Love Is Thicker Than Blood

Chapter 1: Lost and Found

November first dawned clear and cool in Surrey. Marcia Granger awoke with a start, sensing that her baby daughter was awake in the nursery. Stuffing her feet into cozy slippers, Marcia pulled on a blue flannel bathrobe and, not wishing to awaken her husband just yet, tiptoed out their bedroom. Slowly and quietly she opened the nursery door until she could see the baby's crib. Little Hermione was, indeed, beginning to stir.

"Mama!" cried the toddler, rubbing sweet brown eyes still full of sleep. "Baby...owwie.... too bad..."

Although they had celebrated her first birthday only six weeks earlier on September nineteenth, Hermione was already highly verbal for her age. In fact, Marcia realized, her little darling was quite precocious in many ways. Hermione had started walking at eight months, and despite being an average-sized one-year-old girl, she was extraordinarily strong for her age, often able to lift objects as big as she was. Shortly after her birthday, she chased after a toy that had skittered across the floor of the lounge, and somehow she pushed a large, leather-covered ottoman that must have weighed ten kilos halfway across the room. Marcia and her husband, Alan, shook their heads in surprise but chalked up the strange occurrence to their daughter's incredibly persistent nature. If Hermione wanted to do something, no matter how strange-or sometimes dangerous--she managed to find a way to do it, especially if her parents turned their gazes away from her for even a second. And heaven help them when she got mad; one second she'd be toddling across the room, shaking her little fist in rage, and an eye-blink later she could be halfway across the house, or up on top of their old upright piano.

Seeing her mother enter the room, Hermione had pulled herself up inside the crib, and Marcia was startled to see huge tears on her little cheeks. The child appeared to be truly distressed, and Marcia wondered what could have upset her so badly. She lifted Hermione gently from the crib and held her close.

"There, there, Hermione Anne," Marcia cooed. "Did Mummy's angel have a bad dream?"

Hermione continued to sob. "Baby... owwie... too bad," she murmured into her mother's shoulder. "Baby mama gone! Baby daddy gone!" She shuddered, then dissolved into tears again.

"No, no, sweetheart, Mummy and Daddy are right here, and we're just fine," Marcia reassured her distraught baby. "Oh, my love, you just had a bad dream. Let Mummy hold you and everything will be all right."

Wondering what Hermione could possibly have dreamed about, Marcia hugged her close to her bosom. She buried her face in Hermione's soft brown ringlets, which smelled reassuringly of innocence and baby shampoo. Hermione was an only child whose parents loved her fiercely. Marcia and Alan had met while both were studying dentistry in London, and they married shortly before moving to Little Whinging, a quiet town in Surrey, to start a dental practice together. Being a thoroughly liberated couple of the early 1970s, they decided not to start trying to have a family for several years, not until they felt their dental practice was on a solid financial footing. But by the time they were ready to start their family, they were in their early thirties and discovered that despite the fun involved, getting pregnant was easier said than done.

When Marcia's pregnancy was confirmed in early February of 1980, she and Alan were both overjoyed. But the pregnancy was very difficult and Marcia's labour even more so; their baby, for whatever reason, was reluctant to leave the womb, and after thirty-six hours of labour the obstetrician had to do an emergency Caesarian section because the baby was in distress. Marcia and Alan cried tears of joy when they saw their beautiful daughter for the first time. A few weeks later, however, the happy tears turned sad when Dr. Harrison told Marcia that another pregnancy would be physically dangerous for her. So by the time Hermione was six months old, her parents were already mourning the future children to whom they would never give birth.

Now, seven months later, things were starting to look up again. When Hermione was ten months old, Alan and Marcia registered with the county council's Social Services Department, which supervised all adoptions in Surrey. A social worker promptly came to their home and examined it, and them, for suitability for adopting a child. The county had a lengthy waiting list of couples wanting to adopt an infant, and Alan and Marcia figured it would be at least a year, possibly two, maybe even more, before they were chosen. However, in their interviews with the social worker, they said they would be open to adopting a somewhat older baby if the opportunity arose and the circumstances seemed right....

