Trigger Warnings: This chapter contains racism, racial slurs, and very slight implications of future child abuse. Please read at your own discretion.

Other Notes: Will feature Universe Alterations (such as POC characters, SAGA/LGBT characters, Houseswaps, Original Characters, etc)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any affiliations, nor am I JKRowling. I am a poor ass college student who writes fanfiction. Yes, The beginnings of Mercury's Message and the sequel (this will be around a 10 book series) will be heavily based off the books in some areas, and then venture far, far away from them.

Wings of Hermes

(Or rather, of Hagrid)

This story starts on a perfectly normal Sunday, on a perfectly normal street, in a perfectly normal house. The particular house in question was nearly imperceptible from the rows upon rows of cookie-cut houses, but we shall begin with the one labeled Number Four.

Within the perfectly normal Number Four lived the equally normal Dursleys. The Dursleys were the sort of people who you'd least expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, simply because they didn't put up with such nonsense.

Vernon Dursley worked at a company called CoreWorth, which made and sold investments. He was a rather large man, and reminded many of an unholy offspring between an elephant seal and a silverback gorilla. Petunia Dursley was a tall woman made of sharp angles and double the normal allowance of a neck (which came in very useful when she decided to peep on the neighbors). The last of the Dursleys was Dudley Dursley, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley's son, whom they believed to be the finest boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, and yet, they had a terrible secret. Their worst fear was the discovery of this secret, of their connection to the Potters. Lily Potter was Petunia's younger sister, but Petunia hadn't had any contact with her as long as she could prevent it. In fact, Mrs. Dursley liked to pretend that she didn't have a sister, because freakish Lily Potter and her freakish husband were as strange and as unnatural and as Un-Dursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to imagine what the neighbors would think if the Potters arrived on the street. For years Petunia had prayed at St. Catherine's Mercy, desperate for misfortune to fall upon her sister and her freakish family to prevent such an act. And of course, what had to happen except Mrs. Dursley's mother to call, elated, with news of Lily's pregnancy.

A new witch in the family, how wonderful! She had said. Petunia had slammed the phone down onto the receiver and pretended that it didn't hurt that her own mother preferred a freak's pregnancy over Petunia's own.

It wouldn't matter, Petunia had decided, whether her mother loved Lily more; She was fully convinced that the baby would be just as freakish as the Potter seniors, and it served as just another reason for Petunia to keep her family away from them.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke on the perfectly ordinary Sunday where our story starts, there was nothing strange or unnatural about the cloudy, dull sky that could suggest that peculiar things would soon be happening all over the country.

Mrs. Dursley had slipped on a well-used robe that had been a gift from Mr. Dursley, and went to quell the piercing shrieks of her hungry two-year old son. Mr. Dursley simply grumbled and shifted in the queen-size mattress-sag that served as the half of his bed, and went back to sleep. It wouldn't even be till eight-a.m (as Dudley had the nasty habit of waking up at six) that Vernon would be roused by a half-dressed Petunia, and pick out his ugliest tie for Sunday services, while Mrs. Dursley gossiped madly away, wrestling with an agitated Dudley.

Unfortunately, or possibly rather fortunately depending on whether or not you were a Dursley, neither Petunia or Vernon seemed to notice the tawny elf owl that was perching precariously outside their window. If they had, then perhaps their day would have gone a bit differently. Perhaps Mrs. Dursley would have shrieked much like her squalling son instead of complaining about the gaudy pearls decorating her neck being fake. Perhaps Mr. Dursley would have insisted upon staying home instead of venturing out as to ensure no more owls or freakish animals appeared near their home. Perhaps if the Dursleys had noticed these things, they would have discarded the small boy they were soon to find on their doorstep, and our story would be going in quite a different direction.

In any case, the Dursleys did not notice the diminutive owl that seemed to glare holes through the two as they each ventured past the bedroom window. Instead, at half-past eight, Mrs. Dursley fought with Dudley's papoose in the car as Mr. Dursley stuck one of many keys into the front doors' keyhole and waddled over to the driver's side. "Little tyke," Mr. Dudley had chortled as Dudley began tantruming, landing a solid thwack! in Petunia's face.

