The Lost Generation (1975-1982)

The Lost Generation

(1975-1982)

Chapter Eighteen

Sanctuary


Saturday, 31 October, 1981

“Hold on tight!”

Cecilia had been shaking with nerves as she climbed onto the back of Sirius’ motorcycle and put her arms around his waist. Now she clutched him convulsively as he smiled over his shoulder at her; she shivered in the night air, not having expected this. They usually Apparated when they went out, but Sirius had said that he had an appointment later, and that it was someplace where he couldn’t Apparate, and as long as he was taking the bike, he thought it would be nice for them to fly together, instead of going separately, one of them flying and the other Apparating.

He started the engine and let it warm up a little, breathing in the heavenly fumes that reminded him of why he loved the bike.

“Shouldn’t we wear helmets?” she shouted in his ear, over the sound of the engine.

“No need!” he shouted back. “I’ve put a binding spell on the two of us; we’re bound to each other and the bike. We can’t fall off. No worries.”

No worries, he says, she thought, frowning. What if the bloody bike falls out of the sky, what then? She still wasn’t convinced that anything other than brooms should be charmed to fly, and she wasn’t even very fond of brooms, although Sirius loved to invite her to the testing grounds in Northumberland where his company tried out their prototypes. She’d tried riding on a new model just the week before, at his urging, and had promptly spewed when she’d landed and staggered off the thing after it had taken her on a nightmarish ride, looping crazily around the sky. Sirius had laughed, and after a few minutes, she’d laughed too, but it was forced. He just didn’t seem to appreciate that she wasn’t as enamored of flying as he was.

And now she was on a flying motorcycle! She tried to turn her anxiety into a joke. “Are you sure you want to be bound to me?” she said, batting her eyes at him as he continued to gaze at her over his shoulder. Suddenly, the look in his nearly-black eyes made her catch her breath as he smiled warmly at her.

“There’s nothing I’d like better.”

As he turned to face front again, she felt like her heart had skipped a beat. Did he really mean that? She mentally scolded herself, reminding her more practical side that this was Sirius Black. On the other hand, she reminded that staunchly practical side, he had been spending a lot more time with her since Lily and James had gone into hiding.... As the bike took off, she couldn’t help thinking about them, and the fact that Sirius alone knew where they were. How did he know the two of them wouldn’t be attacked by Death Eaters in mid-air? How did he ever manage to feel safe?

“What if someone sees us?” she shouted in his ear, above the engine’s racket.

“I did the Chameleon Transfiguration,” he shouted back, turning his head. “We’ll just look like the starry night sky if anyone looks up.”

She felt impressed in spite of herself; Sirius always had run rings around everyone else except James Potter when it came to Transfiguration. She should have known he’d continue to work on these skills after finishing Hogwarts and learn a difficult spell like the Chameleon Transfiguration. For all she knew he’d learnt it before leaving school. It would be like him.

They sped across an inky blue sky scattered with stars, finally arriving at the inn where Sirius had made reservations. They’d never gone to this one before, but he said that he’d heard it was very nice for special occasions. She’d asked him what the special occasion was and he’d clammed up, as though he’d said too much. Cecilia felt butterflies in her stomach as she considered the limited range of things Sirius might consider to be ‘special occasions.’ His birthday had just passed the month before and they’d already celebrated that. Her birthday wasn’t for another three months....

But her speculation ended abruptly when Sirius landed the bike in a carpark outside a medieval-looking country inn, and when he turned off the engine, the world seemed to be absurdly hushed and subdued.

Despite the slightly seedy air outside the thatched stick-and-daub building, it was a nice place inside, Cecilia had to agree, and the food and wine were wonderful. Sirius patted his stomach reverentially after finishing his lamb, looking quite delirious with happiness. She returned to speculating about what made this evening “special.” He’d never taken her anyplace half so nice--or pricey. What were they celebrating with such a sumptuous dinner, with wine perfectly matched to the food and a heavenly chocolate mousse coming for the desert?

