1 A New Beginning.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, according to their estimations. They were the last people you'd ever expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because, as they claimed, they "… didn't hold with such nonsense."

Mr. Dursley was the Managing Director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills on an assembly line. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck and far too much mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in handy for her as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley (a rotund, miniature version of Mr. Vernon Dursley himself) and, in their opinion, there was no finer boy - period.

The Dursleys appeared to have everything they wanted. A white picket fence, well-maintained shrubbery, a beautiful bouncing baby boy – but, like any modern family, they also had a secret. Their greatest fear was that somebody – anybody - would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about - THEM.

While every family in the world is bound to have a relative whom they are not particularly happy about, the Dursleys had a whole family of relatives which, if they had their way, they would never contact at all for any reason.

Mrs. Lily Potter-nee Evans 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 un-Dursley-like as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived on their doorstep. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. Nor did they want to - this boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley firmly believed in traditional values – home, family, Sunday sports, and regular vacations. But the definition of family for the Dursleys appeared to be limited to those who they agreed with – after all, contrary values within any group would lead to counter-productivity. For a hard-working man like Mr. Dursley, Managing Director of Grunnings' assembly lines, counterproductivity was the bane of his existence.

Our story starts when Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on a dull, gray Tuesday. 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.

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 dog 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 large black dog 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 dog. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the dog in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive -- no, looking at the sign; dogs couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the dog out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get filled that day.

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

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.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the bakers. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch was 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. . .

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

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw -- and it didn't improve his mood -- was the large black dog he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting at the edge of his lawn. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same shady look in its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The dog seemed to grin, before lifting its leg and urinating calmly on Mr. Dursley's shrubbery. Was this normal dog behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

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

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

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

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in 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. "Erm -- 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. A nasty, common name, if you ask me. "

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

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

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

The 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 wouldn't affect them.

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the dog on the lawn 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 dog moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner, accompanied by a cat, the corner which the dog had been watching. The man and cat 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 which had strange squareish markings around them - narrowed when they spotted the dog.

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

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched because he looked up suddenly at the dog, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the dog 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 dog 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, saying to the cat as he moved, "Come along, Minerva." Upon reaching number four, he sat down on the sidewalk – next to the dog. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Sirius."

At that, the dog stretched and as it stretched it transformed into a man with shaggy black hair and dark eyes – a haunted look on his face.

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

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

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

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on this muggles lawn all day," said Sirius Black.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? We must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on our way here. " said Professor McGonagall.

Sirius sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, I've been celebrating, all right," he said impatiently. "My friends dead and gone, their son being taken from his rightful guardian and sent to live with these… these muggles."

He jerked his head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard about it. Morons. Celebrating like that – you'd think they'd be more careful. Flocks of owls. . . shooting stars in Kent. . . Muggles aren't 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." Said Professor McGonagall.

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

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

"Exactly." Said Sirius.

McGonagall 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?" said Sirius and McGonagall at the same time.

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

"No.," 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. "

"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."

"Noble? Is that what he is…?" scoffed Sirius.

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

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

"Yes, Dumbledore. Let's hear it. What do you say stopped him? Let me guess. Was it my dear Godson? Was it Harry, do you you think, that stopped him at last? A tiny babe in a crib brought down the darkest of dark wizards our kind have seen in a thousand years?" Sirius seemed extremely angry.

"No need to be angry, Sirius." Said Dumbledore, calmly.

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, it was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, neither she nor Sirius was going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer their questions.

"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. "

"Oh, that's no rumor, Minerva. I was there this morning. Snape too – Hagrid came later. I have never been more furious in my life than when I heard that you ordered Hagrid to bring Harry here." Said Sirius.

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

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

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

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

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's -- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done. . . 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. "

"It was Lily, Minerva. She was draped over Harry's cradle. But you could feel it in the air – the magic. It was old magic. Pure, and powerful beyond measure."

Dumbledore stiffened, "What magic would this be, Sirius?"

"A protection, Albus. For Harry. Tied to his blood. I examined him before I passed him over to Hagrid. Voldemort cannot touch Harry – a magic cast with a mother's love. Merlin himself couldn't have done better – I dare say."

