Chapter Text
Mr and Mrs Dursley, living in the mansion of number four in Privet Drive, took great pride in their normalcy, thank you very much. You'd never suspect, or even have the faintest idea that they could be associated, let alone involved, with any strange or mysterious behaviours, as they simply could not cope with such nonsense. Mr Vernon Dursley had old money and was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which secured the Dursleys even more wealth. This firm made drills, which could easily convince you twice over that 'normal' was simply the right way to put it for the Dursleys. He was a tremendous, beefy man, extremely lacking in neck although nearly making up for it with a large moustache, which he combed at every chance he got.
His wife, Mrs Petunia (née Evans) Dursley, had nearly twice the average amount of neck, which came in handy as she spent an incredible amount of time peeking and craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours closest to their mansion on the hill. She was thin, blonde and, if you couldn't tell already, extremely nosy. The Dursleys were 'blessed', as they put it, with a small son (currently one) called Dudley, who honestly might've just been named Dudley for the sake of the alliteration, and in their opinion you simply could not find a finer boy.
The Dursleys had everything they had ever wanted:
• Money
• A huge house
• A child (preferably a son)
• A well-rounded neighbourhood
• Carefully selected acquaintances
• A respectable public image
However, they had one terrible secret that went against absolutely everything they stood for.
They couldn't imagine the utter shame brought upon their name and image if anyone caught even a whiff of the Potters. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley's forsaken little sister, but they hadn't spoken in years. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Dursley often acted as if she didn't have a sister, as she and her clown-of-a husband were as un-Dursleyish as one could manage to be. The Dursleys quaked to imagine what the neighbours would say if the Potters had the nerve to show up in the street all willy-nilly like they owned the place. It was one's worst possible fear. They knew that the Potters had a small son too, born a month or two after Dudley (they hadn't even bothered to remember), but they had never seen him and never wanted to. This boy was close to the top of the list on why they refused connection with the Potters; they didn't want poor Dudley mixing with an atrocious wild-child such as him.
When the terrible two awoke on the dull, average Tuesday this tale begins, nothing about the normally miserable British sky suggested that curious happenings would begin to occur across the country.
Mr Dursley hummed a generic tune as he picked out his most boring and underwhelming tie for work(said ties had such mundane differences that anyone with even an ounce of whimsy would consider going through the effort to pick one out pointless) as Mrs Dursley gossiped away happily over the phone to her best friend, Mrs Granger—who worked as a dentist in her own private practice—whilst she wrestled a screeching Dudley in his high chair. Such an activity could only be done with such perfection by a professional who had been through constant training via doing this over and over, every day, and somehow not getting bored.
Not a single Dursley paid any notice to the large tawny owl fluttering past the window.
At exactly half past eight, Mr Dursley smartly lifted his leather briefcase, gave Mrs Dursley a fulfilling peck on the cheek and gave a go at pecking Dudley as well. He missed, as Dudley had decided that the best course of action for him to take was to have a tantrum and throw wet cereal and milk onto Mrs Dursley's perfect walls and ceiling. 'Little rascal,' Mr Dursley chortled as he left the (now slightly tarnished) house and transferred himself to his polished car, backing out of number four's driveway.
The corner of the street was when signs of peculiarity began to reveal themself to Mr Dursley—a tabby cat, reading a map. Mr Dursley took a mental double take, just to process that he was certain he'd just seen what he thought he did. Almost immediately afterwards, he whirled his head right back to look again, to see that same tabby cat casually perched on the corner of Privet Drive, lacking a map. What on earth had gotten into him? It was almost as if he'd.. imagined things. The thought made him shudder. No, a much more reasonable explanation was that it was simply a trick of the light; a piece of stray paper must've blown in front of the cat and the light must've made it look as if the cat was reading a map. Mr Dursley blinked twice at the cat. The cat stared at him in response. As Mr Dursley drove past the corner and down onto the main road, he spotted the same cat again through his mirror. It was now reading a sign stating Privet Drive- Mr Dursley almost slapped himself- looking at the sign. Cats did not have the ability to read maps nor signs; in fact, some say they have famously small brains. Mr Dursley shook himself and banished the feline from his thoughts. As his car approached town, he thought of nothing but a large order of drills he'd been hoping to get.