When Hermione had finally calmed down, Marcia put her on the floor to play with her baby blocks. A soft knock later, a sandy blond head popped through the door and Alan Granger entered, freshly showered and ready to do battle with any poor dental hygiene that darkened his door that day.

"How are my two girls today?" he said brightly, chomping the remains of slightly burnt toast with orange marmalade.

"You mean your one little girl and your fully-grown woman?" Marcia replied, only half-teasing. "I'm feeling great, though our darling daughter might not be. She apparently had quite a nasty dream right before she woke up. I had to hold her for a long time to calm her down."

Alan kissed each in turn on her forehead and hugged his wife. "Now, that doesn't sound like our Hermione. She usually wakes up as happy as the sun." He looked at his daughter with a trace of regret on his face. "Have you rung up Mrs. Benton from Social Services recently?"

"No, I haven't," Marcia said. "It's only been three months since we registered. I don't think we can really expect to be very far up on the list yet, can we?"

"I suppose not," Alan said thoughtfully. "Still, it doesn't hurt to remind her that we're out here...waiting...and hoping..."

Marcia gave a wistful smile. "As usual, you're right, my darling. I'll check my schedule, and if I've got any gaps between patients, I'll give her a ring. I know you'd do it if you could, but you've got several root canals and wisdom-tooth extractions today, haven't you?"

"Yes, love, and I'm not looking forward to them at all. You know what a pill that Vernon Dursley can be. Always thinks we're over-charging him -- and accuses me of not using any anesthetic! Perhaps if he wasn't always stuffing his purple face full of treacle and jelly babies, he wouldn't need our services so often."

Marcia chuckled. "Touché, Dr. Granger. I couldn't have said that better myself." She scooped Hermione up from the floor and hugged her tightly again. "Okay, little one, time to get you dressed and off to day care. Mummy and Daddy have a busy day today."

~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~

An hour later, the Grangers dropped Hermione off at the baby sitter's house. Their childcare provider lived only a few blocks from the office, which meant that either parent could check on Hermione during the day if they wished. Pulling away from the curb, Alan and Marcia both noticed something unusual in the cool blue sky. Owls. Lots of them. Lots and lots and lots of owls -- perhaps two hundred. Owls of every size, shape and description hooting and hollering, swooping and diving, landing on any roost-shaped edge they could find, then taking off again. If they'd thought the owls had any evil intent, the Grangers might have wondered if they'd stumbled onto a remake of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. But the owls did not appear angry or predatory or in any way malevolent. If anything, they appeared - cheerful, upbeat -- in fact, downright happy (if one could determine whether an owl was happy). Of course neither Alan nor Marcia could remember ever seeing owls in broad daylight, much less hundreds of them, especially not in Little Whinging.

"Isn't there an aviary or a bird research center about fifteen kilometres from here?" Marcia wondered aloud. "Perhaps the owls escaped from there..."

"If there is, I've never heard of it," her husband said, biting his lower lip in thought. "Actually I've never heard of owls congregating in broad daylight anywhere. Of course, I'm not an avian biologist, or a raptor specialist, but still, it does seem to be rather unusual behaviour..."

"Should we report the owls to Animal Control?"

"I doubt we need to, Marcia. I'd bet they've already taken at least a dozen calls!"

Other than the bizarre owl sighting, the day progressed relatively normally at the Granger Dental Clinic. Vernon Dursley appeared - as usual, purple-faced, huffing and sputtering -- at 11:13 a.m. for his 11 a.m. root canal. Alan gave him a larger-than-usual dose of novocaine so that Dursley would know he'd been anesthetized - and so that his upper lip would be too fat to allow much complaining for the next few hours. Alan enjoyed working on Dursley's upper teeth specifically because the rubber dam in his mouth prevented Dursley from yammering back at him.

While Alan worked on Dursley's upper left bicuspid, Marcia found a few moments to ring up Surrey Council Social Services. "Mrs. Benton is out on a case at the moment," the receptionist said pleasantly. "May I take a message?"

