Chapter Text
Molly Weasley took the book. It was pretty. The designs on the cover were so beautiful. There was even a robin! It was so beautiful it seemed like some kind of dream.
"Okay, let's begin," she smiled and opened the book, marveling at the fine handwriting. "Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived."
Many were preparing to begin that adventure.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, who lived at 4 Privet Drive, were proud to say they were very normal, fortunately.
"Oh no!" Lily exclaimed, recognizing her older sister's surname. James, for his part, took his wife's hand, wanting to give her support.
"What's normal?" asked a Hufflepuff boy.
"Non-magical people, dear," Lily added calmly.
They were the last people you'd expect to find involved with anything strange or mysterious, because they weren't up for such nonsense.
"Did she call us fools?" Adrian Pucey asked his best friends in a low voice.
"I think so," Cassius Warrington whispered.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a company called Grunnings, which manufactured drills. He was a large, round man, with almost no neck, although he did have a huge mustache.
"Well, the perfect type of Mum!" Harry mocked, causing some people to look at him in surprise at his joking outburst, marveling James and the twins but tormenting Minerva.
Bruce, for his part, felt his face might fill with horror. That wasn't his perfect type of daughter, thank you!
Mrs. Dursley was thin, blonde, and had a neck almost twice as long as usual, which came in very handy, as she spent most of her time craning it over the garden fence to spy on her neighbors. The Dursleys had a young son named Dudley, and they thought there was no better boy than him.
"Darling, your sister has become more..." James said, struggling to find the right words.
"I know, I'm surprised she hasn't changed much," Lily denied.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that it would be found out: they wouldn't have been able to bear for the Potters to get out.
Many frowned upon hearing this.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't seen each other for years; so much so that Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her husband, a complete idiot, were the most opposite of the Dursleys imaginable.
Severus Snape, who had been silent, smirked at this.
"Hey!" "I'm a Chief Auror, I have several investments, and I own a manor and three houses. I'm not useless!" James assured, crossing his arms.
Many looked at Lord Potter in admiration, something that angered Snape.
The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters appeared on the sidewalk. They knew the Potters also had a young son, but they had never seen him. The boy was another good reason to keep the Potters away: they didn't want Dudley hanging around with a child like that.
"And I don't want my Harry with them!" Lily assured them.
"Calm down, Mum. Mum showed up at the right time," Harry assured them.
Our story begins when Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on a Tuesday to a sky covered in gray clouds that threatened a storm. But nothing in that overcast sky suggested the strange and mysterious events that would soon take place throughout the region. Mr. Dursley hummed to himself as he put on his dullest tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley chattered happily as she settled the noisy Dudley into his high chair.
None of them saw the large brown owl flying past the window.
At eight-thirty, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, kissed Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye, but he couldn't, as the boy was throwing a tantrum and throwing cereal against the walls.
Many shuddered at that.
"God! If one of my grandchildren behaved like that, I'd have grounded them already," Martha Wayne said, making her grandchildren shudder, thankful the woman didn't know them, no matter how cruel that sounded.
"Mum would have lynched me already," Harry assured. "She'd never let me throw a tantrum!"
"We'd have been grounded for life," Ron assured, earning a nod from his parents.
Many agreed; their mothers and fathers would give them a good scolding.
"You rascal," Mr. Dursley muttered as he left the house. He got into his car and drove away from number 4.
As he reached the corner, he noticed his first hint that something strange was happening: a cat was looking at a map of the city. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen, but then he turned his head to look again. There was indeed a tabby cat on the corner of Privet Drive, but he didn't see a map. What had he been thinking? It must have been an optical illusion. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back.
Many people were curious. A cat reading a map? Minerva, for her part, could feel Albus's amused gaze, but also James Potter's.
As Mr. Dursley turned the corner and drove up the street, he watched the cat in his rearview mirror: at that moment, the feline was reading the sign that said "Privet Drive" (it couldn't be; cats couldn't read signs or maps). Mr. Dursley shook his head, ignoring the cat's thoughts. As he drove into town, all he could think about was the drill orders he hoped to secure that day.
But outside the city, something happened that put drills out of his mind. As he waited in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help but notice a large number of strangely dressed people. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't stand people wearing ridiculous clothes. Ah, the outfits young people wore!
"I don't want to know what he'll say about Uncle Conner," Harry denied.
"Why?" asked Seamus.