At the edge of town, however, drills were forcefully removed from his thoughts by yet another curious distraction. Whilst he sat in the regular daily traffic jam, he couldn't stop himself from noticing that lots of people around were dressed quite...oddly. Cloaks. These people were wearing cloaks. Mr Dursley simply couldn't bear the youth these days-the clothing you see on these hoodlums! He came to the idea that this must be some odd new trending fashion. He absent-mindedly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing very close together. Their whispers brought an air of excitement. Mr Dursley was baffled to find that many weren't young at all-why, almost half of them had to have been middle-aged! That crackpot man had to have been older than he was, and he had adorned himself in an emerald cloak! The absolute nerve of him! And suddenly, the reasoning behind this all clicked in Vernon's mind; this was probably some silly political stunt-these fools were obviously collecting for something...yes, that must've been it.
The traffic shifted, and minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in his private spot of the Grunnings parking lot, his thoughts back on drills. Mr Dursley always sat himself with his back facing he window in his office on the ninth floor to minimalize distraction. He was very lucky that he chose to do this, otherwise, he would've found his morning to be much more unusual than it had already been. He did not fall witness to the hundreds of owls sweeping the skies in broad daylight, though many down below saw this phenomenon quite clearly. The average person would die not having witnessed the sight of any owl, regardless of time. Mr Dursley, in comparison, experienced a normal, owl-free Tuesday morning. He yelled at five different people for various mistakes. He made a dozen important phone calls and, unsurprisingly, shouted a bit more since he was on a roll.
He had quite the delightful mood until lunchtime, which was when he made the fatal mistake of stretching his legs and walking across the road to buy a bun from the bakers opposite run by Gretel, a friend of Mrs Dursley and the Grangers. He had completely forgotten all about the idiots in cloaks until he passed a group of them on his way there. He gave each and every one of them angry glares as he passed. This lot were whispering rapidly and excitedly too, but he couldn't see a single collecting tin clutched in any of their hands.
'Lookin' a lil' bothered there, Vernon,' came Gretel's voice as he approached. She spoke painfully informal compared to everyone else in their social circle and Mr Dursley had always found it annoying to hear. This time, however, he could not bring himself to care as his annoyance towards those idiots in black was more prominent. 'Well of course I'm bothered, Gretel! All these youngsters running about, dancing in black clothes like its still Halloween!'
'How'd you think I feel? They've been hanging around my shop all day!' she said, as she handed him his bun. 'All in all, these young ones'll never learn until they're our age, watching the next kids do some tomfoolery like ignore climate change or something equally stupid.'
At this, Mr Dursley could not complain. This was a statement that he agreed with on celestial levels.
Gretel's words had taken him far away from the cloaked idiots until he saw them again on his way back. This time, he heard their voices rise and he made out what they were saying.
'The Potters, that's right, that's what I've been hearing-'
'-oh yes, their son Harry, I still can't believe it-'
Vernon stopped dead. Fear captured him from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head. He stared at the whisperers, thinking on what to say, before deciding against it.
He almost ran across the road and hurried himself to his office. He snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, shut his office door so hard that a slam echoed for more than half a minute, roughly manhandled his telephone and almost dialed his home number, before changing his mind almost immediately after the first two numbers. He set the receiver right back down and stroked his perfectly groomed moustache, thinking long and hard...no, he was acting idiotically. Potter was not such an unusual name, especially here in England. He was certain that there were multiple people in the world called Potter who had a son called Harry. Now that he thought deeper, he wasn't even sure that his nephew was called Harry. He might've been called Harvey, or Harold, or maybe even Hunter. There was virtually no point in stressing dear Petunia out over simple rumours he'd heard on the street from weirdos in cloaks, especially with how upset she'd get whenever someone dared utter something that sounded even remotely close to her sisters name. Mr Dursley couldn't imagine the face she'd make when he went out of his way to mention her outright. He couldn't blame her- if his sister, Marge was like that, he'd disown his entire family, change his legal name and move to the most lonely, empty area in Shetland. But all the same...those groups of people in cloaks..
He found it a lot harder to focus on drill production that afternoon. In fact, he was so distressed that when he left the building at five o' clock that he walked straight into another man almost immediately after he left the doors.
