Chapter Text
The comfortable cadence of their conversation, which had revolved animatedly around the previous night's stage occurrences, was abruptly interrupted by a low rumbling. The sound grew with alarming speed, causing both of them to scan the street anxiously for an approaching vehicle. Instead, the roar intensified as their eyes lifted to the sky - and a massive motorbike, defying all logic, dropped out of the heavens to land squarely on the asphalt before them.
The huge motorbike was certainly a sight, but the man who sat astride it was even more unbelievable. He towered over them, easily twice their height, and his breadth was at least five times their own. His appearance was as striking as his size: a mass of long, tangled black hair and a bushy beard that swallowed most of his features.
They couldn't help but notice his hands - the size of dustbins - and the surprisingly delicate shape of his leather-clad feet, which looked like baby dolphins. Curiously, he held a large bundle in his immense, muscular arms - a bundle that looked like nothing more than a stack of blankets.
"Hagrid," the older figure - Albus Dumbledore - remarked with evident relief. "You've arrived at last. And I must ask: Where did you procure that motorbike?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said, swinging his large leg over the motorbike with surprising agility. Dumbledore nodded slightly. "Young Sirius Black lent it t' me. I've got them, sir."
"You encountered no trouble, I trust?" Dumbledore inquired, his gaze fixed on the bundle of blankets Hagrid still held.
"No problem at all, Professor," Hagrid murmured gently. "Though the house was in terrible shape, I got them out safe and sound before any Muggles could start poking around. The little lad fell asleep on the way, somewhere over Bristol. The little girl's still awake, bless her, but she's been as quiet as a mouse."
A wave of emotion seemed to pass between Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall as they bent over the bulky pile of blankets. Peeking inside, they saw the two small babies nestled within. The boy was deeply asleep; his twin sister, with her striking hazel eyes, looked back at them, clutching her brother tightly.
Holding Harry in his left arm and Katherin in his right, Dumbledore gazed down at the sleeping boy and his wide-eyed sister for a final moment before turning resolutely towards the Dursleys' residence.
"Please, Professor," Hagrid murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Could I... just say goodbye to 'em?"
Carefully, he lowered his massive head, his long, tangled beard brushing against Harry's forehead as he planted a rough, whiskery kiss. He then leaned towards Katherin, intending to do the same, but she instinctively turned her small face away. The next moment, a raw, agonising howl tore from Hagrid's throat, echoing in the quiet street like the cry of a wounded animal.
McGonagall shot Hagrid a glaring look, her eyes narrowed. "Shh!" she hissed fiercely. "You'll wake the Muggles!"
Hagrid gave a shuddering hiccup, tears streaming down his face. "S-sorry," he mumbled, pulling out a huge, spotted handkerchief to blot his eyes. McGonagall watched him with a mixture of sympathy and sharp impatience. "But I just... Lily and James..." he trailed off, his voice cracking. "It's not right that these poor little kids have to be left with Muggles—"
"Indeed, it is a tragedy, Hagrid, but we must be discreet," Professor McGonagall murmured, offering a hesitant, small pat to his immense arm as Dumbledore moved with quiet purpose over the low garden wall towards the Dursleys' front door. He carefully settled the sleeping Harry and his still-awake sister, Katherin, on the doorstep. He watched as Katherin's eyelids fluttered closed, and she finally drifted into slumber.
Reaching inside his cloak, he withdrew a parchment letter, tucked it securely within the blankets, and then rejoined his colleagues. For a long, silent minute, the three figures stood gazing down at the small bundle. Hagrid's large frame trembled with suppressed sobs, Professor McGonagall blinked rapidly, fighting back tears, and the usual vibrant twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes seemed utterly extinguished.
"Right then," Dumbledore said, his usual brisk tone returning, dispelling the quiet sorrow. "Our task is complete. No need to linger. We should head back and join the... celebrations."
Hagrid sniffled, still sounding choked up, as he swung his enormous leg back over the motorbike. "Yeah, I'll be off then. Need to see to the bike." He nodded once. "G'night, Professor McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Still wiping his tear-streaked face with his jacket sleeve, Hagrid heaved his bulk onto the large motorbike. The engine roared to life with a powerful rumble, and he lifted off the ground, the bike climbing rapidly into the darkness of the night sky.
Dumbledore simply nodded to Professor McGonagall, a silent acknowledgement passing between them. In response, Professor McGonagall sniffled and dabbed her eyes, tucking her handkerchief away. With a final glance at Professor McGonagall, Dumbledore turned and strode back down the quiet street. Reaching the corner, he withdrew the silver Deluminator from his robes.
With a soft click, the twelve captured orbs of light shot back to their respective streetlamps, bathing Privet Drive in a sudden, warm orange hue. In the distance, he noticed a familiar tabby cat stealthily rounding the corner at the far end of the street. His gaze then settled on the small bundle of blankets nestled on the doorstep of number four.
A quiet, almost whispered, "Good luck, you two," escaped his lips. Then, with a sharp turn on his heel and the familiar swish of his long cloak, Albus Dumbledore vanished into the night.
A gentle breeze whispered through the perfectly trimmed hedges of Privet Drive. The street lay still and silent beneath the deep indigo of the night sky - the most unlikely setting for wonders or terrors. Within their cocoon of blankets, Harry and Katherin Potter instinctively snuggled closer, their small hands unconsciously closing on the parchment letter nestled between them.
They slept on, oblivious to the shrill scream that would soon erupt from Petunia Dursley as she opened her front door for the morning milk, and unaware of the weeks of pinches and shoves that awaited them at the hands of their cousin Dudley.
