I decided to post this chapter within the same day. Mainly because the reading is the point of the fic and to a lesser extent, the prologue and the first chapter were supposed to be one. I cut it off because it was getting a bit long. (I believe the original Word document was around 20 pages...) One thing I forgot to mention last time. I didn't type up the actual book material. I have no idea who actually did, but I thank them for saving me a significant amount of time. That said, they didn't seem to be too careful with punctuation, particularly in questions as they ended them all in periods. Also, they weren't very good friends with the Em dash. I'm not trying to be ungrateful (believe me, far, far, from it considering all the time it must have taken them to type a novel up) but I did have to do some editing and I may have missed something. I don't believe I did, but if any of you notice a sentence that should be a question or this:- in place of an Em dash (which is the long dash seen in published books to signify a break in thought or dialogue) then let me know. I very much enjoy keeping grammar consistent and correct, otherwise it just breaks immersion.

Also, the formatting for my chapter went crazy on me. Some bolded text became unbolded and extra lines randomly placed themselves between paragraphs. I've also attempted to correct all instances of this. Like the above, if any of you noticed I missed a spot please let me know. I've gone over this chaper for some time, but I just cannot stand it when I read improperly formatted fics. Drives me to the point where it becomes too distracting to read as the internet is not always eye friendly and I'd rather avoid any of you leaving because of something easily mended. Yep, much rather y'all leave because I'm a crappy writer, or if this is boring... ;)

CHAPTER ONE

THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

"I see what you mean about the strange parts," Ginny said, "I wonder where it came from?"

"Why does this part even matter?" Ron asked in disgust, "They're all a load of gits."

"Ron," Mrs. Weasley said warningly.

"Oh, Mum, I know you hate them too."

"I do not hate them. I just…. Well, just because they are horrid people doesn't mean…."

"See? You hate them."

"Wait, who are the Dursleys?" Mr. Granger asked.

"My aunt, uncle and cousin," Harry answered, "They aren't very pleasant, but Dudley gets a little better. Takes a while though."

"You remember, Dad," Hermione added, "They're the reason we had to smuggle him suger free cakes in fourth year."

"Oh, I remember now... To think, your own relatives starving you...," Mr. Granger trailed off in disgust.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

"Such nice descriptions for such lovely people," Ginny said sarcastically.

"Why would you want to spy on the neighbors?" Percy asked.

"Like you didn't spy on everyone at Hogwarts," Ginny snorted.

"That was different. I was doing my duty to the school," he said defensively.

Ginny rolled her eyes.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

"These people care too much about what others think," Mrs. Granger stated.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

"You said he gets better, Harry?" Ron asked.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat 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. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

"Is that some sort of magical cat?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Most likely. I think I already know who it is," Hermione answered.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley 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 Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

"Do Muggles really try to come up with an explanation for everything odd they see?" Ginny asked.

"Can you blame us?" Mr. Granger asked, "Magic seems impossible to us at the best of times. Science and such makes more sense."

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

"I will admit that all the owls sound very peculiar though," he conceded.

"The owls are nothing," Ron said, "Does this bloke really enjoy yelling that much?"

"Yes," Harry answered, "If he hasn't yelled at someone, it's a very off day from him."

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

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

"— yes, their son, Harry—"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephew was called Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her - if he'd had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

"So, he's caught on that something's not right? Took him long enough," Ginny said.

"Hermione, didn't you tell us about Harry being famous in the wizarding world?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Yes… I expect this is the day it happened," she answered grimly.

"I'm not trying to sound insensitive, but what does this have to do with our family? I thought this would explain why you sent us away?" Mr. Granger said frustrated.

Hermione shared a look with Ron and Harry.

"Dad, I think this has everything to do with that. I think for you to get the entire picture, we have to start at the beginning. Everything begins with Harry. I'm certain things will become more clear as these books go on."

Mr. Granger sighed and his wife squeezed his hand in sympathy. She had no idea why this was relevant to them either. She understood that Hermione cared for her friends, but how did that extend to fighting a war and sacrificing her family for the boy sitting across from them?

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

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said 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 gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!"

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

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

"That's horrible," Mrs. Weasley said.

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

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

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

"A stern look?" Ron repeated, "Hermione, if you're thinking of who I'm thinking of, then I think you're right."

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

"And what about all the problems you have with Dudley later?" Harry asked in disbelief.