'Sorry,' he mumbled, as the tiny old man stumbled backwards(almost falling over as he did). It didn't take Mr Dursley long to realise that this man, too, was also wearing a vibrant violet cloak. He showed no upset at almost falling skull-first into the pavement. Quite the opposite, indeed, for his face split into a wide smile and answered in a surprisingly squeaky voice, causing passers-by to stare: 'Don't apologise dearest plump sir, for no inconvenience could upset me today! Rejoice, as You-Know-Who has perished at last! Even unaware Muggles like you should be celebrating this glorious, delightful day to go down in history!'
The old man hugged Mr Dursley around the middle and skipped off.
...What?
Mr Dursley might as well have been glued to the spot by that man with how still he stood. Unless he'd heard incorrectly, he had just been called a Muggle, which sounded like some kind of slur. He had also just been hugged by a complete stranger. Vernon Dursley had never, not in his twenty-five years of life, felt this shocked, violated and confused all at once. He rushed to his car and set off home just barely avoiding breaking the speed limit. He was hoping that he was imagining things, which was impressive, as he had never hoped for such a thing—he did not approve of imagination.
As he pulled into the familiar driveway, he saw something that did not improve his mood. That damned tabby cat from the morning was still loitering around, sitting eerily stiff on the garden wall. He was definite that this was the same tabby, as it had the same square markings around it's eyes that the one in the morning had.
'Shoo!' he hissed.
The cat refused to move. It simply glared at him sternly, which reminded him of a strict teacher who had been teaching for far too long and did not have time for any of this nonsense. Was this normal cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered, as he shut the car door and dragged himself to the door, he didn't know. He was still stubbornly determined to utter not a single word about his concerns to his wife.
Mrs Dursley had a pleasant, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door's relationship issues with her daughter, Mrs Granger's suspiciously intelligent daughter (who was born a year before Dudley in September and was currently two) and how Dudley had learnt a new word—'Shan't!'. Mr Dursley was straining himself to act normal. Once Dudley had been put to bed, he slipped into the living room to catch the evening news.
'And finally, bird-watchers here, there, and everywhere have reliably reported to us that the United Kingdom's owls have been behaving quite unusually today. Normally, these nocturnal feathered "cats of the sky" almost never show themselves in daylight, let alone show themselves at all, and only hunt at night. Today, however, they all seem to have been in an extremely restless mood, as when they were supposed to be asleep, they have been flying in every direction to unclear locations in daylight. Hundreds of sightings tell us that these birds have been flying here, there and everywhere since sunrise. Experts have been stumbling and tripping over themselves, unable to explain this sudden extreme change in their sleeping patterns.' The news reader permitted himself to split his face into a snickering grin. 'Most unusual. And now, onto Jim McGuffin with the weather. Any more owl showers tonight, Jim?'
'Well, Ted,' replied the weatherman, 'I'm not quite sure about the owls, but they aren't the only ones who've been acting odd today. Viewers as far as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have all been constantly phoning to inform me that instead of the rain I promised them, they've had the pleasure of shooting stars! Maybe people have been feeling particularly connected to Guy Fawkes recently and are celebrating Bonfire Night early—can't it wait till next week, folks? I can sincerely promise a wet night tonight, though!'
Mr Dursley sat frozen in his cushy armchair, mortified. Shooting stars all over the country? Owls flying about in daylight? Groups of strange people all over in cloaks? And a constant, terrifying whisper, a whisper about the Potters...
Mrs Dursley entered the room, carrying two cups of tea on saucers and a plate of biscuits on a tray. There was simply no avoiding it now—he'd have to tell her. He cleared his throat with apprehension and regret, tunneling fast into his mind long before he got his words out. 'Ehem- Petunia, dear, you haven't heard from your, uh, sister, at all recently... have you?'
As he'd predicted hours ago, Petunia looked as if he'd just brutally murdered Dudley in front of her. After all, they often pretended that she had no sister almost religiously.
'No,' she snapped. 'Why?'
'Funny things on the news. Owls, shooting stars..' he muttered. 'There were a few bunches of odd people in town today, too..'
'So?' she hissed. Petunia seemed to be in such a state of rage that she could not speak normally, and was instead resulting to communicating...like a snake.
'I-I just thought that.. maybe...perhaps... it, uh.. had something to do with, you know, her lot....'