"Oh, it's that Uncle Conner likes leather jackets with spikes," Harry assured.
"Is he Goth?"
"No, he just likes drama."
Some people laughed. Dick, for his part, tried not to frown; this Uncle Conner was somehow offensive to him.
He supposed it must be a new trend. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his gaze fell on some strangers standing near him. They were whispering to each other excitedly. Mr. Dursley was furious when he realized that two of the strangers weren't young. Why, one was even older than him, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! What nerve!
"Our cloaks are great," someone else assured him.
But then it occurred to him that it must be some sort of advertising gibberish; these people were obviously collecting for something. Yes, that had to be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived at the Grunnings parking lot, thinking about the drills again.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he would have had a hard time concentrating on the drills that morning. He didn't see the owls flying by in broad daylight, although people on the street could see them and point at them with their mouths open as the birds paraded by one after another. Most of these people hadn't seen an owl, even at night. Nevertheless, Mr. Dursley had a perfectly normal morning, without owls. He shouted to five people. He made important phone calls, and then shouted again.
"Isn't it rude to yell at people?" Ginny asked, watching her mother.
"It is, dear," Molly assured him calmly.
He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he decided to stretch his legs and head across the street to the bakery.
He had forgotten about the people in cloaks until he passed a group standing next to the bakery. As he passed, he glared at them. He didn't know why, but they made him nervous. That group was also whispering agitatedly and didn't even have a piggy bank with them. As he returned with a giant doughnut in a paper bag, he caught a few words of their conversation.
"Oh, I want a doughnut!" exclaimed a Hufflepuff boy.
"I'd like to, but I've already used up my supply of sweets," Harry sighed resignedly.
"Supplies?" Neville asked, surprised that he hadn't noticed Harry had hidden sweets.
"Of course!" Mom only lets me eat a certain amount of candy. She says Grandpa Alfred would be against me eating candy before a proper meal," Harry pointed out, making Alfred and Martha smile.
"And your mother is right," Alfred suddenly assured, agreeing with his little mistress's words. "Miss Timmy has a valid point. Before consuming candy, you should eat properly."
Harry nodded, then smiled at the older man, who returned it calmly.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard..."
"Yes, your son, Harry..."
Mr. Dursley froze. Fear filled him. He turned to the whisperers, as if he wanted to say something, but held back.
Lily held her husband's hand as he looked toward their baby.
She hurried across the street and ran to her office.
"Can he run?" James and Harry asked simultaneously.
"Ha! That's all, fawn," James grinned, causing a grimace to cross Severus Snape's face, who was being ignored by Lily and James.
He shouted to his secretary that he didn't want to be disturbed, picked up the phone, and when he'd almost finished dialing his home numbers, he changed his mind. He put the receiver down and stroked his mustache, thinking... No, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't that special a surname. He was sure there were plenty of people named Potter who had a son named Harry. And on second thought, he wasn't even sure his nephew's name was Harry. He'd never even seen the boy. He could be called Harvey. Or Harold.
"I like Hadrian better," Lily smiled.
"Exactly!" Harry nodded effusively.
There was no point worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. And he couldn't blame her. If only he'd had a sister like that... But anyway, those people in cloaks...
"Is it weird to see people in cloaks?" asked a pureblood.
"As far as I know, there's a group of vigilantes in the United States who wear cloaks," said Ron calmly, drawing the attention of many, including the Wayne family.
"How do you know that?" Bill asked his younger brother.
"Harry! Harry has Black Bat," Ron said calmly.
"Black Bat?" asked Percy, puzzled.
The Waynes looked at the boy. If he had a Cass doll, then he'd have to know about the others, right?
"I also have Red Hood, Singal, Batman, Superboy, and Red Robin!" he assured, smiling happily.
Well, something in Bruce's heart vibrated, and in Jason's withered heart, something there trembled, as if it were a pleasant feeling toward the child the replacement was caring for, but for Dick and Damian things weren't right. The former felt betrayed by the fact that his nephew hadn't mentioned his alter ego, and the latter was outraged that the child Drake had taken in wouldn't consider him for his collection, although he wasn't going to admit it either.
That afternoon he had trouble concentrating on his drills, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so preoccupied that he inadvertently bumped into a man standing in the doorway.
"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man staggered and nearly fell to the ground.