"Please tell Mrs. Benton that Marcia Granger called, and that my husband and I are anx... that we'd love to adopt a baby or toddler as soon as possible. We'd appreciate it if she'd ring us back and let us know where we are on the waiting list. Thank you." Marcia had started to say "are anxious" but then caught herself and changed course, sensing that the phrase sounded a bit desperate.

"I'll tell Mrs. Benton you called," said the receptionist. "She's in Guildford today, but I expect she'll return tomorrow morning."

"Thanks very much. I look forward to hearing from her soon." Marcia hoped her thank you didn't sound desperate either.

Later that day, while waiting for his next patient, Alan stepped out front for a breath of fresh air. Wonderful smells wafted toward him from the bakery across the street, reminding him that he'd had only half of a sausage roll for lunch. As he turned to re-enter the clinic, a commotion across the street caught his eye. Alan was startled to see Vernon Dursley almost bowl over an odd-looking little man who then bowed to him outside the bakery. The oddest thing about the little man was his attire; he was wearing a violet top hat and a long cloak, the likes of which Alan had seen only in the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. First a huge flock of owls, now the strange little man in the violet top hat ... Alan looked at his digital watch to make sure he knew what day it was. Yes, of course it was November first. October thirty-first - Halloween - was yesterday. How could he forget? Hermione had been dressed up as the cutest little ladybug he'd ever seen. She really seemed to want her little wings to work, he recalled with a smile.

Five o'clock saw the last patient ushered out of the clinic. Marcia and Alan closed up shop and headed out to pick up their little girl. Hermione seemed a bit out of sorts; according to her caregiver, Mrs. Fletcher, she had seemed somewhat anxious and had napped very fitfully after lunch. When they arrived home, Marcia brought the baby into the lounge with her while Alan fixed a Chinese stir-fry dinner. Just in time for the early news, Marcia thought as she turned on the television.

"Alan! Come quickly! You've got to see this!" Marcia called to her husband.

"Can it wait, sweetheart? I'm up to my elbows here in bok choy," he called back.

"Forget the stir-fry, love... you've got to see all these owls on the news..."

Alan's appearance a second later made Marcia wonder if Hermione got her "quick-change" abilities from her father. "My God, so the owls didn't just congregate at Little Whinging?" Alan Granger was a very practical, rational man, and the thought of flocks of owls congregating across Britain in broad daylight was making his head hurt.

"In other news," the broadcaster continued, "shooting stars were seen at numerous locales across the United Kingdom last night. 'There are no meteor showers over Britain at this time of year,' a Royal Observatory spokesman stated. 'We have no idea why people are making these reports.'"

"Shooting stars too?" Alan sputtered. "What an odd day this has been. First the owls, and now shooting stars. And right outside Branham's Bakery, I saw Vernon Dursley almost knock down a little man who was wearing a violet top hat! Dursley knocking someone down was no shock," he went on, "but the little man certainly was. He looked like something out of... well, out of a very old movie."

"Yes... a very odd day," Marcia agreed. "And don't forget Hermione's bad dream this morning. Must be something in the air. Perhaps a Halloween hangover?"

Marcia and Alan both laughed at the thought. They were both close to teetotalers, so if anyone was having a hangover it wasn't them. Alan went back to the kitchen and finished whipping up a terrific batch of stir-fry. It was so good, Hermione even ate a bit of broccoli and some bok choy without any coaxing. After supper, Marcia bathed Hermione and put her to bed around 8:00 p.m.

"Sleep tight, my beauty," she said soothingly to her almost-sleeping daughter. "Sweet dreams."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered then shut gently. Marcia hoped there would be no more talk of "baby... owwie... too bad" the next morning . . . .

~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~

At 11:00 that night, Alan grabbed the day's empty milk bottles and put them outside the kitchen door for the milkman to pick up next morning. A tabby cat with strange markings around its eyes stared at him from next to a bush in the alley. He'd seen cats look at people intently before, but never as intently as this one. This cat was really staring at him. Yet another unnerving event to end the day, he thought. Perhaps someone declared an extra day of Halloween this year and neglected to tell me . . . .

