shifted and twisted about. Similar to its muggle counterpart in appearance, which was known as a rubix cube and had been submitted to his as a base design choice for a new invention when one of the researchers under his division had copied its initial form after having stumbled upon its inventor Ernő Rubik. This cube was not a simple toy though; it in fact was a prototype dimensional storage device and tool set. Specific configurations of its many facets would open it to reveal an internally expanded space the size of a home, transform it into a multi portkey, a ward breaker, or cause it to fuse to the nearest solid surface to prevent theft.

His office was sparsely decorated and not overly large, occupying a space of only about seven by six meters. The floor was lined with the same ebony-green marble tiles as the Atrium of the Ministry, and the walls were of dark red cherry wood inlaid with gothic patterns with gold wire. The room was lit by a golden burning gas lantern contained inside of a fine crystal sphere suspended from the ceiling. Directly beside the elegant black door was a simple iron perch for an owl to roost on. On the wall adjacent to the door was a heavy oak bookcase filled to the brim with dusty tomes of reference material, indexes and diagrams. Opposite the entrance and behind the large and ornately carved wooden desk was a blatantly obvious safe that occupied almost half the wall; its surface consisted of a large flat gold disk of ten equally spaced rings with evenly spread out runes circling each ring. The inner ring was about a hands width wide and served as a central dial while each consecutive ring had an increasing number of runes by a factor of five, so that the second ring had ten symbols, and the last and outermost ring had fifty. This gave the safe a total of over 35 trillion different possible combinations with only one being correct. On the opposite side of the bookcase were rows of filing cabinets containing important documents detailing various projects and points of research chosen by the man occupying the chair.

It was well past getting late but with no real family to go home to and no real set schedule there was no real need to rush or finish a day except on his own hours. Nevertheless glancing at his large black steel watch Saul noticed its various gold symbol adorned on interlocking rings that mirrored the appearance of the safe behind his back now read out {10:59 Oct 31 1981}. Standing to place the cube back into the safe he was about to reach out to align the rings when he noticed a vibrating noise emanating from inside it. After sliding the rings into their proper slot each consecutive ring slid back into the wall a few centimeters further than the previous one with a metallic thunk before sliding down into the floor. Saul stepped into the expanded walk in closet sized safe and placed the cube inside a velvet lined drawer before he reached to a smaller compartment labeled "Lily Potter".

He pulled out a silver orb that fit in his palm; this was the life line detector Lily had made for his use for when she went on dangerous field missions. The fact it had appeared in his safe and was still vibrating with a tiny metallic resonance did not bode well. With rising trepidation Saul rushed to leave his office after having shut the safe, orb still in hand when it suddenly silenced with a crack as it shattered and crumbled into silver dust.

He dropped down into his chair in defeat. 'There was nothing he could do now; if the life line detector for Lily was broken she was no longer in the world of the living. If her skills could not save her from such a fate the first part of the prophecy must have come to pass. With her gone with certainty it meant James and Harry must be as well. It was not like he could go aid them, surely the Dark Lord had finished them off. And with the Fidelius he would not be able to find their… wait, he could remember where their safe house was!'

Saul scrambled from his office, it would take him an hour to reach Godric's hollow after having gathered a team of field operative Unspeakables, but by then it would be too late, the house was heavily damaged and empty except for the two still corpses of the potters. In death Lily lay on the floor of the nursery, arms spread in a clear effort to guard the empty crib, she had not fought back. Her corpse was set in a more natural position, where it not for the paleness of her skin and lack of breadth she could have been sleeping. James was not so lucky for in the first floor parlor a quick but decisive battle was fought. The dismembered carcasses of dead transfigured animals were strewn about, spell burns lashed across the walls and James lay in the kitchen- a hole blasted clean through his chest from the power of the spell that had thrown him through the parlor wall. His skin was deathly white with the veins prominently bold and turned black. An evident case of death through overpowering dark magic. The nursery had a large hole blown into the back wall, opening into the open night sky that slowly brightened with color from the rising sun.