Seconds later, Mr. Dursley noticed the man wearing a purple cloak. He didn't seem upset by the shove. On the contrary, his face lit up with a broad grin as he said in a voice so shrill it caught the attention of passersby:
"Don't apologize, my dear sir, for nothing can upset me today! It's fair to say you're happy because You-Know-Who has finally left! Even Muggles like yourself should celebrate this happy day!"
"Discretion wasn't your thing," Marcus Flint shook his head from his seat.
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley and walked away.
Mr. Dursley froze completely. A stranger had hugged him. And if that weren't enough, he'd been called a Muggle, no matter what that meant. He was bewildered. He hurriedly got into his car and headed home, hoping it was all just his imagination (something he'd never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination).
When he pulled into the driveway of number 4, the first thing he saw (and it didn't improve his mood) was the tabby cat he'd found that morning.
At that moment, he was sitting on the wall in his garden. He was sure it was the same one, as he had identical lines around his eyes.
"That cat looks familiar," James whispered to his wife.
"Get out!" Mr. Dursley said loudly.
The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Mr. Dursley wondered if this was normal behavior for a cat. He tried to calm himself and went into the house. He was still determined not to say anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a good, average day. While they ate, she told him about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and that Dudley had learned a new phrase ("I won't!").
"She's a bit... nosy," Martha said, giving Lily a quick glance. "An apology."
"It's all right, Lady Wayne. I know my sister and her habit of analyzing and judging other people's lives," Lily assured her.
Mr. Dursley tried to behave normally. Once Dudley was in bed, he went into the living room in time to watch the evening news.
"And finally, birdwatchers everywhere have reported unusual behavior among the nation's owls today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are very difficult to see in daylight, there have been hundreds of reports of these birds flying in all directions since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster allowed himself a wry grin. "Very mysterious. And now, back to Jim McGuffin and the weather forecast." Will there be more owl showers tonight, Jim?
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know that, but it's not just the owls that have been acting strange today. Viewers from places as far away as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have called to say that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have started celebrating Bonfire Night early. It's next week, gentlemen! But I can promise you a rainy night."
Mr. Dursley froze in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying in broad daylight? And that rumor, that whisper about the Potters...
Mrs. Dursley came into the dining room carrying two cups of tea. This wasn't going well. He had to say something to his wife. He cleared his throat nervously.
"Uh... Petunia, dear, have you heard anything about your sister lately?"
As she had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked annoyed and angry. After all, they usually pretended she didn't have a sister.
"I don't have a sister," Lily stated coldly. "And the idiot who thought of leaving my baby with her will suffer my wrath."
"No," she replied sharply. "Why?"
"There are some very strange things on the news," Mr. Dursley muttered. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of strange-looking people in town today..."
"So what?" Mrs. Dursley interrupted abruptly.
"Well, I thought... maybe... it might have something to do with... you know... your group."
"What are we? A cult?" Mr. Granger asked. Ever since he learned his baby had magic, he had been studying the wizarding world.
Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea with pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered if he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter." No, he wouldn't. Instead, he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Their son—he's about Dudley's age, isn't he?"
"I think so," Mrs. Dursley replied stiffly.
"And what was his name? Howard, wasn't he?"
"Howard Potter?" Fred asked somewhat mockingly.
"Howard," George sneered.
"Isn't he?" Harry said, shocked.
"Harry. A vulgar and horrible name, if you ask me."
"Is my name vulgar?" Harry asked into thin air.
"Of course it is," Draco Malfoy assured him.
"Yeah, right, it's not every day that someone is called Draconis Lucius Malfoy," Hermione muffled.
"Between Hadrian and Draconis, we know which sounds vulgar and strange," Graham Montague assured him, making the albino blush.
"Oh, yes," Mr. Dursley said, feeling a terrible sense of dejection. "Yes, I agree."
He said nothing more on the subject, and they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley walked slowly to the bedroom window and scanned the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring intently down Privet Drive, as if waiting for something.
Was he imagining things? Or could all this have something to do with the Potters? If that were the case... if it were discovered that they were related to some... well, he didn't think he could bear it. The Dursleys went to bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, all this swirling around in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that, even if the Potters were involved in the events, there was no reason for them to go anywhere near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought of them and their kind... He didn't see how he and Petunia could be involved in anything (he yawned and rolled over)... No, it couldn't affect them...
How wrong he was!