Albus nodded, thoughtfully.

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."

"What brought you here, Albus. Instead of to me?" sighed Sirius.

"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 Sirius, jumping to his 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 can't come and live here! I'm his godfather, he should stay with me!"

"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 Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the sidewalk. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him. They're muggles. 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 of that until he's ready to take it?"

"And he'll be ready for it when he's eleven, Dumbledore? Eleven?! He'll still be a boy – you think he can handle suddenly being dropped into the magical world after living his life with no knowledge of who he is?!" Shouted Sirius in rage. "And you send Hagrid – HAGRID – to pick him up? Of all people – He doesn't even have a wand - why not Remus, why not myself?!"

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

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

A low 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; Sirius grinned. "Don't worry, it's just Hagrid. I loaned him my bike for the journey. It's warded." The professors nodded as the sound swelled to a roar. The three of them looked up at the sky -- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared 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.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last."

"Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black over there lent it to me. I swear I ain't done no magic on it, Sir. It was like that when I borrowed it. I've got him, sir. "

"No problems were there?" asked Albus.

"No, sir -- the house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. He fell asleep as we were 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?" Asked Sirius.

"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.

"Absolutely not, Dumbledore." With a swish, Sirius stood in front of Albus, in his hands what appeared to be a thin gnarled stick.

"Sirius…" glared Dumbledore.

"Albus, you have no legal right to turn this boy over to his aunt and uncle. If you force my hand, I will make an issue of this in the ministry. What you're doing is kidnapping – regardless of your logic. You are not his magical guardian, Albus. Not until he is in Hogwarts. And you are not his legal guardian either – I am. I'm here to settle this with you once and for all, Albus. Harry Potter is my godson. He is coming with me. His safety is MY concern."

Albus quietly passed Harry to Hagrid.

"I don't wish to force things, Sirius. It's for his own good."

"No." Said Sirius. "This is for your own good – so that he can be manipulated by you well into his later years. Don't think I haven't been to the ministry, Albus. I know about Trelawney's prophecy."

Albus' eyes opened up wide.

"I will take him – as it is my legal right to do so. I will train him. I will prepare him for his future. I will provide for him. And, when I pass on, he will inherit my estate." Said Sirius, firmly.

Albus sighed and raised his wand into the air. Sirius mimicked his actions.

"You idiot men." Spat Professor McGonagall. "How dare you aim your wands at each other – how dare you sully James and Lily's memory. How dare you!"

Albus and Sirius both stared at McGonagall in shock.

Professor McGonagall pointed her wand at Albus with a cat-like speed. "Expelliarmus!"

Dumbledore stared dumbly at Professor McGonagall. "Minerva…!"

"You lied to me, Albus. This won't be forgotten. You said that these muggles were the only family Harry has left. But that isn't the truth. These people can never understand him. They will never be his family. The only one left who can possibly fill that role is Sirius Black. Harry deserves to grow up in the world his parents loved so much – and his parent's wishes deserve to be respected. After all, Albus – they gave up so much for the light already. It is time to give a little back."

Hagrid just then burst into tears, wailing loudly like a wounded animal.

He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, Sirius and Albus simultaneously, "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 wit Muggles 'gainst his parents will-"

"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.

"Let's see then, what kind of Muggles these are – and only after shall we decide what to do with Harry. If he'll be safe here – he should stay here. If he's better off with Sirius, then that is just what we shall do."

Knocking on the door gently, Albus, Sirius, Hagrid, and McGonagall waited together as the lights slowly came on and a large man with an equally large mustache yanked open the door with a shotgun in hand and wide glaring eyes.

"What the devil are you doing, knocking on a man's door in the middle of the night like this? Who in blue blazes are you?"

Albus calmly stared at the man and introduced himself. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardly, Chief Warlock, and Supreme Mugwump of the -"

SLAM. Without a moment's hesitation, Mr. Vernon Dursley slammed the front door of the house shut in Albus Dumbledore's face.

Sirius snickers lightly. "Allow me, Albus."

Sirius politely knocks on the door – which is yanked open by a raging Mr. Dursley. "If you think I'll let some crackpot old fool disturb my family in the middle of the night-"

Before another word could be said, Sirius had taken Mr. Dursley by his collar, and placed his wand at his throat.