The surrounding area was teaming with uncooperative Aurors and bustling ministry workers that whispered of Voldemort's defeat and refused to work with his party of investigators, making the reconstruction of the crime scene take significantly longer than was needed. Saul could not locate Sirius by any means which meant that damn man was hiding under some strong spells and he was held back from searching for Lily's missing child by a heap of bureaucratic problems and red tape. Apparently Dumbledore had been at the scene and had taken Harry in and hidden him in a safe location for his own safety, or so he was told by a random Auror. The only explanation the old man had given to the Ministry employees was that through Harry Voldemort had been defeated, and for his own safety was being hidden away to protect him from the reaches of the Death Eaters still at large.

For all of the touted intelligence Dumbledore was said to possess Saul could not believe the stupidity of such a statement that would clearly paint a target on Harry's back. Why the hell had Dumbledore said anything at all, it was obvious that word of the Dark Lords defeat by said child would spread like wildfire to the entire UK in mere hours, surely he realized Death Eaters would hear of such news. And where the bloody hell was Sirius Black, he was Harry's Godfather, surely he would have realized that remembering where the Potters where in Godrics Hollow meant the Fidelius had dropped and they were dead, why hadn't he come to get his godson?

There were many questions left unanswered to the general populace of witches and wizards in the U.K. on the early morning of November 1st, the least few being where Harry Potter was, and more importantly- How had the dark Lord been defeated by a mere infant? It would take another day for the future Boy-Who-Lived to be dropped off at the Dursleys with non but three people the wiser of such a fact, and by that time Dumbledore had managed to seal the Potter Will and enact a few older bylaws that had him declared as the child's magical guardian. By the end of that fateful week the Longbottoms had been attacked and placed in ST. Mungo's indefinitely, Harry Potter Had vanished from the magical world, and Sirius Orion Black was lying curled up and sobbing in a maximum circuity cell in Azkaban.

Dumbledore not only refused to meet with Saul at every turn with a wide use of excuses and complicated sidesteps; he also blockaded every avenue for him to find the child of his favorite apprentice, sealing all methods and records even to his clearance level and station. With none of the backup guardians having even received notification of Harry's whereabouts Saul worried that Dumbledore had taken Guardianship into his own hands, but the damn wily head master would not yield answers even when directly asked. With all the unanswered questions and loose ends what worried Saul more was not the fact that Voldemort was defeated, but at what cost?

-Nov 1st 1981, Night-

If ever an award could be given to worst people of the year, worst role models of the year, and worst parents of the year, then surely Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive would fit the bill nicely. Not that their avian observer really cared- it being a totally human affair and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. A beady black eye blinked and focused its intent back on its evening meal, a small toad that had been picked up not too long ago. The eye belonged to what appeared to be a northern raven- or Corvus corax as some would call it. It was one of many similar birds spread out all over great Brittan in a grid like pattern, somewhat evenly spaced from each other. What set these particular ravens apart from their more ordinary cousins however was their abnormally large size, their particularly razor sharp beaks, and most importantly the distinctive deep red gloss of their feathers.

In the dark of the night from its position at the top of a tree it went unnoticed by the occupants of Number Four, Privet Drive. The raven in question had been in several locations all over the U.K. along with its brethren as they had been commanded to ever since a disturbance was felt by their master around September. Some particular activity had been noted in this area however, which was how it had stumbled upon the scene below. The problem was finding out why a witch was slumming it in her feline animagus form in a muggle neighborhood that could be as far removed from magic as anything possibly could be.

The witch was now circling the edifice of Number four, unaware of its silent watcher as it spied on the humans within the cookie cutter home. Said humans were of course proud to say that they were perfectly normal, average, upstanding British citizens. They wouldn't be caught dead involving themselves in anything strange or mysterious, in fact they had a rather commendable level of disdain for such things. It was an attitude matched by every human on that street-though not nearly to their level, all of which seemed to have little tolerance for anything out of the ordinary, anything that went against their perfect little world. This of course was all a lie, a thin veneer to hide the internal strife they held as individuals and families. And in truth most of them hated each other because behind closed doors it was clear that most residents of Private drive had rather strong opinions on the boorish slob of a father Dursley, the straight-laced and sour Petunia, and their fat baby seal of a son Dudley.