"I hope it's not what I think is happening," Lily said, her eyes scanning the staff table. Helena had warned her, but if they'd really thought giving their baby to Petunia was a good idea, well, she'd hit someone.
Albus felt terror wash over him. He could feel death laughing at him and his audacity to anger a redhead, who, by the way, was a Potter.
Mr. Dursley fell into a fitful sleep, but the cat sitting on the garden wall showed no sign of dozing. He stood as still as a statue, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the corner of Privet Drive. He barely flinched when a car door closed on the next street, nor when two owls flew overhead. In fact, the cat didn't move until midnight.
A man appeared around the corner the cat had been watching, so suddenly and silently that one might have thought he had sprung up out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched, and his eyes narrowed.
No one had ever seen such a man on Privet Drive before. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by his silver hair and beard, which were so long he could have tied them with his belt. He wore a long tunic, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were clear, bright, and sparkled behind half-moon glasses. He had a very long, crooked nose, as if it had been fractured once. The man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Lily felt her shoulders tense, and she turned to look at her former professor.
"You? Were you the one who left my baby with that damn bitch?" the redhead asked, annoyed.
Albus felt like he could have aged even more at that moment.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to notice that he had arrived at a street where everything about him, from his name to his boots, was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something, but he seemed to realize he was being watched because he suddenly glanced at the cat, which was still staring at him from across the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and murmured, "I should have known."
In his inside pocket, he found what he was looking for. It looked like a silver lighter. He opened it, held it high in the air, and lit it. The nearest streetlight went out with a small pop. He lit it again, and the next lamp went dark. He flicked the switch twelve times, until the only lights left on the entire street were two distant pinpricks: the eyes of the cat watching him.
"That's brilliant!" Ron exclaimed excitedly.
"Professor, where did you get that?" a Ravenclaw asked curiously.
"I made it myself," the old man smiled proudly.
Many were surprised and excited.
If anyone had looked out the window at that moment, even Mrs. Dursley with her beady, beady eyes, they wouldn't have been able to see what was happening on the street outside.
Dumbledore put the Extinguisher back in his cloak and went to number 4, where he sat on the wall near the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.
"It's good to see you here, Professor McGonagall."
He turned to smile at the cat, but it was gone. Instead, he was smiling at a stern-looking woman wearing square-framed glasses, reminiscent of the lines around the cat's eyes. The woman was also wearing an emerald-colored cloak. Her black hair was tied back in a bun. She looked distinctly displeased.
"Professor, were you too?" Lily asked tensely.
It was the professor's turn to feel a certain apprehension.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked. "My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat so stiff."
"You'd be stiff too if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," Professor McGonagall replied.
"All day? When could I have been partying? I must have passed a dozen celebrations and parties on my way.
"Party?" Martha asked suddenly. "They're dead, and you're partying."
"Well... It had been an event..."
"Horrible," Arthur assured her. "Molly and I never went to those parties, nor did the Lovegoods. It was disrespectful to the Potters. Merlin only knows what would have happened to their bodies!"
"Not only that," Thomas denied. "Didn't you ever think that while you were celebrating, someone might have desecrated their bodies?"
The mention of desecration made everyone shudder. They had celebrated, but they never thought beyond what could have happened.
Professor McGonagall snorted angrily.
"Oh, yes, everyone was having a party, all right," she said impatiently. "I thought they'd be a bit more cautious, but no... Even the Muggles have noticed something's up! It was on the news." She tilted her head in the direction of the Dursleys' dark parlor window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls, shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They had to notice something. Shooting stars falling in Kent... It must have been Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame him," Dumbledore said amiably. "We've had so little to celebrate for eleven years..."
"My desire to kill someone is greater," Lily said in a strained voice.
"And mine is increasing," Martha assured calmly.
Bruce would be starting to pray for those souls who would perish because of his own mother.
"I know that," Professor McGonagall replied irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People have become completely careless, going out into the streets in broad daylight, not even wearing Muggle clothes, exchanging rumors..."
She cast a sharp, sidelong glance at Dumbledore, as if expecting him to reply. But when he didn't, she continued speaking.
"It would be extraordinary if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have finally disappeared, the Muggles discovered everything about us. Because he really is gone, aren't he, Dumbledore?"
"It is as it seems," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you like a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. It's a kind of Muggle sweet I'm very fond of."
"Professor," Hermione called calmly, "do you consume many lemon drops?"
"Only a few..."