"Silencio." Mr. Dursley continued to shout until he was red in the face, but not a whisper of sound escaped his throat. Sirius dragged him into the house, followed by Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid who barely fit through the frame of the door.

Mr. Dursley had long given up, noticing how his screeching was completely ineffective. Instead, he calmed down and became greatly fearful due to the presence of Hagrid whom he had not noticed previously.

"I assume you have many questions, Mr. Dursley, which we are more than happy to answer in due time." Said Albus, congenially.

"For now, however, we hope that you would listen to what we have to say before leaping to any judgments that may be premature. Hagrid, the child."

Hagrid obliged and passed Harry over to Dumbledore who then laid Harry gently on one of Dudley's nearby stuffed teddy bears.

"This child is Harry Potter, your nephew by marriage. I see that you have a child already – and as such, I hope it would not inconvenience you too greatly to take in your nephew until he comes of age."

Mr. Dursley's face paled considerably. He stared in horror at the bundle of cloth and then back at Dumbledore before vigorously shaking his head and gesturing at his throat.

Sirius waved his wand and dispelled his charm, allowing Vernon to speak freely.

"I don't want this – this THING anywhere near me or my family. He's destined to be like his parents. Weird – abnormal. I want nothing to do with him, and if it is left up to me, he'll be out on his backside at St. Brutus's school for the criminally insane within a week of turning five."

Dumbledore frowned. "Did you not receive the letter I sent by owl?"

Vernon frowned. "By owl? What in blazes are you talking about?"

McGonagall sighs heavily. "Albus, its clear he doesn't care for the child – there's no need to force it. Let Sirius take the child."

"In the interest of fulfilling my duties, I must inform you of the contents of the letter. In essence, you would receive 1,500.00 pounds a month for the cost of caring for little Harry, and your home would be warded against any and all magical creatures and folk." Said Dumbledore.

Vernon's thoughts got stuck in his throat before he could speak them. "1500.00 pounds a month? That's half my weekly pay!" A greedy light lit up in his eyes.

"What would be my expected duties, as this boy's guardian?" Questioned Vernon.

"Providing food, and shelter, basic living necessities until he turns 17."

Sirius watched the proceedings with rage slowly building in his eyes.

"In that case, I accept. Are there any papers I need to sign?" Said Vernon.

"I refuse." Said Sirius.

McGonagall, Hagrid, Albus, and Vernon all turn to gaze at Sirius.

"Read his mind, Albus. See what he plans to do with little Harry if Harry is left alone, here." Said Sirius, with rage in his eyes.

Vernon's greedy face turned pale, and tears formed in the corners. McGonagall raised her wand and pointed it at Vernon. "Legillimens." Her eyes closed as she read Vernon's mind.

Albus closed his eyes with a sigh. He already knew what Sirius was talking about.

In a moment, Professor McGonagall's flew wide open with a snarl, and she raised her wand preparing to attack Vernon before being stopped by Dumbledore.

"Don't Minerva. It is not worth it." Said Albus, softly.

"The boy is going with Sirius, Albus. This place is not suitable."

"I understand, Minerva." Sighed Albus.

Without another thought, Minerva raised her wand at Vernon and said quietly, "Obliviate."

Four people and one baby exited number four Privet Drive that evening and stared quietly at the fireworks going off all over the city in the distance.

Harry cooed, gently, and fussed in Sirius's arms.

For a full minute, the four 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, "If it's all the same, Sirius, I'd like to buy this bike of ye."

"Keep it, Hagrid. It's a gift." Smiled Sirius, while cuddling Harry to his chest.

"A'right! Thank ye! G'night, Sirius, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

"Goodnight Hagrid." The three murmured. 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. "Ah - Albus, here, your wand." Dumbledore stared at McGonagall's outstretched hand and the wand in her grasp.

"I'm afraid it no longer recognizes me, Minerva. May it serve you well."

"Sorry about that, Albus." Muttered Professor McGonagall with a sigh.

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 arms of Sirius Black. "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 around Sirius Black's finger. And he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing that he would spend the next few years living with his Godfather. 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!"