Mrs Dursley sipped her tea with pursed lips as her face twisted into something sour, resentful and bitter. Mr Dursley thought for a split second that this would lead to divorce, and he felt intense regret climb through him in response. He dared wonder if he should mention that he'd heard whispers of "Potter" and "Harry". He decided that risking his marriage over something as foolish as this, and decided against it. He instead asked a much more docile question.
'Their son-has to be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he? What's his name again? Harvey, wasn't it?'
'Harry,' she said stiffly. 'Nasty common name, I say..'
'..O-Oh yes, I quite agree..' He said, his heart sinking faster than he'd expected it to.
Mr Dursley said nothing more on the topic as they finished their evening tea and headed upstairs to bed.
When he laid in bed next to Mrs Dursley, he struggled to find slumber. Mrs Dursley, on the other hand, fell asleep quite quickly. He lay awake for a while, assessing and turning everything around in his head. Even if the Potters were involved in all the strange happenings today, they had no reason to pop up here in Privet Drive, mainly because he could distinctly remember Mr Potter complaining about how perfect and ordinary the neighbourhood was the one and only time they'd visited. The Potters were very well aware of what he and Petunia thought about their kind. He couldn't see how his family could possibly get wrapped up in all this strange, unnatural business. It couldn't possibly, even hypothetically, affect them....
If you hadn't guessed already, Mr Vernon Dursley was wrong.
Mr Dursley may have fallen asleep eventually, but the stiff tabby cat on the garden wall was still sharply awake. It had been there all day and hadn't moved an inch since it had sat on the crumbling garden wall. It's gaze was sharp, but anyone could tell that it was getting steadily impatient. It's tail flicked once, twice, and then started flicking nonstop-the cat was clearly irritated. Still, it sat statue-like, staring unblinkingly down the hill and into the far corner of Privet Drive. Not a shiver escaped the cat as the wind picked up, nor when two owls swooped up ahead. In fact, midnight was quickly approaching and had almost arrived until anything but it's tail had moved at all.
All of a sudden, an odd-looking man appeared exactly where the cat was staring. He was tall, thin, definitely belonged to some kind of nursing home and had long, luscious silver hair that reached the floor with an equally, if not longer, long silky silver beard. Both seemed to flow in the wind with such an illusive way that you could convince yourself that it was actually flowing with magic. No one really knew if it actually did. His crystal, twinkling blue eyes were decorated with wrinkles and silver-rimmed spectacles that seemed to catch every light possible, no matter how faint the light was. He was wearing long, lavender purple robes including a matching purple cloak that swept the ground just as much as his hair did and high-heeled buckled boots. Nothing quite as unusual as him had ever been seen at Privet Drive. This man was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore had failed to realise just how odd he looked in the middle of the road. The cat's eyes narrowed. He looked around and took in the scenery of the perfect, neatly trimmed lawns surrounding him, before pulling out a lighter from his cloak. He raised it to the air, and clicked it once. In correspondence, a street lamp's light flew into the lighter with a small "pop", leaving the lamp to be covered in shadow. Albus did this once, twice, eleven times to darken the entire street. That way, nobody could see what was happening up on the Dursley's hill, not even Mrs Dursley herself.
'I knew I could expect you here, Professor McGonagall.' he said smoothly, turning around to face the cat. But what his eyes bore witness to wasn't a cat at all. Indeed, where a stiff, still cat once sat now stood a stiff, uptight and tall woman. She wore an expression of tight irritation and looked upon Dumbledore as if he were a stubborn child refusing to own up. Her greying black hair was tied into a sleek, slicked back bun and she wore emerald green robes to match her ,equally green witch hat adorned with a meticulously shaped emerald jewel.
'Never in my life have I ever seen a cat sit so stiffly.'
'Yes, yes, you'd be quite stiff as well if you'd been sitting on a crumbling garden wall all day,' she complained, before looking at Dumbledore as if she expected him to have something to say. He had nothing on his mind to express, it seemed, so McGonagall went on.
'That isn't why I'm here anyway. The—.. Albus.. what are you doing..? What is that??'
'A sherbet lemon. They're this sort of muggle sweet I've grown quite fond of. Care for one?'
McGonagall looked as if she felt that now was not the time to appreciate sherbet lemons in all their greatness. In fact, she looked quite disgruntled at the idea of "caring for one".
'No,' she hissed. 'Besides, I came here to talk to you, not to watch you un-stick your— lemon sherbets, or whatever you called them. I am here to discuss the Potters!'