Soon after, the tabby ended her vigil at the Grangers' house and strode purposefully to a brick building about half a mile away. There she stayed, glued to her spot, starting at the street, for another hour. Watching. Waiting. But for what?

At midnight, all was still on Frampton Square, and the only light came from the few street lamps above. Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a tall, thin man with long white hair and a silver beard. He wore a long grey cloak, a pointed hat, and buckled shoes with large heels. As he pointed a small silver device toward the street lamps, each lamp went out in turn. He turned toward the building and the tabby was no more. Where the tabby had kept vigil stood a tall, thin woman with square spectacles, also wearing a tall, pointed hat and a cloak. She regarded him severely.

"Dumbledore!"

"Yes, Minerva, 'tis I. I'm glad to see you too."

"Where is the boy?"

"Hagrid is bringing him. I believe they should arrive momentarily."

"I've done as you requested, Albus," the woman continued. "I've spent the past twenty-four hours observing the two families."

"And?"

"I've concluded that the Dursleys are totally unacceptable. I don't care if they are his only living relatives - they are the most horrid kind of Muggles imaginable. They're mean, spiteful, petty, vindictive, judgemental --"

"Yes, Minerva. I totally agree. They are not suited to parenting anyone, much less this boy."

The woman appeared taken aback. "Gracious, I'm so relieved that you agree. I was terrified that you really wanted to subject James and Lily's son to living with those awful people. I remember that Lily was quite estranged from her sister. Indeed, Petunia and her husband, and even their baby, seem to be the antithesis of what we hold dear."

"That, my dear Minerva," Dumbledore replied, "was why I asked you to observe the second family as well. And what are your observations?"

Minerva McGonagall squared her shoulders and smiled broadly. "The husband and wife are obviously very much in love. They treat each other with such care and respect, as genuine equals, and they also treat their neighbours and business associates the same way. They are very bright and personable. They love their baby daughter fiercely and yet neither coddle nor spoil her. Overall they are most excellent parents and citizens. And," she paused, "as you and I know - but they do not, not yet - their daughter is a witch."

"Indeed she is," Dumbledore mused. "Her name, of course, was written in the Great Book at Hogwarts the day she was born...which was why I suggested this family. She and the boy are the same age, born only seven weeks apart. They can grow up together, and when the time comes, they can attend Hogwarts together."

"But until that day comes, neither child will know exactly who he is, or what he has done for the wizarding world." McGonagall paused thoughtfully. "Are you absolutely sure this is the best thing for the boy? That he shouldn't be raised by other wizards?"

"I am absolutely sure." Dumbledore gazed over his half-moon spectacles in the direction of Victoria Crescent. "He needs to be protected from the constant glare of attention he would receive if he grew up in our world. And I believe we can be reasonably certain that the couple at number twelve Victoria Crescent will raise him to be a decent human being...whereas the chances of that happening at number four Privet Drive are quite remote. In fact, I'd be much surprised if living with the Dursleys didn't drive him barking mad!"

Dumbledore and McGonagall both laughed, then cringed at the thought of voluntarily leaving a one-year-old boy with anyone remotely like Vernon and Petunia Dursley. A rumble above in the cloudless night made them check the sky.

"That must be Hagrid. And he's only a wee bit behind schedule," Minerva noted.

From out of nowhere, they spied a flying motorcycle, which soon came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street. A huge, oversized man with bushy black hair and beard and beetle-black eyes parked the motorcycle in the middle of the street. In one arm he carried a baby bundled in blankets.

"Evenin', perfessers," the man greeted them.

"Good evening, Hagrid," Dumbledore replied. "I see you have brought the boy."

"Yes'r, 'ere 'e is, and not too much worse for the long ride," Hagrid said. "Poor lit'l tyke's kinda tuckered ou', though. 'E's been sleepin' since we passed o'er Bristol."

Hagrid handed the sleeping toddler to Dumbledore, who conjured up a basket and placed the boy in it. McGonagall then pulled a piece of parchment from inside her cloak and placed it inside the basket with the baby. The parchment contained a brief note:

"This baby is named Harry Potter. He was born July 31, 1980. Please find him a loving home."