It wasn't until the corner of Privet Drive that Mrs. Dursley noticed the first sign of something unusual. A cat reading a map. At first, Mrs. Dursley couldn't believe her eyes, and jerked her head around to look again. There, on the curb of the street, was a cat, simply sitting. There wasn't a map, let alone a scrap of paper, in sight. What could she have been thinking? She tittered a laugh to herself, gaining an odd look from her husband as they stopped at the stop sign. She stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley began to press again on the peddle and pass the corner to drive up the road Mrs. Dursley watched the cat in the mirror. It was now reading the large stone sign that said Privet Drive-no, it was looking at the sign. Cats couldn't read maps or signs, or anything else for that matter. Mrs. Dursley gently fluffed her coarse hair and put the cat out of her mind, focusing on whether or not she believed Dudley could be old enough to learn anything at Children's Church.

But by the edge of Padstow, where their church was located, Dudley's courses at Children's Church had all but been put out of Petunia's mind. As the Dursleys sat in their usual Sunday morning traffic jam they couldn't help but notice there seemed to be quite a bit of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley began to rave about 'the get-ups you see on young people these days!' as people dressed in anything even slightly unordinary seemed to personally offend him. Mrs. Dursley's face began to pinch with the scowling sneer set up on her face, nodding her head with Vernon's tirade against the 'immigrant influence.' Mr. Dursley began drumming his fingers angrily against the steering wheel as his eyes fell on a huddle of those weirdos standing quite close by. Aliens, they were. He knew. They were whispering excitedly together. 'Probably a terrorist plot,' Mr. Dursley had thought.

He became especially enraged, so much so that his wife put a hand over his beefy arm in comfort, when he saw that these terrorists weren't young men at all. They were older than Mr. Dursley himself! Wearing ridiculously bright colours; yellows and blues and violets, all with glittering sequins that sparkled with every minimalistic swish (if one with an outfit like that could use a word such as).

Mr. Dursley began to feel the smallest traces of fear roll inside him like the beads of sweat down his temple. Was this some sort of bombing? A distraction? Mrs. Dursley simply cooed at both her husband and her grunting son, assuring them both that it must be part of some silly stunt. Of course! That must be it. A silly stunt. The traffic moved a few minutes later as they arrived into the St. Catherine's parking lot, the elder Dursleys discussing whether it was more beneficial to have Dudley in Children's Church or the Adult's church.

The Dursleys always sat in the fourth row on the isle side because Mr. Dursley worked as an usher (and if a few tithings fell into his pocket during donation, well, that was nobody's business). If he hadn't then perhaps they would had noticed the many owls swooping to and fro past the delicately colored glass windows. As it was, once again, the peculiarity passed them by and went on to be noticed by the passer-bys outside who gazed open-mouthed at the owls that sped overhead. Many of them had never even seen an owl, even at nighttime. Mr., Mrs., and tiny Dudley Dursley, however, had a very normal, owl-free morning. Mr. Dursley pocketed an extra forty-six pounds, Mrs. Dursley gossiped with Mrs. Greer and Mrs. Blanton about Ms. Figg, and Dudley fussed with his seat straps and threw his toys at the people in the row in front. All in all, they were in a very good mood until lunchtime after the first service when they decided to eat out with Vernon's extra pocket money.

They had forgotten all about the freaks in cloaks until they passed by a gaggle of them on the sidewalk next to the Diner. Mr. Dursley eyed them angrily as he and his wife passed by, Mrs. Dursley clutching Dudley's carrier closer to her bust. These freaks made them uneasy. This bunch seemed to be whispering excitedly, too, and Mr. Dursley couldn't spot a single collecting tin these sorts usually carried. It wasn't till they were inside did the Dursleys catch snippets of what was being said by the cloak-clad weirdos infesting the diner (both except Dudley, who was more interested in stealing bites from both his parents' plates).

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard, in Mungo's—"

"Yes, their son Hari—"

Mr. Dursley tripped over a table, nearly sending Petunia sprawling. A waitress rushed over to help him and was knocked away. Mrs. Dursley set Dudley on the table that was uprighted and helped her husband up into a chair. Mr. Dursley began muttering to his wife fearfully, about the you-know-whos and the conversation overhead. Mrs. Dursley simply snipped at him that he was being ridiculous, and that it could be anyone they were speaking about "with those sorts of people, Vernon. Those people haven't an original thought in their head, let alone names." Mr. Dursley stroked his mustache and bobbed his head, agreeing. Potter wasn't such an uncommon name, especially for those who stole their way into his good country. He was sure there were several Potters who had a son named Harry, especially those who tried to pass for English.