The professors looked at him, as if this were some kind of joke. He clearly consumed more than expected!
"No, thank you very much," Professor McGonagall replied coldly, as if she considered this not an appropriate moment for sweets. "As I was saying, even if You-Know-Who is gone..."
“My dear Professor, I’m sure a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name, can’t you? All that You-Know-Who nonsense… For eleven years I tried to persuade people to call him by his real name, Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall drew back fearfully, but Dumbledore, preoccupied with unwrapping two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It’ll all get very confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I’ve never found any reason to be afraid of using Voldemort’s name.”
“I know you don’t have that problem,” Professor McGonagall observed, a mixture of exasperation and admiration. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know-Who… Oh, well, Voldemort, was afraid of.”
"Well, if Mum managed to get the demon head to respect her, I wouldn't be surprised if she could scare Voldy," Harry said calmly.
The Waynes felt a little uneasy. Did she say demon head? That couldn't be right! Timmy had a lot to tell them when they saw her!
"You're flattering me," Dumbledore said calmly. "Voldemort had powers I never had."
"Only because you're too... well... noble... to use them."
"It's a good thing it's dark. I haven't blushed this much since Madam Pomfrey told me you liked my new earmuffs." Professor McGonagall gave him a hard look before speaking.
"Owls are nothing compared to the rumors going around. You know what everyone's saying about how he disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
"Hey, Harry," Seamus called suddenly. "Does your mom have any superpowers?"
Harry blinked several times and shook his head.
"No, she's just addicted to coffee and sugar puffs," Harry assured her calmly.
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most eager to discuss, the real reason why she had waited all day against a cold wall, for, neither as a cat nor as a woman, had she ever looked at Dumbledore with such intensity as she was doing at that moment. It was clear that whatever "what everyone was saying" was, she wasn't going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another piece of candy and didn't answer.
"What they're saying," he insisted, "is that last night Voldemort appeared in Godric's Hollow. He was coming for the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are... are... well, they're dead."
James and Lily looked at each other, their gazes filled with sadness, utter fear. Thomas and Martha, for their part, looked at each other; they could see the pain on the Potters' faces, and that, that was a terrible thing.
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I don't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore came over and patted him on the back.
"I know... I know..." he said sadly.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she continued.
"That's not all. They say he wanted to kill the Potters' son, Harry. But he couldn't. He couldn't kill that boy. No one knows why, or how, but they say that because he couldn't kill him, Voldemort's power was broken... and that's why he's gone."
Harry grimaced. His mother's hypothesis was that his mother, when she stood between him and the spell, had caused a blood barrier. No hidden magic, no powers beyond comprehension, but a sacrifice of love.
Dumbledore nodded sadly.
"Is... is it true?" stammered Professor McGonagall. "After all he did... all the people he killed... he couldn't kill a child? It's astonishing... of all the things that might have stopped him... But how in heaven's name did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." Professor McGonagall took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and dabbed it across her eyes behind her glasses.
Dumbledore snorted as he took a gold watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very strange watch. It had twelve hands and no numbers; small planets moved around the perimeter of the circle. But it must have made sense to Dumbledore, because he put it away and said.
"It's a watch given upon reaching the age of majority, a sign that one is considered an adult," Marcus Flint said calmly when he noticed the looks on many of the Muggle-born children's faces. "Peregrine already has his."
Peregrine Derrick, who was a Chaser on the Quidditch team, nodded, showing off a gold watch.
"Hagrid's late. I take it he was the one who told you I'd be here, wasn't he?" "Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I take it you're not going to tell me why, of all the places, you had to come here of all places."
"I've come to deliver Harry to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family he has left now."
"Albus Dumbledore!" Lily yelled, her face flushed red. "What on earth were you thinking?!"
"Lily, dear, they—"
"They were bullies!" Lily yelled again. "Or have you forgotten the time I begged you to let me go to Marlenne's house, when Petunia threw boiling water on me?!"
Albus spluttered, remembering that event.
Lily's shriek, sharp and full of pain, echoed in Albus Dumbledore's mind, an echo that haunted him through the years. The image of young Lily, barely thirteen years old, her face reddened by burns, imposed itself with merciless cruelty. Memories, usually blurred by the mists of time and melancholy, became vivid, cruel, lacerating.