She said all of this with catlike impatience. It was quite clear that McGonagall hoped that Dumbledore would set his priorities straight rather than sucking on sherbet lemons all day, but he didn't seem to pick up on her irritation.
'Ah, yes, the Potters-' he paused to pop a sherbet lemon in his mouth '- I suppose that we really should discuss them indeed. I almost forgot that we were here to talk about them!' he allowed himself a breezy chuckle. McGonagall did not find this funny.
'.. Anyway, rumours have been spreading like wildfire. They're saying that the Potters, they..'
McGonagall struggled to get the words out. Dumbledore simply lowered his head slowly, the sparkle in his eyes gone for the first time that night.
'.. Oh, Albus..!'
Dumbledore let her cry whilst he checked his watch. Instead of numbers, planets lay in their place. Despite this, Dumbledore seemed to understand it all the same. 'I just... we were so careful..! I can't believe it, Albus...' McGonagall went on like this for five more minutes before she composed herself completely.
'..Who've you sent to retrieve the boy?'
'Rubeus. And he's late.'
'Rubeus? Are you sure that we can trust him with something so important? I mean, for Merlin's sake, he's late!
'Yes, I am quite certain. Through and through, I'd trust him with my life.' he said, checking his watch yet again. 'I do hope he isn't too late though. I'd like to be finished by sunrise.'
As soon as Albus finished speaking, an almighty rumble came from the sky. A relatively large, flying motorcycle had emerged from the few clouds that littered the night sky. And if you thought that was impressive, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it holding a white bundle of blankets in one hand. He was huge, and there were very few words that could describe this immense size without sounding like he was the size of a castle. All in all, he was big. His size was further exaggerated by his ginormous coat, which was absolutely littered with pockets. A tangled beard hung from his chin and covered most of his face. Higher than that were his beetle-like eyes, covered by shining black goggles. He landed with an almighty thud as he ripped the goggles off of his eyes and threw them onto his scruffy, long hair.
'Not exactly punctual, Rubeus,'
'Sorry,' Rubeus Hagrid grunted, 'I 'ad to fly slo'. Any faster and the 'ittle lad 'ould start wailin' all over again.'
McGonagall and Dumbledore hurried over to Hagrid and peered into the blankets on his hand. Inside lay an incredibly small infant. His hands were grasped around nothing and he'd fallen asleep long ago, although you could see that his eyes were slightly red-rimmed from crying. On his forehead, there were little droplets of blood surrounding what looked to be a poorly carved lightning bolt. It had long stopped bleeding and his cells had clearly worked hard on the scab.
McGonagall cautiously lifted the boy from Hagrid's hand.
'So this is the Potter's boy? He looks as if a gust of wind could kill him, forget a killing curse!'
'Aye, 'e may be small but 'e cries like a banshee.'
McGonagall turned to Dumbledore with carefully placed concern in her eyes. 'I've watched the Dursleys all day, and I can assure you they're the worst type of muggles I've ever seen. They spoke of Lily as if she were a curse on the Evans name! I dislike doubting your judgement, but are you certain that their home is best for the boy? Perhaps he would be better off in an orphanage. Or maybe..'
'Yes, Minerva, I am quite certain,' interjected Dumbledore. He swiftly removed the child from her arms. At this, Hagrid seemed to grow emotional.
'Urgh.. 'Ang on. Could I.. say bye to 'im?' This, in Albus' mind, was a considerably strange request. He'd only held this child for a day or so and has already attached himself to the boy. But then again, Hagrid had always been sentimental.
And so, the little one was passed into yet another set of hands. Or, one rather large one. This game of hot baby-tato had caused said baby to stir ever so slightly. This caused Minerva to shoot the giant before her a look of warning and impatience.
Hagrid lifted the boy to his face, and left what Albus thought to be a rather scratchy kiss on his small forehead. He then promptly burst into sobs.
'Hagrid, contain yourself! You'll wake the muggles!' McGonagall hissed.
' 'm sorry, it's just.. James'n Lily, dead! An' poor 'Arry off to live with muggles!'
Minerva reached as high as she could and awkwardly patted him on the elbow. 'Yes, yes, this is all quite tragic.'
Once again, the baby was transferred into another set of arms.
Dumbledore walked right up to Dursley Manor's doorstep