By this point however it was evident to the raven that the perfect image the Dursleys tried overly hard to convey was a complete bucket of hogwash. Contrary to the way they liked to portray themselves to anyone else but the neighbors or any of Mr. Dursley's clients the family could be described as being arrogant, rude, and crass. The father was a bigot, often times racist, a complete sleaze, and had had anger issues to boot. With the table manners of a pig and the body mass of a walrus it was by no means a kind portrayal of Vernon Dursley. Mrs. Dursley was a spiteful woman, poking her nose in everyone's business and spreading scandal and rumor like the plague. She loved to see people suffer her lies, and could be quite hateful and conceited as well. What many of the gossiping ladies of Private Drive often discussed behind Petunia Dursley's back was the fact that her overly long neck, slight overbite, straw blond hair, and long pinched face gave her the slight resemblance to the equine species.

So far all this had been gleaned by the raven as well as the witch posing as a tabby Maine Coon with the oddly spectacle like pattern on its face. What the feline did not know, but had been discovered by the raven through its clandestine observations and stalking of Mr. Dursley was his routine to and at work as the director of a small firm called Grunnings, which made dental and power tool drills. It gave a little more insight into the kind of man he was, which would be easy enough to say, not a pleasant man at all.

What did bring jest to the raven- which was intelligent enough to have such thoughts, was the contrasting appearance of the Dursley Family. How was it that such a bitter woman, who had really little going for her in aesthetic terms; being thin as a rail and flat as an iron board with a vultures demeanor could have found a mutual attraction in a man who looked like a bipedal walrus with hair and the temperament of angry bulldog seemed nigh unlikely. It was enough however to apparently end up mating and producing a child who seemed to be a combination of all their worst qualities.

-Nov 2st 1981, Early Morning-

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on one dull, gray Monday to a sky slightly clouded and a light drizzle falling onto the pavement , there was nothing going about to suggest that abnormal and freakish things would soon be happening all over the country. Vernon Dursley hummed a song he recently heard on the radio to himself as he picked his favorite grey tie out of a drawer. Glancing out the window he noticed a tabby cat sitting near the fence surrounding the back of the yard, a cat that was staring directly at him with an amount of focus uncommon to any animal. It was the same cat that had been roaming around his yard for the past two days, and could not be shooed away, even when he had come out with a shovel and tried to smash its furry little head in.

He reminded himself to call animal control later in the evening when he came back from work to see if they couldn't get rid of the mangy pest; but even as that thought crossed his mind another intruded- it was odd that the fur on its face made it seem to be wearing spectacles, but that was absurd. Cats didn't wear glasses. Shaking the negative thought out of his head he proceeded to finish dressing. Meanwhile downstairs his wife Petunia gossiped away happily on the corded kitchen phone as she tried to wrestle a screaming Dudley into his high plastic chair, Unaware of the two presences keenly watching her from the yard and across the street.

Outside a large tawny speckled owl fluttered past the window in a quiet swoop before circling back and landing on the vertex of number eight's roof, completely unnoticed by a single resident of Private drive. It was not the only owl either, and if anyone had bothered to look outside or up into the sky, they would have noticed the odd occurrence of quite a few owls seemingly coming to and fro from who know where to where knows who. The raven of course noticed this; as had its many brethren, its master had been made aware of the strange occurrence of such activity in Britain. Something was afoot in the wizarding world.

Vernon followed his daily weekday morning routine as he clomped heavily down the stairs and came into the kitchen, setting his plain leather briefcase upon the kitchen counter nearest the front door and not so gently falling into the chair at the head of the table. Glancing at the wall mounted clock he saw that he had half an hour to finish his breakfast. Unsurprisingly it included a stack of bacon, a pile of flapjacks drenched in syrup and butter, and a small mound of eggs… sunny side up. Drinking from a large mug filled with dark roast coffee Vernon began to devour breakfast in a fashion not so dissimilar to his seventeen month old son. At half past eight, Vernon picked up his briefcase, pecked Petunia 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," he chortled before leaving the house. He got into his steel grey Ford Capri and backed out of number four's gravel driveway.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of anything peculiar - a cat reading a foldout pamphlet map. For a second, Vernon didn't realize what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. It was the same tabby cat from his yard standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. He blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back, seemingly glaring at him from its seated position. As Vernon drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the flea infested beast from his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs, and they certainly could not wear glasses. "Animal control won't be here soon enough" he grunted under his breath and decided to call them about this pest at work. He gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove west towards Reading for half an hour he thought of nothing except a large order of small caliper dental fixture drills he was hoping to get shipped out 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, which would probably make his trip to work last another ten minutes, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people walking about. People in cloaks, it was bloody unbelievable!

He couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the getups you saw on young people these days, it was outrageous! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion that all the young sods wore just to annoy their parents. He drummed his thick sausage like fingers on the steering wheel as his beady eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing to close to his car. They were whispering excitedly together. Vernon was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck the large man that this was probably some silly stunt from a bunch of barmy nutters with no common sense - these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Vernon arrived in the underground Grunnings parking garage, his mind back on drill shipments and the long legs of the new blond secretary that had been hired the previous week.

Vernon always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor of the management office building. It was fortunate that he did or he would have found his morning ruined be the sight of dozens of owls of every species in England swopping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did see this spectacle. Pedestrians pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead across the entire sky in every direction. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime, and while the people below marveled at the avian phenomenon occurring outside Vernon Dursley was enjoying his perfectly normal, owl-free morning.

He yelled at five different people because he thought they were slacking on their order placement and accounts verifications. He made several important telephone calls to a few companies and private businesses located around London as well as calling for animal control to capture the annoying fleabag that had taken up residence in his yard, and shouted a bit more at one man he found talking to his blond secretary named Kristen… or Karen, something with a K. He even managed to get a feel of her arse as he left his office during lunchtime in a very good mood, completely ignoring her angry glare burning holes into his back as he left the office.

Feeling content with the day so far Vernon thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a tidbit of food from the bakery one block down from the Grunning's building. 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, clenching one hand around his coin purse and squeezing the other into a fist as he sped up to pass them by. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. These particular bunches of twits were whispering excitedly, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large bag of two dozen doughnuts, that he caught a few words of their whispered and not so discrete conversation.

He managed to overhear one sentence from a particularly odd man wearing a lime green cloak whose hair was in a greying disarray; "The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard yes, their son, Harry"

Vernon stopped dead as a cold chill was felt creeping down his fat neck and back as fear flooded through him. He glanced with a squinty glare back at the whispering group as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. Dashing back across the road, he hurried into the elevator and up to his office panting and out of breath, snapped at his secretary Kristal not to disturb him, seized the telephone on his desk, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down rather forcibly 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 little arsemonger. It might have been Harvey. Or maybe it was Harold. Well, there was no point in worrying his wife; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister or anything having to do with those freaks. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a freakish sister like that, one that used… the M word... but all the same, those people in cloaks still put him on edge...

For the rest of the afternoon Vernon was unable to concentrate on a single thing and even ignored the hissed "Sodding Tosser" his secretary threw at him in a viper like vitriol as she dropped off a pile of documents to his inbox. Deciding to leave early at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the office door that had been blocking the exit and his trip to the underground parking garage across the street.

"Bloody Git! Watch where your standing!," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Vernon realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak and a magenta top hat with various scarves tied around the base of the stack. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground by a very large and very rude man. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile as he grabbed Vernon's hands in-between his and began vigorously shaking them up and down in an overenthusiastic way while speaking in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare.

"Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has been banished at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, for this is a happy, happy day!" Vernon stiffened as the old man hugged him around his substantial middle before walking off and disappearing around the corner. Unable to form a coherent thought as anger started to blossom in his chest he stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger, touched by some freak. He was also sure he had been called a Muggle, whatever the bloody hell that was. He was rattled and his temper had begun growing, a steadily rising irritation since that morning when strange things began happening. He hurried to get to his Capri and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped for before, because he didn't approve of such a trivial thing as imagination. It was a useless thing to have when the here and now was what mattered, daydreaming like some nitwit about things that could never happen would not put food on your table or be in anyway productive.

Pulling into the gravel driveway of number four with a screech of the brakes, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood, but rather was the cause of his face darkening in anger - was the tabby cat he'd seen 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. Hoping that animal control would arrive soon he glared at the cat and squatted down to pick up a few rocks from the drive.