The heat of the scalding water, Lily's agonized scream, the desperation in her eyes… it all returned with an intensity that took his breath away. The guilt, that heavy burden he had carried for decades, intensified, becoming an unbearable torment. Lily… my dear Lily… The thought echoed in his mind, a silent lament that expressed the magnitude of his failure.
It had been a mistake, a terrible mistake, a mistake that had marked Lily's life forever. The memory of her plea, her desperate request for help, haunted him. She had been a child, vulnerable, defenseless, and he, the powerful wizard, the leader of the magical community, had failed to protect her. He had failed to prevent Lily's suffering, he had failed to stop Petunia's abuse, and he had also made the mistake of believing that Harry would be safe with Petunia. He didn't know the circumstances of how Harry came to be in Miss Drake's arms, but he suspected it wasn't a good thing.
James, for his part, tried to calm his wife. He knew how his beloved had felt; he himself had had a fit of rage at Petunia's audacity in attacking his beloved Lily.
"You mean...? You can't mean the people who live here!" the professor shouted, leaping to her feet and pointing at number 4. "Dumbledore... he can't. I've been watching you all day. I couldn't find anyone more unlike us. And that son of yours... I saw him kicking his mother as they climbed the stairs, screaming for candy. Harry Potter can't live there!"
"Kicked his mother?" Jean Granger asked, frightened.
"How dare you," Molly denied, disgusted. "My children would be kneeling in the sun by now, begging for mercy!"
The Weasley children nodded; they knew their mother's temper.
"Ha! And I would have gotten even for it, wouldn't I, Bruce?"
Bruce could only nod, under the gaze of his children.
"It's the best place for him," Dumbledore said firmly. Your uncles will be able to explain everything to you when you're older. I wrote them a letter.
"A letter?" Alfred repeated, stunned.
"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall, sitting back down. "Dumbledore, do you really think you can explain everything in a letter? Those people will never understand Harry! He'll be famous... a legend... I wouldn't be surprised if today was known in the future as Harry Potter Day! They'll write books about Harry... every child in the world will know his name."
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very serious over his glasses. "It would be enough to make any child dizzy. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he doesn't even remember! Don't you realize that it would be far better for him to grow up away from it all, until he's ready to come to terms with it?"
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes... yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy ever going to get here, Dumbledore?" —He suddenly looked at the professor's cloak, as if he thought he might be hiding Harry.
—He wasn't that little,—Harry denied, then looked down at his baby self and frowned softly.—At least I don't think so.
—Harry darling, you're too little,—James assured calmly.
—Mum always said I'd grow out of it; she was just as little as me,—Harry assured him.
Bruce smiled.
—Of course Timmy was little. Sometimes I had to look around for her because she got lost so easily,—Wayne assured him.
And it wasn't a lie; even Alfred had to look around several times to make sure he didn't lose his young lady.
"Hagrid will bring it."
"Does it seem... sensible... to trust Hagrid with something as important as that?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
"I'm not saying his heart isn't where it should be," said Professor McGonagall reluctantly. "But you can't tell me he isn't careless. He has a habit of... What was that?"
A muffled noise broke the silence around them. It grew louder as they looked up and down the street, searching for any light. It rose to a roar as they both looked skyward, and then a heavy motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
The motorcycle was immense, but compared to the man riding it, he looked like a toy. He was twice as tall as an average man and at least five times as wide. You could tell he was too big to be accepted, and so unkempt too... Long, straggly black hair and a beard that covered almost his entire face. His hands were the size of dustbin lids, and his feet, shod in leather boots, looked like baby dolphins. In his huge, muscular arms, he held a bundle wrapped in blankets.
"I wrapped you very carefully," Hagrid assured suddenly, drawing the Potters' attention. "I even used two extra blankets, I was afraid you'd get sick."
"Hagrid," said a relieved Dumbledore. "Finally. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"I borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore," replied the giant, carefully getting out of the vehicle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I brought him back, sir."
The adults thought the Potters would react badly, but Harry smiled; his mother had assured him that he'd have his godfather back.
"No trouble there?"
"No, sir. The house was nearly destroyed, but I got him out before the Muggles started appearing. He fell asleep as we flew over Bristol."
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent over the blankets. Between them was a small boy, fast asleep. Under a shock of jet-black hair, on his forehead, they could see a scar with a curious shape, like a lightning bolt.
Several young ladies rocked baby Harry, both the one in the book and the one asleep in the bassinet.