McGonagall sniffled a bit. "I surely hope this works."

The kindly old wizard patted her arm sympathetically. "Don't worry, Minerva. It will."

Albus Dumbledore pulled the silver object from his cloak and turned the streetlights back on. Hagrid took off on the motorcycle, while the two professors Disapparated with a POP!

Baby Harry opened his eyes and gazed around. If he'd been able to read he would have noticed the sign on the building above his head:

SURREY COUNCIL

SOCIAL SERVICES

~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~ * ~~

Catherine Benton went in to the office early on November second. She'd been off in Guildford all the previous day, visiting a family who had just adopted a six-month-old girl, and hadn't arrived home in Little Whinging until about 8:00 p.m. Best to go in early, she thought, and slog through her phone messages before she got bogged down by the many distractions that would inevitably pop up throughout the day. As she pillaged her purse for the office keys, she almost stumbled over a package on the front stoop of the Surrey Council Social Services office. At least she thought it was a package. When she saw the basket and its contents she almost fell off the stoop.

"Oh, my Lord in heaven!" she cried out in shock. "What in the world?" She dropped to her knees and looked closely at the bundle in the basket. It was a baby boy, about a year old, sleeping peacefully. Under a short tuft of black hair there was a recent cut on his forehead. It was the oddest cut Catherine had ever seen - shaped like a tiny bolt of lightning. Other than the cut, which probably would leave a scar, the little boy appeared to be unharmed and in good health.

"Hello, little one," she cooed at him. "Whatever are you doing on our front steps, eh? Wait, don't answer that," she smiled. "Even if you could answer me, I already know the answer. You need some new parents, don't you?"

The little black-haired boy must have heard her, because at that moment he awoke and gazed at her with beautiful bright green eyes. "Goodness, green eyes too!" she exclaimed. "You're quite the handsome little fellow, aren't you?" Catherine definitely had a way with babies and small children, and this mystery baby was no exception. She stretched her hand toward him and his soft, chubby hand latched onto her index finger. As he squirmed in the basket to reach her, a piece of paper ("Paper? This looks like...parchment?") fell out of the blanket. Catherine opened the parchment and read the note it contained.

"So your name is Harry Potter, is it? Well, young Mr. Potter, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Mrs. Benton, and I work in this building. And guess what? I just might be able to help you." With that, Catherine scooped up the baby in his basket, juggled them on her left hip, and pulled open the door to the Social Services office. She might not be able to find him a new family immediately, but she knew just what she had to do in the meantime. Catherine parked the basket in the corner of her office, with Harry facing her so she could maintain eye contact with him. Ignoring an inch-high stack of "While You Were Out" message slips, she thumbed through her Rolodex until she hit the F's and dialed the telephone.

"Hello, this is 867-5309. Please leave a message after the two tones." Drat, Catherine thought, no good. Can't be leaving messages when you need help right away. Let's try again.

"Good morning, Fletcher Child Care, this is Rosalind."

BINGO! Catherine rejoiced silently.

"Good morning, Rosalind, this is Catherine Benton at Social Services. I've got a bit of an emergency and I hope you can help me..." Catherine recounted how she'd discovered a black-haired, green-eyed toddler sleeping on the office stoop just minutes before. "This baby appears to be quite healthy and happy and I'd bet he'd be adopted in a flash," she continued, "but of course I'll have to investigate, see if I can find his mum and try to change her mind before we can make a permanent placement. In the meantime little Harry will need a place to stay. Are you still doing emergency foster care? Could you take care of him for a day or two, or perhaps longer?"

"Yes, of course," Rosalind offered, "we'll set up a crib straight away. The sooner you bring him over, the sooner he can get settled before the other children arrive." Rosalind Fletcher had been a foster mother as well as a childcare provider for ten years, and she'd never refused an opportunity to foster a child, no matter how temporary the situation. And it sounded like this baby needed her help.

