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July 1986
A dreary day in the middle of summer, the only sound audible in the quiet neighborhood of Little Whinging was the deluge of rain blasting anybody who dared make their way out into the world from their cozy abode. At Number 4 Privet Drive, it was no exception. The Dursley family were normal in the most obnoxious and ugly sense of the word.
Vernon, the patriarch, a morbidly overweight man of “good stock” who spent his days buying and settling accounts for Grunnings, a firm that sold drills to industrial firms. In the realm of personal matters, he was a fervent Tory, extolling and preaching what he saw to be “English virtues,” including things such as disciplined child-rearing and a certain snobbish feeling of superiority over what Vernon called unnatural people.
Petunia, the matriarch, was distinctly the common housewife. Always prim and proper and done up in such a manner that became her station, she spent her days gossiping with Mrs. Clark at Number Six, chattering about the neighborhood’s most unusual and strange acting individuals, or her eyes glued to the television, watching Coronation Street and other daytime television.
And then finally, the child Dursley– Dudley. A heavy-set boy clearly the result of coddling, the overweight young lad found his daily joy in tormenting neighborhood children and getting pitiful marks in school; though he typically had one specific target in mind when he went on his warpath.
Beneath the main staircase, tucked in a cupboard, was a young six year old boy with emerald green eyes and messy, black hair. His name was Harry Potter, and he was… different, as the Dursley family like to put it. He rarely ever saw the world outside other than his forays to trim and clean his aunt’s garden. During the summer months, he was frequently visited by a tabby cat, a friendly female stray who would come and watch him for a few hours while he did his chores, and then abscond over the back fence.
Perhaps it was fortunate for the Dursley family that the neighborhood in which they lived was very traditional and conservative– the abrasions and emaciated look Harry had would raise questions from some less in the know neighbors, only to be dismissed at Vernon or Petunia’s explanation. He was slow, troubled, violent. He had to be kept indoors most hours, and could only be let outside once every so often. Many in the neighbourhood understood-- they had seen the uncivilized behaviour of people just like the boy during the two wars. It was only right that he be kept away from good honest English folk, where his dirty little hands couldn't infest the neighbourhood.
Today, Harry was sitting in his cupboard, laying silently on the World War II cot he was provided as a bed. The marks on his face had been healing quicker than usual, but the painful bruises on the side of his face were still very clear. Harry knew he deserved it, he had accidentally killed Aunt Petunia’s prized daisies, which had won the local gardening awards a couple years in a row. Uncle Vernon had caught him in the backyard while he was trying to clean up the mess, and had soundly beaten him and locked him away.
But what Vernon had failed to notice, was the quiet, pensive tabby cat hiding in the brush, watching with narrowed eyes at what he was doing.
…
A bolt of lightning streaked across the morning sky, illuminating the dimly lit neighborhood in a brilliant white light. At the end of Privet Drive, a figure stood alone in the rain. They made their way up the street towards Number Four, coming to a stop at the front door. The person briskly knocked on the door three times, and awaited a response.
The door opened, revealing Petunia Dursley. Just as the door opened, another bolt of lightning hit, startling the housewife who screeched like a banshee as the subject let their glamour drop. In the door-way stood a tall, brooding woman, her tarnished, copper hair in a tight bun, and her lips drawn into a fine, unamused line. She radiated a confident disappointment and subtle anger that seemed to set everything around her on edge.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dursley,” Minerva McGonagall said, her voice tight and controlled. “I’ve come to discuss with you… your treatment of one Mister Harry James Potter.”
Minerva pushed past Petunia into the foyer of the Dursley household. It was notable in that Minerva was completely dry, with neither her robes nor her hat water-logged.
“Are you alright, darling?” Vernon said, emerging from the sitting room. He stopped in shock and his face reddened. “And just who the bloody hell are you?”
“I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Mr. Dursley,” Minerva said, using the same voice she would use if she were disciplining some first year Ravenclaw.