Sirius gazed at her, seeing that she was clearly trying to guess what was on his mind. He almost felt like laughing, but that didn’t seem to be quite appropriate, somehow. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her, how pretty she was when she was perplexed. He smiled at her and she smiled back. He knew that to make up for teasing her and making her wait he should be very, very nice to her in bed later, after he returned from checking on Peter, and he didn’t mind the prospect at all. He intended to enjoy being nice to her quite a lot. (He always did.)

He reached out to take both of her hands in his and continued to smile at her, and Cecilia’s breath caught as she realized what was going on. Oh my god, she thought. Is he--? Is he actually going to--? She felt like she couldn’t breathe. He didn’t take his eyes from her but looked at her unwaveringly, with a warmth and a love that took her breath away. Is it possible to tame Sirius Black? she wondered, then thought about how much she’d like to find out....

However, just as he opened his mouth, he shut it again, swallowing. He felt dizzy for a moment and for some reason, the image of James and Lily’s house in Godric Hollow burst into his brain, and the place where the house was located, as well.

He blinked in shock, and saw that Cecilia was also reeling, gripping the edge of the table tightly, her knuckles white. He stared at her.

“Are you--are you seeing it too? The house? Their house?” he demanded. She nodded, pale as a ghost, clearly not knowing what had happened.

But Sirius knew exactly what had happened.

He stood up abruptly and almost knocked the table over by doing so. “Sorry, love, I have to go. I--I need to check on James and Lily.” And Peter, he added to himself. What had made Peter tell someone the Secret? he wondered. And to whom had he told it?

“Do you think they’re all right?” she said nervously, then realized what a stupid question that was. He wouldn’t be leaving if he thought they were all right. He didn’t answer her question.

“I--I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll meet you at your flat later, all right? I’ll make it up to you--”

And before she knew what was happening, he’d left and she heard the sound of the motorcycle starting up again. She stared down at her plate, at the remains of her meal, wanting to be concerned, but finding herself thinking horrid thoughts about Lily instead.

He was about to propose! She just knew it. And thanks to Lily, he’d ‘had’ to go running off. Well, she thought bitterly, I hope everything isn’t all right. I hope it’s about as bloody not-all-right as it can be...” Then she shook herself, angry that her petty jealousy could make her so ungenerous. So he’ll propose later. Once he knows they’re all right, there won’t be anything to interrupt again....

She paid the bill, as Sirius hadn’t left any money for this, and left the inn, going into some nearby trees to find a good unobtrusive place from which to Apparate. Once she’d reached her flat, she collapsed on her couch in a crying heap, sobbing until she’d utterly exhausted herself.

Still cursing Lily’s name, she settled down to wait for Sirius to return to her, but she was no longer certain that, if he did ask her to marry him, she’d agree to do it. Somehow she just wasn’t convinced that she wanted to look forward to an entire lifetime of always playing second-fiddle to Lily.

It didn’t occur to her that evening that if Lily and James were in danger, it was because Sirius, their Secret Keeper, had betrayed them.

* * * * *

Sirius saw the lights of Hogwarts finally and aimed downward, landing on the lawn near the front doors of the castle. He didn’t slow down and stop, however, but drove round to Hagrid’s hut, his tires cutting deep ruts into the moist soil.

A welcoming golden glow emanated from the small windows and Sirius wondered what he would do if Peter were there, safe and sound. The trouble was--Hagrid wasn’t to know Peter was about. Peter was supposed to be hiding at Hagrid’s in his rat form.

Sirius had been about to rap on the door, but he balled his hand up into a fist and pulled back from knocking. Instead, he closed his eyes and changed into his dog form, sniffing around the foundations of Hagrid’s house, trying to find any remnant of a scent that was reminiscent of Peter.

He found nothing.

This was bad, very bad. There was no sign of a struggle in the rear garden or anywhere else around the hut, and no sign that Peter--in his human or rat form--had been anywhere near Hagrid’s hut. His scent would have been somewhere about one of the doors if he’d entered or exited the small house, since Apparition was not possible on the Hogwarts grounds. Peter had not come to Hagrid's at all, as far as Sirius could tell.