"Shoo you mangy flea bag!" Vernon hissed. The cat didn't budge. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? He wondered. Taking aim with one hand while his coat was draped over the other arm which was holding his briefcase he threw the first rock and watched it sail too far to the side. Taking aim again he threw once more and the spot hit right under where the cat was sitting. The tabby still refused to move and only hissed at him before calmly walking across the top of the wall and jumping into a bush. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house and hung his coat, today he would need a few shots of scotch to cool off while he watched the evening news. He was still determined not to mention anything about his strange day to his wife so as not to upset her, she abhorred even the slightest hint of anything peculiar.

Petunia Durlsey had had a nice, normal day. As they ate dinner she told him all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter dressing in black, coming in at odd hours, and becoming some "Goth slag" and how Dudley had finally learned a new word apart from "No" - ("Won't!"). Vernon tried to act normally, nodding at all the right moments, grunting his agreement and declaring that the neighbors were too soft and didn't know how to properly raise a child, unlike them of course. From the back dining room window, unnoticed by the family inside the tabby cat peered in and seemed to be watching intently at their conversation before it stalked off into the shadows as the Dursleys left the kitchen. When Dudley had been put to bed after another screaming tantrum where he had thrown his Action Man figure at the wall, he managed to get to the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"….. And finally, bird-watchers everywhere across the UK have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls are nocturnal and 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!"

Vernon 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 bloody Potters... His wife came into the living room carrying a cup of tea on a small plate. It was no good he decided, he'd have to say something to her, even if it reminded her of her sister. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?" As he had expected, Petunia looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply with a glare that told him to end the conversation now, but against his better judgment he decided to proceed. "Why?" she asked him.

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"So?" Petunia snapped back as her hand began to shake, causing the tea cup to tinkle against the plate.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... her crowd."

His wife sipped her tea through pursed lips and he wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter" from the group of abnormal people he came across at work. Deciding he valued his ears more than his curiosity he didn't dare to face the wrath of one of her screeching lectures. Instead he said, as casually as a man of his predisposition could, "Their son - he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," his wife answered stiffly.

"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?" a bead of sweat went down the side of his pudgy face and into the fold of his neck.

"Harry. A Nasty, common name, if you ask me. I'm sure it fits the little monster perfectly."

"Oh, yes," Vernon replied, his heart sinking horribly as the feeling of dread grew in the pit of his chest. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed trying to put the darker thoughts out of his mind. While Petunia was in the bathroom doing her womanly business, Vernon crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. And the bloody tabby cat was still there, sitting calmly at the corner of the yard! 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. His meaty fists clenched with suppressed annoyance. "Well at least we will never have to deal their sodding lot." He thought to himself before he got into bed with his wife, who had just exited the bathroom. While it was clear that Petunia fell asleep quickly by the sound of her deeper breathing he couldn't help but 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 his family, they had a clear and mutual dislike. 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 he would remember and come to regret those words on the last day of his life.

-Nov 1st 1981, Late Night-

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the tabby feline on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, resolute in its night watch, 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 two in the morning before the cat moved at all. From a branch in a tree across the street and a few houses down at number 9 Privet Drive the observing raven waited. It seemed in luck that it's stumbled upon discovery was finally going to come to fruition in whatever mysterious events were going on in such a boring muggle neighborhood.

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 in annoyance and its eyes narrowed. So too did the raven's eyes as it turned its full attention onto the aura the man was leaking. This was a powerful wizard indeed, but what business did he have here with the witch?

The powerful wizard in question 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 rather long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man 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; the least insulting thing he would have been called by any of the residents was a pooftah or a nutter ponce. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something in one of its various deep pockets. 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. It was a good thing to that the feline had taken his attention, as it had given the raven time to suppress the power bestowed upon it by master to levels so low that even if it had been found it would seem to be naught but an ordinary raven.

They tabby continued to observe him in annoyance, its pose one of exasperation, or as much of one a cat could take, which surprisingly, was very much so. Meanwhile The aged wizard found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be an elongated and ornate silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. Instead of a spark and a flame as was to be expected the nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, 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 as they reflected the little ambient moonlight that pierced the clouds. If anyone looked out of their window now, even the beady-eyed Vernon Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the street through the almost pith black blanket that had fallen over Private Drive. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four at a clipped pace, where he then stood by the corner of the wall where the cat glanced up at him before letting out a mewl. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it casually.