“And as I have so duly informed your dear wife, I am here to discuss your treatment of one Mister Harry James Potter. You see, Mister Dursley, I am in possession of a very particular set of skills, ones which allow me to… see the goings-on, and I must admit… I do not like what I see,” Minerva concluded, folding her arms, making sure her wand was clearly visible.
Vernon’s face looked like he’d swallowed a lemon as he tugged on his collar. “What we do with the boy is none of your business, you’re not from the government, either of mine or you freaks!”
“That may be, Mister Dursley, but you’ll come to find that in certain situations, acting outside of the rules is entirely moral and justified. Such as…” Minerva trailed off before sweeping her wand, and shattering the lock in a display of silent magic. She gently tapped on the cupboard door.
“Mister Potter? You may come out, if you wish.”
The door slowly opened, and the terrified eyes of the six year old Harry Potter peered out at the woman. Minerva looked away from the boy and back at Petunia and Vernon. “I cannot fathom any circumstance in which I would lock a child into a cupboard. It certainly seems to me… a bit unusual, wouldn’t you agree?”
“That crackpot old fool leaves the boy on our doorstep, and expects us to take care of him. It’s by our generosity he isn’t rotting in an orphanage!”
By this point, Harry had come out of the cupboard and was meekly standing by the door to it. Minerva glanced at Harry and then back at the two Dursleys.
“At least the orphanage, Mister Potter would be receiving three square meals, warm baths, and wouldn’t be receiving any blows to the head.”
"And he'd be filled with that magic nonsense, rotting his already addled brain. He'll go and get himself blown up like his mother and dead-beat father!" Vernon snapped back at the Scottish woman.
“Indeed,” Minerva said dryly, before flicking her wand. The coat rack by the door sprang to life, skittering across the wooden floor towards Vernon and Petunia, as they backed towards the sitting room. With another flick of her hand, the door to the sitting room slammed shut, and the audible sound of a lock activating could be heard. Putting her wand away with an amused snort, Minerva turned to Harry.
“Mister Potter… Harry. My name is Minerva McGonagall, I am the Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I am here to take you away from these awful Muggles.”
“Uh… what is a Muggle?” The young boy asked, peering up at the woman.
“A Muggle is someone who is non-wixen, or rather, someone who cannot perform magic.”
“I’m magic?” Harry asked, his eyes wide.
“Oh my, yes child.” Minerva knelt down and placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. He flinched, but did not move away.
“There is much you should know about who you are, and where you come from. But this is not the place to be having that conversation. We should leave now, before your aunt and uncle find their way out of that room.” She stood up and extended a hand to Harry.
Harry took hold of her hand and felt a surge of warmth across his body as the door opened of its own volition.
“Won’t we be wet?” Harry asked, and Minerva simply smiled.
“Magic, my child. Magic.” Minerva said warmly, leading the boy out of the house. A few moments later, a sharp crack could be heard, and the two figures standing at the end of Privet Drive were no longer there.
…
Harry felt like he had been squeezed into a tube, and then found himself in an instant no longer standing in the pouring rain of Surrey. The air was crisper, the sun was bright, and the wind was biting. Opening his eyes, he found himself standing in the hills, facing a pounding sea to his front. Some distance down from the hill, was a small village dotted with homes.
“Harry,” Minerva said with a smile, peering down at her ward. “Welcome to Wulver’s Hollow, a quiet wizarding village on the northern shore of Scotland.”
“Wulver’s Hollow,” Harry repeated, his eyes transfixed on the beautiful sight.
“Not far from the nearest Muggle settlement, but a quiet and unassuming place where I and my beloved call home, I hope you’ll come to enjoy it here.”
“It’s magnificent!”
Minerva turned around and gestured for Harry to as well.
Turning around, Harry came face to face with an unassuming, yet spacious looking cottage. It dwarfed 4 Privet Drive in size, and seemed… much more warm and inviting.