Come to think of it, the Dursleys weren't even sure their nephew's name was Harry. It could be Harvey, or Henry, or something just as freakish as they are. Petunia was right; there was no point in worrying (especially when it upset Mrs. Dursley so). He didn't blame her—if he'd had a sister like that...but all the same, those freaks in cloaks…

They ordered their food from the same flustered waitress whom Mr. Dursley had shoved, and sipped haughtily from their teacups as they arrived. The tray arrived a few minutes later, with Mrs. Dursley's plate of eggs and toast and Mr. Dursley's plates of pancakes, eggs, sausage, and bacon. It took sparingly few minutes before Vernon was finished with his food and Dudley began to squall. His ear piercing cries were ignored by his parents, who left the other patrons to suffer, as Petunia finished her plate and called for the bill.

As they left with the hysterical Dudley in tow, much to the relief of the remaining diners and staff, Mr. Dursley nearly felled a stranger who slammed into him.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny man stumbled back. It was a few moments before Mr. Dursley realized the tiny brown man was wearing a glimmering violet cloak. He didn't seem upset at all being nearly knocked to the ground, or by the sour look upon Mr. Dursley's face directed at him. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a (to Mr. Dursley's ears) heavily accented, squeaky voice, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

Petunia violently flinched, and the man had the audacity to hug Mr. Dursley so hard around the middle his nose dug into Mr. Dursley's large stomach.

Mr. Dursley stood frozen in place. He had just been hugged by this—this freak. He also thought he has been called a 'muggle', whatever that was.

'Even if they don't belong here, still, can't you learn the damn language of the blasted country you're contaminating?' He had thought viciously.

As the Dursleys pulled past the gates to Privet Drive and back into the driveway of Number Four the first thing Mrs. Dursley saw was the tabby cat she'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on the garden wall corner of Number Four and Number Three. She was sure it was the same one; it was the same silvery-grey colour with black markings around its eyes. Its long, fluffy tail flicked back and forth sharply and it seemed to glare at them as they got out of the car.

"Shoo!" Mrs. Dursley shrieked, swatting in its direction with the hand not wrapped around Dudley's baby-seat.

The cat didn't move. If anything, its tufted ears laid horizontally from its head and its eyes slid to stern slits. Huffing and trying to pull herself together, Mrs. Dursley followed her husband into the house. She was determined not to let any of this get to her.

The time at back at their home through dinner was fairly normal. Mr. Dursley spoke about his new investments and how he was expecting a raise quite soon. Mrs. Dursley relayed the gossip learned from Mrs. Greer and Blanton, especially about how Mr. Number Sixteen's wife was apparently leaving him for a younger man. After dinner, when Dudley had been put to bed Mr. and Mrs. Dursley went into the living room to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere are astounded by the nation's owls' activity today. Owls, who are nocturnal predators, have been seen flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why these birds have suddenly changed their instinctual patterns." The newscaster plastered a strained grin on his face. "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 just birds that have been acting batty lately. 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 shower of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night a bit early—it's only a few days away folks! But I can promise a wet one tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair, while Mrs. Dursley sat with her long fingernails clutching gouges in the couch cushions. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks invading all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about Potters…

He could feel his forehead flushing and moistening, and knew it was no good. He would have to ask. He cleared his throat nervously.

"Er—Tuney, darling—you haven't heard from your sister lately have you?"

As expected, her gaze snapped over to him, shocked and angry. The teacup currently lying in pieces on the carpet that had been dangling from her hands was a surprise, though. After all, they usually pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No. I haven't even spoken to Mother," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled, pointing a round finger vaguely in its direction, "Owls...shooting stars… and those people we saw in town today—"

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

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

Mrs. Dursley looked like Mr. Dursley had just killed her favourite cat (as if he could do such a thing, since Petunia hated animals), sitting rigidly on the puce coloured couch, breathing hotly through her nose.

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. However, while Mr. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mrs. Dursley crept to the large bedroom window and peered out to the front garden. The cat was still there. It was now staring down Privet Drive as if waiting for something.

Was she imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with her? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a—well she didn't think she could bear it.

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

How very wrong she was.

Mrs. Dursley might have been drifting off into an easy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no signs of weariness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the entrance corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a dog began barking madly, nor when a small elf owl swooped down and perched on the raised square across from the cat itself. The owl copied the cat's almost lifeless stance and it was nearly midnight before either of them moved.