For a second the raven was put out, even at this distance its hearing was good enough that it should have been able to overhear the aged wizard's words, it seemed however that even in his casual demeanor the old man was paranoid enough to have set up some type of ward or spell to prevent any eavesdropping. This gave even more credence that something of great importance was going on here, such secrecy, scouting, and paranoia by a man such as Dumbledore in such a regular and out of the way location might be connected to the phenomena that its master had been investigating.

The raven continued to observe the meeting; watching as the Cat animagus morphed back into human form in near a blink of an eye, revealing her to be Minerva McGonagall. Considered the right hand man- or witch in this case, of Albus Dumbledore she was powerful by wand waver standards. A mistress of transfiguration, Head of the famed Gryffindor house of Hogwarts and headmistress as well. She was wearing a black overcoat cloak over an almost gown like cloak decorated tastefully in emerald green with ruby red forming a v down the center. Her black but greying hair was drawn into a tight bun and was partially visible under a crocked witched hat with a wide brim and a single feather on the side, she looked distinctly ruffled. She began to converse with the aged wizard, their words hidden to the raven as it hopped a little closer, trying to read the movement of their lips.

It seemed she was upset; meanwhile the aged wizard looked distinctly amused. McGonagall was gesturing with her hands; she jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window.

"…can't blame them… precious little… for eleven years…" was caught from Dumbledore, the raven pondered to itself, but waited to see what else he could pick up as its focus narrow on their mouths and eyes.

"…no reason to lose our heads… he really is dead…" came from McGonagall. He really is dead, eleven years, and the two most prominent and distinct members and leaders of the so called "light" movement of wand wavers in the UK meeting to talk about it, well the discussion could really only be about one thing. The self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort and the rampart rumors of his demise by an infant wizard. The ravens hunch was confirmed a moment latter by both Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"…mort had powers I will…you're too… noble…" The raven hopped onto a closer branch, stilling its movement as the branch shook for a second before stopping. It tilted its head and continued to watch.

"…why he's disappeared... rumor has it that… Godric's Hollow…Lily and James are really…perished…" Both Dumbledore and McGonagall bowed their heads at this point and stood silent for a moment, the somber turn of their conversation was palpable in their expressions; the wizard looked up at the witch in the eyes as she seemed to gasp. Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. There was a lull in the conversation before they started again, but the raven was becoming impatient. Whatever they were discussing here of all places made no sense, from what it had picked up so far there was no real reason to come so far out of place to discuss information that would most likely become public knowledge by years end. There had to be another reason, some connection to the residence the elderly witch was so closely observing. Clues were lining up but it still needed the final piece of the puzzle to piece them all together.

It returned its attention back to the couple as they began speaking anew. "Young Potter… Harry… couldn't kill… Voldemort's power somehow… after all he's… couldn't kill a little…" The raven turned away and glanced down the street as it sensed something approach, something large was displacing both air and magic as it came within range of the raven's sense. It was still a few minutes away, too far away to discern whatever it was but it was coming in at a steady clip. Dividing its attention it continued to watch both Dumbledore and McGonagall converse as the abject made its approach. He watched as Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and lifting her spectacles to dab at her eyes. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took an ornate golden Alethiometer pocket watch from his cloak and flipped the lid over. Even from the tree the raven could see that 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….. come to bring young… only family he has left now."

This seemed to greatly upset the witch as she visibly recoiled in disbelief. She ranted for a few seconds and took a pause, it seemed that Dumbledore was about to reply but he was cut off by the enraged witch. "… not even the worst of it… hate magic… anything strange as if it were a disease... or worse… abuse?!" McGonagall exclaimed in what was sure to become a tirade if Dulbedore didn't put a stop to it soon. "…best place for him" the old man said while reassuringly placing a hand on her shoulder. He winked at her in an attempt to lighten the mood as he peered over his half-moon spectacles with a twinkle in his eye "… will be able to explain everything… older… a letter." This did not seem to have the intended effect however as the woman just seemed more put off.