"Was it there...?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," replied Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
"Can't he do anything, Dumbledore?" "Even if he could, he wouldn't. Scars can be useful. I have one on my left knee that's a perfect diagram of the London Underground. Well, leave it there, Hagrid, we'd better get this over with."
"A lot of information," said Eliot Granger.
"I don't like it," Harry shook his head. "Uncle Bart, I got into the habit of wearing a little star."
"So that's where the colored stars came from," said Susan Bones, surprised.
"Yep, an inside joke or something," Harry assured him.
Dumbledore turned back to the Dursleys' house.
"Can I... can I say goodbye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid.
He bent his great shaggy head over Harry's and kissed him, scuffing his beard. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl, like a wounded dog.
"Shhh!" said Professor McGonagall. "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-sorry," whimpered Hagrid, and mopped his face with a large handkerchief. But I can't bear it... Lily and James are dead... and poor little Harry will have to live with Muggles...
"Hagrid..." Harry called hesitantly. "My mum, uncle, aunts, and godfather are all Muggles.
"She's different, Harry," Hagrid assured. "I've met your mother; she's a very kind, pleasant woman."
Harry nodded; it gave him peace of mind, but on the Wayne side, Dick was feeling a pang in his heart. The way he called someone else uncle was complicated. Someone had taken his place without a fight.
"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but pull yourself together, Hagrid, or we'll be discovered," whispered Professor McGonagall, patting Hagrid's arm as Dumbledore stepped over the garden gate and went to the door opposite. He gently placed Harry on the threshold, took the letter from his cloak, hid it in the boy's blankets, and then returned to the other two. For a long minute the three of them stared at the small bundle. Hagrid's shoulders shuddered. Professor McGonagall blinked furiously. The flickering light that Dumbledore's eyes usually radiated seemed to have left them.
"They left him on the threshold?" asked a stunned Jason, surprised that such a small child had been left out in the open.
"We couldn't leave him inside," assured Minerva.
"They could have knocked on the door," Jason pointed out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's it." We've got nothing to do here. We'd better go and join the celebrations.
"Uh-huh," Hagrid said hoarsely. "I'm going to return the bike to Sirius. Goodnight, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore."
Hagrid wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve, climbed onto the bike, and kicked the lever to start the engine. With a clatter, it soared into the air and disappeared into the night.
"I'll see you soon, I hope, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding at her.
Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and marched off down the street. He stopped at the corner and raised the Silver Extinguisher. He turned it on once, and all the street lights came on, so that Privet Drive was lit up with an orange glow, and he could see a tabby cat slinking around a corner at the far end of the street. He could also see the bundle of blankets on the steps of number 4.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and, with a flick of his cloak, was gone.
A breeze stirred the neat hedges of Privet Drive. The street was silent under an inky sky. This was the last place you'd expect amazing things to happen. Harry Potter turned over in the blankets, not waking. A small hand closed over the letter, and he slept on, unaware that he was famous, unaware that in a few hours he would be awakened by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to get the milk bottles out. Nor that he was going to spend the next few weeks being poked and prodded by his cousin Dudley. He couldn't know that, at that very moment, people gathering in secret all over the country were raising their glasses and saying, in hushed voices, "To Harry Potter... the Boy Who Lived!"
"Oh my God!" Martha said, hearing the audacity that her first great-grandson would experience. "Is there anything else, or is this the end?"
"I think..." Molly's words trailed off as she saw three periods appear. "There's something else, a small paragraph."
"Go ahead, Molly," Albus nodded.
Across the Atlantic Ocean, in the state of New Jersey, in Gotham, to be precise, a small bird no more than twelve years old hopped between the buildings, dressed in red, yellow, and green, the small figure following a larger one dressed in black.
"Twelve springs?" Dick asked, surprised.
"Twelve years," someone assured him. "Women are considered springs, men, autumn."
That small light, surrounded by the melancholy of the city of crime, watched as the sun began to rise, ready to return home and welcome his parents after months of traveling through Germany. The figure disguised as a man smiled, unaware of the magical pull that called him to the British Isles, focusing only on following his mentor and getting home safely.
"The chapter is over," Molly said calmly.
"A twelve-year-old girl pretending to be a man," Arthur denied, frightened. "Oh, I couldn't imagine something like that."
The Waynes said nothing. Martha longed to smack her son on the back of the head, but she would be saving the event for the exact moment.