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

"Shooting stars? I thought wizards weren't supposed to do magic so that Muggles could see it," Mrs. Granger stated.

"We aren't, but this is the day that Voldemort first disappeared. People got careless in their celebrations," Mr. Weasley answered, "I suppose we can't really blame them. Those were very dark times for everyone."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

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

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

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

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

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

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

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

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

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

"And you think Dudley is better?" Ron asked.

"Ron, if you think Dudley is bad, just wait until you hear some of the pet names Aunt Petunia comes up for him," Harry said with a grin.

"Really? It gets worse? If he wasn't such a git, I'd feel sorry for him."

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

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

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

Mr. Granger snorted.

"Come on now, that's completely ridiculous."

"Unfortunately, sir, the Dursleys are rather narrow minded," Harry told him.

"Just how do you end up with people that seem to hate magic? Doesn't seem right at all."

Harry shrugged.

"There is an explanation, but you'll have to wait a while before we get to it. It'll make sense then," he answered.

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

How very wrong he was.

"I was just about to say that," Mr. Weasley said in amusement.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

"What's it waiting for? I can't imagine that would be very comfortable at all," Mrs. Weasley said.

"Well, she is McGonagall," Ron said by explanation.

"Ah, I forgot she was an Animagus."

"Hold on, that professor that came to our house can turn into a cat?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Oh yes, it's very difficult magic, but Professor McGonagall is quite good at Transfiguration," Hermione told her.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

"So, Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall come to your house on the night you go there?" Ron asked, "That's kind of weird."

"Why?" Harry asked.

"Well, Dumbledore I can understand, but I never thought McGonagall would be there. Don't get me wrong, mate, I'm sure she liked you a bit, but still."

"I guess it is odd to think she would be there. Dumbledore always made it seem like it was just him and Hagrid that put me there."

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. 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. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Hey, the Deluminator!" Ron exclaimed.

"Did you ever find out why Dumbledore gave it to you?" Ginny asked.

Ron's ears turned red as he realized that his family would soon learn his most shameful moment. Suddenly he didn't think these books were the greatest idea.

Harry could see Ron struggling with whether he should try to answer Ginny and decided to help him out.

"It turned out to be one of the most important things Dumbledore gave us. But, I'm sure we'll get to that eventually."

"Are you really going to make us wait through all these books to get all the answers?" Ginny asked in exasperation.

"Yes."

"No hints? Some of them are pretty long, I don't think we can wait for the end,"

"Think of it this way, Gin. All the longest ones should hold most of the answers you need," he told her.

"Git."

Harry just smirked at her.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"Ha! I knew it," Ron said triumphantly.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"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," said Professor McGonagall.

"Why was she sitting on a brick wall all day?" Hermione asked.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently.

"You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

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

"Eleven years?" Mr. Granger asked, "That's how long this Voldemort fellow terrorized you all? Why didn't any of us notice?"

"Probably because he wasn't ready to start with the Muggle world yet. Much of those eleven years was him gathering followers and spreading his ideals. Of course, he and his lot did enjoy attacking Muggles just for the fun of it," Mr. Weasley said in disgust.

"That's awful," Mrs. Granger said, "And the second time was even worse?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, "It's why I sent you so far away. I didn't want to take the chance that even if you couldn't tell the Death Eaters anything, that they'd just torture you on principle…."

Mr. Granger sighed.

"Then, it was really that bad?"

"Dad, Voldemort was a… horrid man. You don't even know just how awful he could get. I suspect that we'll get to it soon enough. I just hope you and Mum can understand when the time comes," she said quietly.

The Grangers looked at one another. Both were beginning to think that they may not want to hear all that had happened in the Wizarding world. What was worse was the thought that their daughter was right in the middle of it, if what she implied about her role with Harry Potter was correct. They didn't know what to think about that.

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

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

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

"A what?"

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

"Only Dumbledore," Mrs. Weasley said in exasperation.

"Well, lemon drops are rather good, so you can't really blame him," Harry said in amusement.

"How did the Muggles manage to get the lemon flavor in the candy? I know we use magic, but what do they use?" Mr. Weasley asked curiously.

"Oh, Arthur, not now."

"It's fascinating," Mr. Weasley argued, "comparing our things to the Muggles. Do they taste similar to our candy?"

"Er- Well, the wizard, lemon candy tastes a bit fresher," Harry tried to explain, "Muggles use artificial flavors."

"Really? How many flavors can they make?"