The flying object drew nearer, and the old wizard must have finally sensed is as he finally dropped the charm hiding the sound of their conversation. If the raven could have rolled its eyes in exasperation it would have surely done so, Dumbledore was well none for both his theatrics, as well as his habit of annoying anyone trying to get him to divulge any information he did not want to. It seemed in this case the conversation was of no real importance, just a precaution on the wizard's part. At least it would be able to get the rest of the conversation without having to concentrate on lip reading.

McGonagall was currently still speaking to the headmaster; "I warn this will end badly Albus, if you don't control the situation closely. Don't complain if it comes to bite you in the arse."

"You have nothing to worry about, I assure you I will be watching closely, nothing bad will happen to little Harry. In any case, the letter will warn them of such." Dumbledore responded.

Her annoyance had, finally, by this point almost disappeared at his reassurance before she processed the last part of his statement. "A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all… this… in a letter?" she emphasized her statement by waving her hand, casting sparks with her wand, and pulling at her cloak. "These people will never understand him! He'll be famous - a legend - I wouldn't be surprised if today was remembered as the day Harry Potter defeated Voldemort - there will be books written about him, everyone will know his face and treat him based on this notion of what he is and not who he is - every child in our world will know his name, people will put him on some high pedestal of their expectations, and turn on him the second he doesn't meet them Albus!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up away from all that until he's ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, 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." He responded in a lighter mood than from the previous discussion.

"You think it, wise… to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" she hissed at him in renewed exasperation, by God Albus would be the death of her with his carefree attitude on important decisions.

I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

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

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge black and chrome plated motorcycle fell out of the air as well as a flying brick would be expected to and landed on the road in front of them. The raven was just as in nor more surprised, it supposed some form of sound dampening charm had been placed over the entire block to prevent the muggle from waking up in the middle of the night, but really now, what was the point of acting so secretive if they were going to pull a stunt like that. Once more the raven wondered why the wand wavers seemed to have no common sense. It also answered the question of what the approaching object had been at the very least.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the man sitting astride it. He stood at least 350 cm tall and was at least five times as wide as a normal man. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard that was braided with a few random beads the size of marbles that hid most of his face, he had hands that could fit over trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were larger than manhole covers. He wore a tarp sized heavy moleskin overcoat that reached to his ankles and a pair of leather aviator goggles with lenses near the diameter of ostrich eggs over his eyes.

He came to a halting screech in front of them before shutting of the engine and lifting off the motorbike, is suspension groaning in distress before standing to his full height. He appeared by all sense to be some sort of giant wild man-the raven deduced him to either be a half breed or to have been on the wrong end of enlargement magic, However the small cooing bundle in the thick wool blanket he held in his vast and muscular arms with a gentle grip and a smile on his face revealed his true gentle nature.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last, and… where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant. "Sirius Black lent it to me at the house before he apparated out, he wanted to take Harry with him but I told him that I was under strict orders to take him to you. He asked me to take care of Harry until he returned and to not under any circumstance take him anywhere but Hogwarts. He finally agreed after I said he'd be safe with you, and then he left saying he had something to take care of. Madam Pomfrey was checking out the little tyke after you left the school when I got your patronus message sir and came with little Harry as fast as I could. I've got him here, sir."

"No problems, were there?" Dumbledore asked.

"No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out of Godric's Hollow all right before the Muggles and Aurors started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

The wizened mage nodded and then in less than a second Dumbledore had stepped back, hand raised out of his cloak and his wand glowing as he thought- 'Obliviate.' The look of surprise was erased in Professor McGonagall and Hagrid's eyes as they dilated for an instant before returning back to normal, the last ten seconds of conversation was erased from their minds, and any knowledge of meeting Sirius Black that night or Harry ever having anywhere other than directly transported here from Godric's Hollow was erased from the minds of both the Giant and the witch next to him.

"What? Um…" Hagrid asked confused.

"No problems, were there?" Dumbledore repeated as if nothing had happened.

"Oh No, sorry sir, must ave lost my train oh' thought. No, sir - house was almost destroyed, but I got him out of Godric's Hollow all right before the Muggles and Aurors started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." Hagrid once more replied, as he and McGonagall ignored the slight Déjà vu they felt as he presented the young Potter heir to both professors.