Minerva climbed the small staircase to the front door, and pulled a keyring out of her pocket. Unlocking the door, she beckoned for Harry to follow, and follow he did.
The sitting room was well decorated, and seemed almost normal from the way it was layed out. A lit and crackling hearth, a mantle with trinkets decorating it, and a small couch and a couple loveseats. A large bookshelf on the far wall full of books of various thickness. The comfortable sitting room lead into a corridor that seemed worthy of exploration.
Minerva tossed her robe onto the coat-rack sitting by the door. “Hello? I’m back!”
“Coming, dear!” A woman’s voice was heard down the corridor. Within a few moments, a woman of equal age to Minerva popped through the door, tucking her wand into her jacket. “Sorry about that, love, I was tweaking some of the spellwork on the Firestriker.”
“You and your vintage brooms, my dear. Any improvements?”
“Oh, a few. Who’s the young lad you’ve brought with you?” The woman said, smiling before blinking.
“Minnie… is that Harry Potter?”
Minerva nodded and gestured for the woman to sit down. “Yes, I’ll explain everything, Rollie. But let me get some firewhiskey and something to eat for him before we have a discussion about it.”
Minerva turned to Harry and said, “Harry, feel free to sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be back in just a moment, okay?”
Harry nodded meekly and took a seat on the plush couch, as Minerva disappeared from the room.
“Wow, this is so nice,” Harry said quietly, smiling.
“That lumpy old thing? We’ve had it for so long, I figure it’d gone to pot by now,” Rollie said with a smile, shrugging.
“My aunt and uncle don’t let me sit on their couch. Say I’d mess it up. I usually sit on the floor or on my cot.”
Rollie looked concerned briefly before shaking her head. “I’ve been rude, allow me to introduce myself,”
She extended a hand. “Rolanda Hooch, Flying instructor and Quidditch mistress at Hogwarts School, and of course, the loving wife of my dear Minerva.”
“You’re married?” Harry asked, blinking in surprise. “My uncle always said bad things about girls who married.”
“Muggles, I’m guessing?” Rolanda asked.
Harry nodded, and Rolanda reciprocated with her own nod. “Muggles tend to be very… concerned about things which we’re not. But don’t you worry, the wizarding world is quite… free-spirited about this sort of thing.”
Minerva returned to the room, carrying a silver tray. On it was a bottle of something that seemed to spark like the hearth fire, a bowl of food, and three glasses– one of which was full of what Harry assumed to be apple juice.
Minerva placed the tray on the coffee table and wiped her hands clean. She took a seat next to Harry and her wife, and offered Harry the bowl. The bowl was full of piping hot porridge, and Minerva gave him a smile.
“I figure you’ve not had a hot meal in quite some time, go ahead, eat as much as you’d like.”
Harry smiled and began to slowly dig into the food, savoring each bite as much as he could, while Minerva went into a long-winded explanation of what she had done. At the end of it, Rolanda seemed ready to maim and kill someone.
“What kind of Muggles, no, what sort of Headmaster in his right mind leaves a child in such conditions? I ought to beat Albus’ bloody head in with my broomstick!”
“Rollie, please, calm down. Murdering Albus is a charming plan, but it won’t do us any good. I have a much simpler idea, if you’re interested in hearing it,” Minerva said, taking a draught from her firewhiskey.
“Oh?” Rollie said, sitting back down and leaning in.
“By wizarding standards, we’re still very spry spring chickens. This boy needs more than just a mother, he needs… a family. I figure what better way to compromise, than by giving him two mothers.”
“You’re suggesting we adopt the boy?” Rolanda said, blinking in shock. “Adopting Harry Potter?”
“I can handle Albus’ objections, and I am more than certain we’re the perfect sort of couple to ensure he receives a proper upbringing away from that sordid affair in Surrey.” Minerva said, sniffing airily.