He changed back to his human form and returned to his motorcycle, straddling it and gunning the motor again just as Hagrid opened the door to his hut.

“Who’s there, then?” Hagrid called into the night, squinting into the darkness. Sirius cut the motor again, sighing deeply.

“It’s me--Sirius Black.”

Hagrid grinned through his enormous wiry beard and strode over to Sirius, a large tankard in one hand. “Bless my boots, Sirius Black! What brings you back to Hogwarts this fine Halloween evening?”

Sirius nodded at the castle. “Is Dumbledore still at the feast?”

“The feast? Nah, ended a while ago. “E’s probably back in ‘is office by now.”

“Hagrid--had you ever been to Lily and James’ house? Before they--before they went into hiding?”

“Nah, never did. Why?”

Sirius sighed again. “No reason. Listen, I have to fly. Someone I have to see...”

“Ye can’ stay for a wee drink?” Hagrid asked enticingly, raising his tankard suggestively.

Sirius shook his head. “Some other time maybe.” He started the engine noisily again and raised his hand to Hagrid before taking to the sky once more. As he flew over the castle, he thought he saw a smokey white bird-looking sort of thing emerge from a tower window and whip through the air toward Hagrid’s hut. But he didn’t have time to focus on this; he had to get to Wales very quickly. If Peter had spilled his secret there was no telling how soon before the information would be acted upon....

* * * * *

Albus Dumbledore rolled up the bit of parchment that had come sailing in through his window not five minutes before. He had no idea who had sent it, nor did he know whether he should believe it. There was no salutation, no indication that it was for him other than his last name being scrawled on the outside of the roll of parchment. The post owl didn’t look familiar to him. He stared at it again.

The Dark Lord is gone, the Prophecy fulfilled. He killed James and Lily Potter, but he could not kill Harry Potter and so lost his power. Harry Potter lives--he survived the Killing Curse. I write this as a witness: The Dark Lord is gone and it is Harry Potter who vanquished him.

That was all it said.

Dumbledore turned it over, but the back of the parchment did not reveal any information about the sender. ...he could not kill Harry Potter and so lost his power.....

Dumbledore had already gone to bed for the night, tired and sated after yet another splendid Halloween feast. He had been sleeping peacefully when, quite suddenly, his mind had been invaded by the memory of where James and Lily lived, making him sit bolt upright in his bed. It had been unclear to him whether it was real or a dream, but he had risen and dressed again with the intention of going to Godric’s Hollow--which he now remembered was their home--to make certain that everything was all right. He tried to reassure himself that he would find everything as it should be; if the Fidelius Charm had been breached, it didn’t have to be Lord Voldemort who had been told the secret. It might have been anyone. He cursed himself for suggesting Sirius Black for the Secret Keeper; he had probably told his girlfriend about the house, or something like that. Or so Dumbledore had thought, until the owl had flown in his window.

He killed James and Lily Potter....

He shuddered to think of the young couple dead, their son an orphan. And if the letter was correct, then Lord Voldemort’s followers would soon get wind of it and try to get their revenge. Many would, very likely, grow dispirited without their leader, but others....

Luckily, there was an easy way to check on whether James and Lily were alive. He wrote a quick note on a scrap of parchment lying on his desk: Just checking. He wrote on the back: James and Lily Potter. Rolling it up, he tied it to the leg of the waiting owl that had delivered the anonymous note. He threw the bird out the window, saying, “That is for James and Lily Potter,” just to make certain the bird knew its job. However, the owl wheeled around in the sky outside his tower and returned to the stone sill, cocking its head to the side, looking at him quizzically. He tried again, tossing the bird into the air and proclaiming again who the recipients were. If even one of them were still alive, the owl should be off, flapping its wings against the night sky, bound for Wales....

But it returned once more, and then twice more. Finally, Dumbledore sighed and removed the parchment from the bird’s leg, crushing it in his hand as a single tear flowed down his long, crooked nose.

He killed James and Lily Potter, but he could not kill Harry Potter and so lost his power.