Ten years had passed since that fateful night of unusual owl sightings. The sun now rose over the precisely manicured front gardens of Privet Drive, illuminating the polished brass number four on the Dursleys' door. Inside, the living room remained largely unchanged - a stark contrast to the evolving images displayed on the mantelpiece.
Gone were the numerous snapshots of a baby Dudley in various bobble hats; in their place were photographs chronicling his childhood: Dudley on his first bicycle, Dudley on a fairground roundabout, Dudley engrossed in a computer game with his father, Dudley being embraced by his mother. Conspicuously absent from the room were any indications, large or small, that two other children also resided within those walls.
Unseen and unacknowledged in the downstairs display, Harry and Katherin Potter remained within the house, currently enjoying the fragile peace of sleep. But that peace was about to be shattered. The first sound of the day, sharp and grating, was the unmistakable shrill voice of Aunt Petunia.
The familiar morning bellow echoed through the small house: "Up! Get up! Now!"
Startled from their sleep, Harry and Katherin exchanged a brief, sleep-fuddled look. The familiar sound of Aunt Petunia's sharp knuckles rapping on the door echoed through their small room - again.
"Up!" her shrill shriek echoed through the thin walls. They listened as her footsteps receded towards the kitchen, immediately followed by the clatter of a frying pan on the stovetop. Side-by-side, their shoulders brushing, Harry and Katherin lay on their backs, each desperately trying to recapture the fading images of their dreams.
Harry had soared through the air on a roaring motorbike, while Katherin had played fetch with a dog whose fur shimmered and reformed into the shape of a smiling man. A strange sense of déjà vu clung to the edges of those fantastical moments. Then, the heavy tread of Aunt Petunia returned to their door.
Her voice, laced with sharp irritation, echoed from the other side of the door. "Are you up yet?"
"Nearly," Harry mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. Katherin, meanwhile, sat up and rubbed her eyes.
"Well, get a move on," she snapped, her voice tight with the day's importance. Dudley's birthday, Harry thought with a familiar sinking feeling. "I want you two to look after breakfast. And don't either of you dare let it burn - I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."
A shared look of resignation passed between Harry and Katherin. Harry let out a low groan of misery, while Katherin's only response was a silent, eloquent roll of her eyes.
The familiar sharpness returned to their aunt's voice from behind the door. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, nothing ..." Harry mumbled quickly, scrambling out of bed. Katherin nodded in agreement, already pulling on her clothes.
Dudley's birthday. A wave of dread washed over Harry - how could they have forgotten? He swung his legs out of bed, the cold floorboards a familiar shock, and began rummaging for socks for both of them. Katherin, meanwhile, her brow furrowed in concentration, started to twist her tangled hair into a makeshift bun.
Beneath the dusty bed, Harry unearthed two mismatched pairs. He flicked a small, drowsy spider onto the floor before pulling on one pair, tossing the other to Katherin, who caught them with practiced ease. Spiders were just another fact of life in their cramped and shadowy bedroom: the cupboard under the stairs.
The kitchen was a virtual riot of brightly wrapped gifts, Dudley's birthday presents overflowing the table. The glossy box of a new computer sat prominently amongst a second, smaller television and the gleaming frame of a racing bike. Harry and Katherin exchanged a puzzled glance. Dudley, with his considerable bulk and distaste for anything beyond minimal exertion (unless it involved the satisfying thud of a fist against flesh), hardly seemed the racing type.
Harry often found himself on the receiving end of Dudley's clumsy swings, though his quick reflexes usually allowed him to dodge. Katherin, never one to back down, would often step in, her sharp words and surprising agility deflecting her cousin's aggression. Despite their often-rumpled appearance, both twins possessed a surprising speed and nimbleness.
The perpetual gloom of the cupboard under the stairs had likely stunted their growth; the twins were noticeably small and painfully thin for their eleven years. Swallowed by Dudley's cast-offs, clothes that billowed around their slight frames like tents, they appeared even more diminutive. Their faces were pale and sharp-featured, their knees bony protrusions beneath the oversized fabric.
Harry's unruly jet-black hair framed startlingly bright-green eyes, while Katherin's vibrant ginger hair seemed to hold a warmth that her hazel eyes echoed. Harry's round glasses, perpetually mended with sticky tape, bore clear testament to Dudley's frequent, clumsy punches.
As Harry carefully flipped the bacon and Katherin meticulously buttered the toast, Uncle Vernon's imposing figure suddenly filled the kitchen entrance. Without preamble, he snapped: "Comb your hair, boy! And you, girl, get those curls under control!" Harry flinched slightly, while Katherin's hand paused momentarily. This was their usual morning welcome.
It was a weekly ritual: Uncle Vernon would peer over his newspaper, his face reddening with disapproval, and bellow that Harry's unruly mop needed shearing or that Katherin's stubborn curls required taming.
They'd endured more fruitless trips to the barber and hairdresser than all their classmates combined, yet Harry's hair continued its wild, untidy growth, and Katherin's ginger spirals would spring back within minutes of being brushed straight, as if by some purposeful, unseen force.
The sizzle of frying eggs filled the air as Harry worked at the stove, while Katherin clinked plates onto the table just then, Dudley lumbered into the kitchen, his mother fussing behind him. Dudley's face was a broad expanse of pink, his neck seemingly non-existent, his small, pale blue eyes blinking sleepily.
Thick, straw-blonde hair was plastered smoothly across his round head. "My Dudleykins looks just like a little cherub!" Aunt Petunia would often coo - a sentiment the twins privately mocked, likening him more to a pig in a rather unflattering wig.