“But what about during the school year? There’s a reason very few Hogwarts professors have young ones, given how involved our jobs are.”
“There is precedence for the young children of professors staying at Hogwarts, definitely so. I will speak to Albus as soon as possible, in fact, given the circumstances, I imagine that will be either today or tomorrow.”
With a smile, Minerva turned to face Harry.
“Would you like to see some more of the house?” She asked, much to Harry’s delight.
Harry soon found himself walking the interior of the cottage, taking in various sights, ranging from an indoor greenhouse, to a potions room, to an alchemy room, to a practice room for transfiguration, to Rolanda’s workshop, where a number of brooms were hung on rungs along the wall.
A jaunt upstairs lead to Minerva proudly opening a bedroom. It definitely looked as if it hadn’t been lived in for years.
“This will be your room, if you’d like, Harry,” Minerva said with a smile. “With a bit of sprucing up, you can make it your own.”
Harry nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, looking around at everything.
“Of course, while you are welcome to explore, I would ask that you not go into some of the lower rooms without at least telling us. Potion-making is essential for a young wizard like yourself to learn, but can be incredibly dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Alright, Harry?”
Harry nodded timidly, and Minerva smiled. “You’ll have your own free reign in those rooms in time, of course. But for now, they’re out of bounds until you learn more about each respective component of wizardry. Okay?”
Harry nodded again. “Thank you, uh…”
“It’s up to you what you feel comfortable calling me, Harry.”
“Miss Minerva, thank you.”
“Of course,” Minerva said with an amused smile.
…
Albus Dumbledore had to admit that at times, he could seem callous and uncaring in some of the actions he took– the politics and realities of the wixen world was driven in a manner very similar to chess, but the facts and evidence presented to him made him feel a not-insignificant amount of nausea. He had great respect for his students and alumni, and he certainly cared a great deal for Lily and James Potter’s son.
The anger that Minerva and Rolanda carried as they burst into his office nearly ready to lynch him had made him take pause and consider exactly what the young Potter boy was being subjected to. Arabella had told him about the Dursley family’s obsession with British tradition and discipline, and had reported that Harry seemed to be rarely seen outside of the house, but Albus had hoped that it was just the Dursley family taking great precaution to ensure Harry was not put into undue danger.
And now, he had irrefutable evidence, to be certain.
The small, emerald-eyed boy stared back at him from the plush seat in his office. The boy looked gaunt and emaciated, his skin pallid, clearly recovering bruises on the side of his face and under his eyes.
Albus certainly felt like he was as tall as Filius was, and sat resigned at his desk, rubbing his head. “I didn’t think his own family could be capable of such… depraved behaviour,” Albus finally admitted, sighing deeply.
He peered at Minerva carefully. “If you’re willing to go and adopt him, I will not stand in your way. I am more than certain spending the majority of the year at Hogwarts, and the rest with you, he is in capable hands. I will undertake more research into blood magic and see if Lily’s protection can extend to other abodes as well.”
Albus frowned and looked at Harry again. “I insist that Poppy look him over. While this is not St. Mungo’s, I am sure she would be able to recommend a good way to get him back onto the road of good health.”
Minerva and Rolanda seemed mollified by such a proposal, and so Harry was taken by the trio of adults down to the hospital ward, where the young Madame Pomfrey was preparing her ward for the onslaught of students to come in the months ahead. She stopped her work when the Headmaster entered and bowed her head once.
“Headmaster, what can I do for you?”
“Poppy, I was wondering if you could take on a patient this afternoon,” Albus said quietly, before gesturing to Harry.
“Er,” the matron took stock of her environment before nodding. “Yes, I think I’m all set for the year.”
“Excellent,” Albus said with his serene smile. “Poppy, I would like to introduce you to Mister Harry Potter. Harry, this is Madame Pomfrey, matron of healing at our school.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said quietly.