A man appeared on the corner the animals had been watching, so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed, while the owl's feathers ruffled and it gave a small "Hoo."

Nothing like this man had even been seen on Privet Drive, even on Hallow's Eve. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt (that luckily he refrained from). He was wearing long maroon 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 nearly as thin as he was, as well as long and crooked. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize, or perhaps was simply unbothered, by the fact that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging through the many pockets of his cloak, looking for something. He did seem to realize he was being watched though, as he looked up from his pockets to the cat and from the cat to the owl. For some reason, this seemed to amuse him. He chuckled to himself and muttered, "I should have known."

He has seemed to of found what he was looking for as he fished out what seemed to be an intricate, long, silver cigarette lighter. He held it up near his head, and clicked it. The nearest lantern-style street light went out with a muted pop. He clicked it again—another near dozen times—till the nearest eleven street lights were out and the entrance to Privet Drive was shrouded in darkness; the only light being the pinpricks of yellow from an irritant cat's and a curious owl's eyes. He seemed to be satisfied that no one would be able to peep outside their windows onto them, and slipped the strange device back into one of his many pockets.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professors." he greeted as he sat down on a decorative rock in the road verge. The cat hopped down and strut quickly over to him, as the owl flew strangely skillfully to perch near the strange man.

Before the cat reached him, it morphed into a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing oval spectacles exactly the shape the markings the cat had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her salt-and-peppered hair was drawn into a tight bun, and she looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day." Professor McGonagall sniffed.

"Oh, Minerva! You should have been more inconspicuous." came a squeaky voice.

A small man, no larger than a six-year old child, was standing next to Albus, all traces of the owl gone. He was wearing a tea coloured conductor-like suit with a yellow half-cape. He had a short mustache and what could be considered a bowl-like haircut.

"Professor Flitwick, I would have thought you'd be celebrating, I must have past at least a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily at Dumbledore's insinuation, while Flitwick looked morose.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something is going on."

"Yes, it was on their news," Flitwick nodded. "Flocks of owls, shooting stars...well they aren't completely oblivious. Shooting stars down in Kent! I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense." he huffed out his nose.

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for a dozen years."

"But that's no reason to lose our heads," McGonagall said irritably. "People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp glance at Dumbledore, as if she expected him to tell her something, but he didn't and was interrupted before she could start again.

"A fine thing it'd be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all." Flitwick grinned, his short mustache coming up to tickle his nose (which produced a rather high pitched sneeze).

"So, I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?" the stern McGonagall seemed almost unsure of herself, which was a very odd and unnatural look upon such a woman.

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you like a lemon drop?"

"A what?"

"A lemon drop. They're a type of Muggle sweet I'm fond of."

"No thank you," said McGonagall coldly, as if she didn't think this was quite the time for the talk of lemon drops.

"I'll have one Albus!" Flitwick raised his arm and outstretched rather long fingers for someone of such a short stature.

"As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone—"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense—for years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Both Professors flinched, though Flitwick's reaction was slightly more comical due to the sour candy in his mouth. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'. We'd get them all switched," he continued, unsticking two lemon drops and pretending not to notice their reactions, "I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name than any of the others."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know-Who—oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly, "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Half of the You-Know-Who's have! It's only because you're too noble to use them." said Flitwick.

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

"Minerva—" Flitwick tried to reach out for her, but stopped as she pierced him with a fierce stare.

It seemed that she had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat or as a woman had she fixed either of her companions with such a look as she was trading between them. Dumbledore, however, chose not to answer. Instead, he was choosing another lemon drop.

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

Dumbledore bowed his head. Flitwick laid his head along McGonagall's robes and pat her back. McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James...I can't believe it...I didn't want to believe it...Oh poor Frank…"

Shining tears slid down her face as Dumbledore reached out and patted her shoulder. "I know...I know…" he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Longbottom boy, Neville, and the Potter boy, Hari. But-he couldn't. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill the first boy, Neville Longbottom, Voldemort's power somehow broke, and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's—It's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done...all the people he's killed...he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding...of all the things to stop him...but how in the name of Circe did Neville survive? And what of the Potter boy, Hari? How did Neville possibly save himself, let alone another child?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles, leaning on Professor Flitwick as much as she could. Flitwick rubbed what of her back he could reach soothingly, murmuring soft words. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden pocket watch from one of his pockets and examined it. It was a very odd watch, with twelve hands pointing at planets instead of numbers that moved around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, as in any case he placed it back in a pocket and said "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way."