The raven watched in surprise, obviously something very serious was going on, the puzzle was coming together; the dark lord Voldemort had been destroyed by the potter child- Harry, on All Hallows Eve- Samhain a day the boundary between the physical and spiritual plane was quite thin, his parents had perished in Godric's Hollow, the same location where the disturbance that had had his mistress sent out him and his brethren to search the U.K. for clues had occurred. The child had been taken from his godfather rather forcibly and then to Hogwarts for a period of time before being moved by the giant here under Dumbledore's orders. He was going to be left in the care of possible future abusive and magic hating muggles, and Dumbledore did not want anyone to know that harry had been taken to Hogwarts at all or that he might know anything about Serious Black- going so far as to erase and alter the memories of his right hand follower and another person he was closely associated with. Suspicious did not even begin to cover what this situation was unfolding into. His mistress would be quite happy to learn of these events.

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of messy jet-black hair the reminded them all to much of the now deceased James Potter on his forehead they could see a curiously shaped and still raw looking cut. It was in center of his forehead, and oddly enough appeared to be a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll most likely have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" she asked while looking disapprovingly at what she considered an unsightly blemish.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't, scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground… Well - give him here, Hagrid - we'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' 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.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"Oh don't worry my dear, I've had a notice me not and silencing charm up since the moment I arrived." Replied Dumbledore in order to calm his hot tempered colleague. "A parade of wizards could have crossed this street an only we would have noticed."

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it - Lily an' James dead - an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, it's not the end of the world, you'll see him again in ten years," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low flower bed wall and walked across the lawn to the front door. He conjured a wicker basket, laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations." "Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' this bike back to Headquarters. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir." Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Minerva," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets in the basket on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry, one day we will all fulfill our destiny," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a half step turn and a swish of his cloak he was gone. An instant later the sounds of late night traffic and animals returned to Private Drive, as if no strange occurrences had taken place at all.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay still and tidy under the clouded inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing or horrible 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 more than just special, but rather something else entirely, 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, that for his foreseeable future he would be treated like a slave by the family that was supposed to care for him, that the promises of an old man would go ignored as he suffered... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people completely ignorant to the pain and suffering that lay in his future were meeting in secret all over the country and they were holding up their glasses in blissful ignorance of the events to come while saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!"

Unseen and undetected in the large oak tree sitting on the neighbor's yard across from number four the raven sat perched on one of the upmost branches. Now that it was alone on the street it released the hold on its power and fully opened the connection with his mistress once more. Through its red eyes a being of great power watched the events unfolding below in the raven's recent memory. As the large giant like man left its range of perception on the aggravatingly loud metal contraption that caused the raven to puff up its feathers and the other two figures had been gone from Private Drive for a few minutes, the raven finally took flight off into the overcast night as across both land and sea its master watched and waited. All across the U.K its brethren followed coming together over the coast of Dover the flock of raven merged into an eerily silent black cloud before drifting like sentient black fog, condensing into a shadow that flowed over the English Channel and went home to its mistress.

Concealed in dark woods in a valley between the peaks of two jagged mountains somewhere in Romania was a fortress like castle. Its location hidden from man for centuries; save for the legends born from its previous and now deceased tenant, who's undead heart she had claimed in her rise to power. Deep within its bowls on a throne of chiseled black stone she sat, a fine crystal chalice filled with the best wine life had to offer in hand. Her body was cloaked in shadows, her slitted eyes glowing with an eerie bloody hunger as a she smiled, her fang filled maw hidden behind a set of delicate and full rosy lips enunciating her sinister leer.

The Woman famed even in the dark histories of muggle lore licked a drop of crimson liquid from her lips as she saw through the eyes of her avian thrall. "Lets us see how events unfold, shall we- Hadrian Potter? Let us see if this little Esper survives the trials ahead, let us see if he can change the world…"

Outside the dark chamber malevolent laughter echoed into the night.

Notes: Finally had some free time to revise and finish this chapter, getting towards the end of school and working out my work schedule for part time has been a drag. Hopefully I can finish the next chapter soon, but don't expect regular updates. Story will start diverging from canon soon with new twist and turns. Some event may possibly be influenced by reader vote in future as well- though not sure what yet.

Any guesses on who this "Mistress" is, should be to hard I practically spelled it out, first correct guess get top mention next time I post.