The young matron gave a bright smile and patted the bed. "Come on then,"
Harry hopped up onto the bed, and the matron checked his vitals and all other necessities, while Albus, Rolanda and Minerva conversed in the corner. Once finished with her minstrations, Poppy called over the trio.
“After a thorough inspection of Mister Potter, I have determined the following. He is suffering from acute malnutrition and stunted growth; he has a minor fracture of his skull just above his eyebrow, and needs a pair of eyeglasses.”
“Oh dear,” Albus said quietly.
“I ought to go tear that Vernon Dursley a new arsehole,” Rolanda muttered under her breath, glancing at her nails.
“That is probably too good for Mister Dursley,” Albus said nonchalantly, folding his arms.
Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat. “As for suggested methods of dealing with this problem, I can easily fix the skull fracture with some simple spellwork. The bruises and marks will simply require a salve, and then he’ll need to go on nutritional potions to compensate for his deficits. I anticipate he’ll be back on track within six months. Until then, weekly doses! I will speak to Severus and see if we can brew them in house, if not, I will express order them.” She said with a confident smile.
“Thank you, Poppy. It is deeply appreciated,” Albus said with a smile. The matron disappeared from the ward.
“Who is Severus?” Harry asked curiously.
“Severus Snape is the Potions Master at Hogwarts, and the Head of Slytherin House,” Albus replied, his eyes twinkling.
“Slytherin?”
“You see, Harry, Hogwarts has four houses,” Minerva said, “Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Where Professor Snape is the head of house for Slytherin, I am the head of house for Gryffindor.”
Harry nodded along, clearly interested.
“Ah, I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy your time at Hogwarts, and will find great joy in your sorting. Now I must return to my work,” Albus said, standing up from his seated position. “Excuse me,” He said as he left.
A few minutes later, a dark-haired man in long dark robes entered the Hospital Wing, and approached Harry’s bedside.
“As you can see, Severus, we need something strong. Can you prepare that here?”
Severus looked at Harry intensely, making the boy nervously shrink away from him.
“I believe I can, but there may be some ingredients I need. I will have the first batch for young Mister Potter prepared in… three or four days.”
“Wonderful!” Poppy said with a smile.
Severus turned to leave but stopped and turned back to Harry, and observed his bruises carefully.
“Who did this to you, Potter?”
“My uncle. I… destroyed my aunt’s prized flowers,” Harry said, haltingly.
“Barbaric,” Severus said, his voice full of distaste. He turned to Minerva and said, “If you need me to watch the boy for you during the term, please let me know.”
He turned on heel and finally left the room. Madam Pomfrey returned again to mend his fractured skull and apply the salve to his bruises and marks from his uncle, before discharging him.
“Minerva, I’ll let you know when his potions are ready, okay?”
“Thank you, Poppy,” Minerva said, hugging the woman before turning to her wife.
“We have much more to do before the term starts, don’t we?” Minerva asked.
“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe, love.” Rolanda said, grinning.
…
The first few days after his escape from Privet Drive were spent with his new mothers cleaning his bedroom and making sure he was comfortable there. Three days in, he was once again visited by Severus Snape, who came through the fireplace in a roar of green flames.
“Wow! What was that?” Harry marveled at the man’s sudden appearance.
“That, Mister Potter, is what we call Floo travel. It allows us to go from one place in the world to another, provided they have a fireplace that is linked into the larger network. Do.. you really not know about that?”
“No, sir, I don’t. My aunt and uncle didn’t tell me much about being a mage,” Harry said quietly.
“Indeed,” Severus said, before setting a small package down on the table. Minerva, who had been quiet to this point, smiled.
“It’s good to see you, Severus. Have you had any luck?”
“Indeed I have. Potter is to take these potions three times a day for six months, preferably before a mealtime.”
“Wonderful, absolutely wonderful,” Minerva said with a smile, before turning to Harry.
“Tomorrow, we’ll get you something to replace your cousin’s awful hand-me-downs.”