Chapter Text
Minerva McGonagall was tired. She had been waiting all day at Privet Drive in the shape of a tabby cat, sitting on a brick wall and watching the people who lived there. Wizards everywhere were celebrating since dawn and sending owls like crazy. But she did not want to celebrate anything before a certain wizard told her it was true.
Meanwhile it was midnight, and she was still sitting on the wall, waiting for the man who would tell her whether she could believe the rumours or not.
Eventually a someone appeared at the corner she had been watching, and he appeared so suddenly and silently as though he had just popped out of the ground. Minerva stared at him, with her tail twitching nervously. Finally.
She could be sure that nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive: He was tall, thin and very old with silver hair and beard, both reaching beyond his belt. He was wearing a purple cloak dragging on the ground while he was walking. His light blue eyes were bright and sparkling behind half-moon shaped glasses, and his nose was very long and crooked.
His name was Albus Dumbledore.
First he did not seem to realize that Minerva was watching him because he was looking for something in his cloak, but suddenly he looked up and noticed the cat that was sitting at the other end of the street. As far as Minerva could see from her wall, he smiled and muttered something like: “I should have known.”
Then he found what he had been searching for: A device that looked like a silver cigarette lighter. When he clicked it, one lamp after the other went out. He clicked it twelve times, until the whole street was dark. The only lights that were left belonged to Minerva’s eyes watching Dumbledore.
No one of the neighbours would have a chance to see from their windows what was happening on the pavement.
Dumbledore put the lighter back in his inside pocket and walked down the street towards the wall on which he sat down next to Minerva.
“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.” He turned towards the tabby, but Minerva had already turned herself back to her human shape. She was now wearing square glasses and an emerald cloak, her black hair was drawn into a bun.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked. Seriously, how could he have known? There were hundreds and thousands of cats in England, right?
“My dear Professor,” Dumbledore replied, “I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”
“You’d be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day.”
“All day, when you could have been celebrating?” Dumbledore wondered. “I’ve must have passed a dozen parties on my way here!”
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily. Partying, that was the only thing those people knew. “Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating,” she said impatiently, “you’d think they’d be a bit more carefully, but no. Even the muggles have noticed something’s going on, it was on their news.” She pointed her head at the Dursleys’ house. She had heard the news when Mr Dursley had switched the TV on after work. “They’re not completely stupid. They’re about to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent, I bet that was Daedalus Diggel. He never had much sense.”
“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. A little too gently, as Professor McGonagall thought. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.”
“I know that,” she assured quickly. “I’m not as dumb as Daedalus Diggel. But that’s no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out in the street all day, not even thinking about muggle clothes and swapping rumours.” She threw a glance at Dumbledore, waiting if he would tell her something, but he didn’t.
“A fine thing it would be if on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, 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 sherbet lemon?” What on earth were sherbets?
“A what?” she asked little creative.
“A sherbet lemon. Some sort of muggles‘ sweet that I’m mad about.”
“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall. She wanted to talk about important issues, and he was eating sweets? What was wrong with him?
“As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone…”
“My dear Professor…” She would also appreciate if he could stop saying 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’ve been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name, Voldemort.”
Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore didn’t notice, because he was busy helping himself to two sherbet lemons.
“It all gets so confusing if we keep saying You-Know-Who. I‘ve never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort‘s name.”
“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall exasperated, trying not to sound too admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know-Who – all right, Voldemort – was frightened of.”
“Voldemort had powers I will never have.”
“Only because your to… well, noble to use them.”
“It‘s lucky it‘s dark. I haven‘t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she‘d like my new earmuffs.”
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore. “The owls are nothing to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone‘s saying? About why he disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”
Finally she had reached the point she actually wanted to talk about, but was also anxious to discuss it. She fixed Dumbledore with the most piercing stare that she could manage. No matter what people were saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore had confirmed it.
Dumbledore did not answer immediately as he took another sherbet lemon.
“What they’re saying,” she went on impatiently, “is that last night he turned up in Godric‘s Hollow. And that he went to find the Potters. The rumor is that… Lily and James Potter… are they really… dead?”
Dumbledore nodded silently. 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. At least he did no longer care for his sherbet lemons.
Professor McGonagall‘s voice trembled as she went on. “That‘s not all. They‘re saying he tried to kill the Potters‘ 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 again.
“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 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.”
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. She thought about her girls, twelve-year-old Miranda and her younger sister Elizabeth, who were hopefully sleeping in their bed at Hogwarts. She felt not ready to call them her daughters yet, although the adoption papers told her she could. Their parents, friends of hers, had been killed by a snake. Not by Voldemort. No real difference, she thought, only that the snake had been hungry and Voldemort just evil.
Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very old watch, it had twelve hands but no numbers. Instead, little planets were moving around the edge. Then he put it back in his pocket and said: “Hagrid‘s late. I suppose it was he who told you I‘d be here, by the way?”
“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don‘t suppose you‘re going to tell me why you‘re here of all places?”
“I‘ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They‘re the only family he has left now.”
“You don‘t mean… you can‘t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet. It was true that she had no experience at parenting, but she was absolutely sure that being raised at Hogwarts was better for a child than having to live with these people.
“Dumbledore, you can‘t!” she exclaimed. “I‘ve been watching them all day. You couldn‘t find two people who are less like us, and they got this son – I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets! Harry Potter come and live here?”
“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?!” Professor McGonagall sat back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him. He’ll be famous! A legend! I wouldn’t be surprised if today would be known as Harry-Potter-Day in future. There will be books written about Harry Potter, every child will know his name!”
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It will be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk. Famous for something he won’t even remember. Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth but then changed her mind, swallowed and said “Yes. Yes, you’re right, of course.” He was the boss, after all. “But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?” He would not bring Harry hidden in his cloak, would he? Certainly not.
“Hagrid’s bringing him.”
“You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”
“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore. Yes, she knew that, but she had not asked him about his life but Harry.
“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” Professor McGonagall admitted, “but you can’t pretend that 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. It swell to a roar as they both looked up at the sky and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide: Hagrid.
“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. Where did you get that motorbike?”
“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, Sir,” said the giant, climbing off the motorbike as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, Sir.”
“No problems?”
“No, Sir. House was almost destroyed, but I got him out there alright before the muggles start swarming around. He fell asleep as we were just flying over Bristol.”
Professor McGonagall bent over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. On his forehead she could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
“Is that where…” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” Forever? That did not sound very pleasant. The poor boy would probably be bullied at school.
“Can you do something about it, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself, above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London underground. Well. Give him here, Hagrid, we’ll better get this over with.” Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys’ house.
“Can I – can I say goodbye to him, Sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then suddenly Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall. “You wake the muggles!”
“Sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and bearing his face in it. “But I can’t stand it. Lily and James dead and poor Harry off to live with muggles…”
“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid. He will be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blanket and then came back to the other two.
For a full minute, the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle. Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, thinking about how three kids had lost their parents within a few months and she could only take two of them – but if fate was nasty, no one of them would have a happy childhood. No one had ever tried to raise a child at Hogwarts, maybe it was the completely wrong place for small children? Maybe in the end Harry would be the happiest of all three? Maybe Elizabeth would hate her for keeping her locked up in a boarding school all year round? Maybe she would be even worse at parenting than Mrs Dursley?
“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”
“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. Good night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, Sir.” Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorbike 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 Professor Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver cigarette lighter and clicked it. Twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so the Privet Drive suddenly glowed orange.
Minerva turned herself to her cat shape again and silently left the street. She had to go home and look after the girls.