"Arthur!"

Mr. Weasley looked abashed.

"Perhaps we can talk later, Harry," he whispered.

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone —"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name. All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.

"That's because you're bloody brilliant," Ron snorted.

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

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

"Only because you're too — well — noble to use them."

"Too right," Mrs. Weasley said in agreement.

"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?"

"So that's why she's been on that brick wall all day," Percy mused, "Waiting just to talk to Dumbledore."

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

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

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it...Oh, Albus..."

"I wonder how well she knew my parents," Harry said, "I mean, she seems like she knew them personally with how upset she is…."

"I suspect all the Order grew rather close what with all the danger they had to face," Hermione answered.

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

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

"Why was he after you in the first place?" Mrs. Granger directed at Harry, "It just doesn't make sense why a full grown man would want to kill a child."

"Believe me, Mrs. Granger, I wondered that too for years," Harry said sourly, "Didn't get a real answer until I was in fifth year."

"And you're going to make us wait till then too," Percy guessed.

"Well, it's why we're reading the books. Learn everything in order," Harry said with a small sense of smugness. It was oddly nice to have others as confused as he had been back then.

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 heaven did Harry survive?"

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

"Oh, you know all right," Ron said.

"He knew about Harry and Voldemort even back then?" Mr. Weasley asked in surprise.

Ron opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione beat him out.

"Don't, Ronald! You could give away everything."

"I wasn't going to answer!" Ron said indignantly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but Ron wouldn't look at her.

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

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

"You don't mean — you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore — you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son — I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry Potter come and live here!"

"I have to agree with McGonagall," Hermione said, "These people are absolutely horrid."

"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?" Mr. Granger asked in surprise, "Given all I've already heard about these people, I doubt a letter will make them understanding. Did they even explain anything to you properly?"

"Nope. But, we'll get to that within the next few chapters I expect," Harry answered.

"A letter." repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter. These people will never understand him! He'll be famous — a legend — I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child in our world will know his name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "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?"

"I suppose he's got a point there," Ginny said, "Could you imagine Harry with a big head on top of everything else?"

"That would be awful," Hermione giggled.

"Hey!"

"But, still," Ginny went on, "These people? There wasn't anyone else Dumbledore could have stuck him with?"

"You'll find out why I had to stay with the Dursleys eventually," Harry told her.

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes — yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing him."

"You think it — wise — to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

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

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

"Hagrid's not that careless," Harry said with a frown.

"I don't know about that Harry," Hermione argued, "Remember what he slipped to us about Fluffy? And that was just in our first year."

"It's not like he meant it," Harry shot back.

"I'm not trying to say he's a bad person, but it's just as McGonagall said. He tends to get a bit careless at times."

"What's this about first year?" Mr. Granger asked before Harry could respond.

Hermione looked very uncomfortable at that moment. She never did tell them what really happened first year. It wasn't until now did she really think about just how unhappy her parents were going to be with her.

"Just a little mischief we get into. Nothing compared to what happens later, really," Hermione said shrilly.

Her words did nothing to reassure her parents. While both were fooled by their daughter omitting information from them, they could still tell when she lied through her teeth. They had a feeling that they weren't going to like a great deal of these books….

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 motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

"So that's where the dream came from," Harry said in wonder.

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

"Who is that?" Mrs. Granger asked in slight alarm.

"Just Hagrid, Mum. He's actually really nice. Gentle half-giant," she said with a smile.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that 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."

"He shouldn't have went after Wormtail," Harry said angrily, "Maybe everything could have been different."

"You still had to live with the Dursleys, though, right?" Ron asked him.

"Yeah, but he could have scared them into being nice to me or something. Kind of like what I did in fourth year," Harry answered bitterly.

"You never told them that Sirius was innocent?" Hermione asked in surprise.

"Why would I do that?"

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where —?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

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

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

"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!"

"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 —"

Mrs. Weasley let out a sigh in sadness.

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He 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' Sirius his bike back. 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, Professor McGonagall," 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 on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter — the boy who lived!"

"Well, that's the end of the first chapter," Hermione said to break the melancholy mood.

"This was pretty interesting," Harry said, "I've never really thought about how I actually got to the Dursleys. Guess Ron was right. Maybe the books are better with these odd parts."

"I still want to know where they came from," Hermione said irritably, "Well, in any case, who wants to read next?"

"I'll have a go," Ron volunteered.