"I followed Filius, whom Hagrid told," she sniffed. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here of all places?"

"I've come to bring Hari to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."

Both Flitwick and McGonagall protested at once.

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?"

"Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching this house all day—"

"And I've followed them!"

"—You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking all the way up the street, screaming for sweets!"

"And what about his skin? These people are even more bigoted than the Morden family!"

Flitwick ended with a huff, while McGonagall gestured her hands to him, nodding vigorously.

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

"A letter?" repeated Flitwick faintly, while McGonagall muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh goody."

"Really Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! He'll be famous! A legend brother to Neville! I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Miracle Boy Day in the future-there will be books written of them—every child in our world will know their names!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. In another's shadow before he can walk and talk! Half-famous for something he can'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?"

Flitwick opened his mouth, changed his mind, and swallowed, leaving McGonagall to intervene. "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here?" She eyed his cloak as if he might be hiding Hari underneath the folds.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?" Flitwick's nose crinkled unsurely.

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

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

A loud rumbling sound had broken the silence surrounding them. It grew steadily louder as McGonagall and Flitwick looked up and down the street for signs of a headlight with Dumbledore smiling fondly; it swelled to a roar as they all looked up at the sky—and a huge motorcycle seemed to fall out of the air and land on the street in front of them.

If the motorcycle was large, it was nothing compared to the man sitting astride it. He was nearly twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild—long tangles of bushy brown hair and beard his most of his face, his hands were the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather-looking boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of multi-coloured blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get the motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—hospital was mostly destroyed, but I got 'im out 'fore folks starting swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Hagrid held his arms low, so that Flitwick could see when McGonagall and Dumbledore bent over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of wild, jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Dumbledore, what is that?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"A backlash from Neville's magic. The poor boy's face is near half scarred. He'll have it for the rest of his life. They both will."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?" questioned Flitwick.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one 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 Hari in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say good-bye to 'im, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over and gave Hari what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss, as the babe began to wrinkle his face up. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor Flitwick, putting a long, bony finger up to his mouth.

"You'll wake the Muggles, Rubeus!" Professor McGonagall laid a comforting arm on the large man, trying to hush him.

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

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor Flitwick whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore flicked his wrist towards a wrought-iron gate and stepped through, following the pathway to the front door. He shifted the boy in his arms and bent over, placing one of the old milk bottles in front of the door just in the center of the doormat. A flick of his wrist and a slim piece of wood fell into his fingers. A whispered word, and a milk bottle morphed into a small wicker basket with a purple pillow inside. He laid the babe onto the pillow and reached into his pocket, placing the letter he found there in plain view. Another flick of his wand, another word, ensured that the letter would stick.

He walked back to the trio, where one by one they took turns placing enchantments on the boy. McGonagall made sure the boy would stay protected from any animals that happened to lurk nearby, with a small crystalline dome that shone if you looked at it just right. Flitwick magicked small charms that looked to be fireflies, ensuring the boy would stay warm throughout the night (due to Hagrid's request, as he was not legally allowed to do magic), and a small, modified notice-me-not charm. Hagrid gave one last, not so small good-bye, and stuffed a clean handkerchief around the boy's sides, and then returned to the corner.

For a full minute the four of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, McGonagall blinked furiously, Flitwick stifled sniffles, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes had seemed to of 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' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Flitwick—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung 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, Professors," said Dumbledore, nodding to the remaining duo. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply, while Professor Flitwick nodded mutely.

Dumbledore stood and walked back down the street. On the corner he took out the strange cigarette-lighter looking device. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back into their street lamps just suddenly enough he could make out a strange cat slinking around the corner. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of Number Four.

"Good luck, Hari," he murmured, as an elf owl swooped overhead. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the flora of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy underneath the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Hari Potter rolled over in his blankets, one hand clutching at the unmoving letter. He would sleep on, not knowing he was famous, not knowing was special, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours by the horrified shrieks of one . He couldn't know that at this very moment, one Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, had signed Hari's fate in a life of hell.

Author Notes: Currently taking votes for whom Hari should end up with. So far Drarry is the winner, but if you wish to cast your vote please keep in mind that in order to work for this story he must be around Hari's age! (And preferably male).

Also, I hold no similar views that the Dursleys exhibit, and they are supposed to invoke anger/hatred.

Random Note: Word Count is a bit over 6K