Fifteen minutes later, at 8:05 a.m., Catherine arrived at the Fletcher home with Harry in tow. Rosalind oohed and ahhed at him ("What a pretty baby! But that scar looks so fresh... I wonder how that happened...") and gathered up some baby clothes, nappies and other necessities for him. She warmed up a bottle of formula, then propped Harry on her knee. "That's one hungry little fellow," she marveled as he drained the bottle in about three minutes, complete with a loud BURP. "He's drinking that like he hasn't eaten in a couple of days."

Catherine Benton, assured that Harry would be well cared for, hugged him goodbye and drove back to her office to do some investigating by phone. She assumed Harry's mum was poor and single and simply couldn't afford to raise another child - perhaps yet another young woman who had fallen through the social service cracks. At any rate, it was Catherine's duty to try to find his relatives before making him available for adoption, so she closed her office door and began ringing up a lengthy list of contacts.

Meanwhile, Rosalind's other charges began to arrive for the day. The newcomer sat placidly, almost too placidly, in a portable crib in the dining area. He did not seem ill, Rosalind noted, but he did seem listless, or perhaps withdrawn. "What a sad little boy," she thought. "He seems like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders." There was something about the soon-to-be-scar on his forehead that made him seem a bit unapproachable, and as the other children arrived they either didn't notice him or seemed a bit frightened by him.

And then, about 8:45 a.m., the Grangers arrived, and suddenly the toddler seemed...different. His green eyes went from dull to sparkling, and he seemed more alert and more interested in the other children's activities. When he spied the little Granger girl across the room, a big, almost-toothless smile flickered on his face. It was almost as though he recognized her.

Harry's smile caught little Hermione's eye and she flashed a big grin in return. She toddled over to his portable crib as fast as her little legs would carry her and poked both of her little arms toward him. Harry crawled toward her and pulled himself up the side of the crib near Hermione. Reaching up slightly, she placed a pudgy hand on each of his cheeks and stared at his forehead. Everyone else in the room - both children and adults - stopped in their tracks and stared at the two toddlers. Several seconds passed in total silence, and then...

"Mama! MAMA!" Hermione shrieked. "Baby owwie! Baby owwie!"

Marcia and Alan gaped at the sight of their daughter cradling the face of the little stranger. Slowly, as if in a dream, they drifted over to the portable crib to see what had excited Hermione so. Staring up at them was a little boy about Hermione's age with sad green eyes and a tuft of jet-black hair only partially covering a very fresh lightning-bolt scar. A shiver of recognition seared through Marcia's brain and heart, and her jaw dropped. Hermione had not had a nightmare about her own parents the previous morning. She had been dreaming about this boy... this poor little boy who, Rosalind told them, had just been left on the stoop of the Social Services office. What had happened to bring him to that place, Marcia could only wonder about. And what this dream meant about Hermione, she didn't dare to guess.

"Rosalind," she hesitated, "how long are you planning to foster this baby?"

"Actually, Mrs. Benton just asked if we could keep him for a few days," Rosalind replied. "She's trying to find his mum, or at least some other relatives, before she releases him for adoption."

"I think we'd like to adopt him," Marcia said suddenly, hearing the words come from her mouth as if someone else had put them there. Hermione was petting Harry's face, mumbling something only he could hear or probably understand.

"Darling, what did you say?" Alan croaked in shock.

Marcia grabbed his arms and looked at him deeply. "Alan, I believe Hermione has found our new child for us. There just seems to be some kind of connection between them. I don't know how to explain it...but I'm sure this is the baby we're supposed to adopt."

Alan pulled her close and held her tightly. "It does seem a bit sudden. I hadn't expected to be parenting a new child in the next few days," he sighed into her hair. "But if you believe this is the child for us--and it appears that Hermione does too--well, who am I to disagree? Let's call Mrs. Benton when we get to the clinic and get the ball rolling."

Marcia smiled at her husband and noticed the two babies were smiling back at her. "Hello, little one," she cooed at Harry. "Would you like to be my daughter's brother? Because I have a feeling she would like you to be. And Hermione, dearest, one day when you're older, you and I will have to talk about that dream of yours."

To be continued...