Why would Lord Voldemort be unable to kill a baby? he wondered. And how best to protect the child both from those who would harm him, for--somehow--doing something, or being something that led indirectly to Voldemort’s fall, and from the notoriety that was sure to accompany the news that he had lived through what should have been, surely, a fatal attack? Dumbledore summoned a parchment from a pile of rolled up letters sitting in a basket on his desk and unrolled it carefully; it was from Lily, asking whether he would mind terribly going to check on her sister from time to time, unobtrusively observing her, to make certain everything was all right. Lily had explained that there was a rift between the two of them, even more so since their mother had died, and she didn’t have much hope of furtively checking on her sister personally once she was under the protection of the Fidelius Charm. Dumbledore had written back to Lily, saying that he would try to check on Petunia Dursley from time to time and then tell Lily how her sister fared.

Now he wondered....would it work? Could Lily’s relationship to her sister provide the protection that little Harry needed? Staring down at the parchment with the very ordinary Muggle address of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, he decided that he had very little choice. Harry needed a home, and surely, rift or no rift, his aunt would provide him with such a home?

But first--he knew that Lily and James were indeed dead, but he did not know whether Voldemort’s power had indeed broken. The anonymous letter did not say that Voldemort was dead. Curious....

He wrote another “Just checking,” note and addressed it to “Lord Voldemort.” After attaching it to the owl’s leg in lieu of the letter he’d attempted to send to Lily and James, the owl flew away from the tower, then began to fly in circles about fifty feet out from the castle tower, looking uncertain. Dumbledore frowned. Why wasn’t the owl either attempting to deliver the letter or to return it? But no; it flew in circles, first one direction, then the other. Albus Dumbledore had never seen a post owl affected in such a manner. It was as though Lord Voldemort was alive and he was dead.

Finally, he decided that he needed to have mercy on the poor bird before it exhausted itself; he summoned it into his hands and removed the letter from its leg. He stared at the letter, trying to fathom the meaning of it all. How can I truly tell if Voldemort is gone? he wondered.

The scar.

He shuddered, remembering the last time he’d purposefully used the scar, over thirty-five years earlier. Tom’s scar. Dumbledore sighed; he’d only meant to help Tom, he’d only intended to keep a confused and distraught young man from sliding deeper into the darkness that had, eventually, consumed him and given birth to Lord Voldemort. If only he’d known back then....

And he certainly hadn’t intended to hurt the boy. The boy. He’d been a mere boy when he’d received the scar from Dumbledore. Did he still have it? Dumbledore wondered. It was the only path he had open to him; if Voldemort still existed at all, his scar would probably still exist, too. Dumbledore had to try, to learn what had befallen his former student. He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind for Tom Riddle, for the man Tom had become, for Lord Voldemort....

Are you all right, Tom? I’m concerned about you....Someone has told me that you killed the Potters, and tried to kill little Harry, and that this hurt you....Are you well? Tell me Tom...

In response to his concern, he felt a prickling of rage and anguish flit briefly through his brain. It was very hard to make out what was being communicated; brief phrases like no body and less than spirit came and went before Dumbledore sighed and broke the connection. He sat at his desk, tapping his fingertips together. Tom had been defeated, it seemed, but the experiments of which Dumbledore had heard, the attempts at immortality, seemed to have altered his being to the point that he couldn’t really be killed properly, and he was now evidently something neither alive nor dead, neither human nor ghost.

That meant that he might eventually find a way to come back, Dumbledore knew. Lord Voldemort would try. And there was no telling how soon he would succeed.

In the meantime, his probing of Voldemort’s mind--what was left of it--convinced him that, for the time being, he was not a threat. He smiled. The wizarding world should know about this, he decided. They should know and celebrate. So, there was the matter of spreading the word; he hadn’t been happy at all with the Ministry when Voldemort had first risen to power; the Minister had been far too slow to acknowledge the threat, to take action to guarantee the safety of witches and wizards throughout Britain. The ‘new Dark Lord’ had been considered a myth for some time, until, finally, one disaster too many had finally brought the head of Magical Law Enforcement and the Minister around.

Now, unless something was done to spread the word of the fall of Voldemort, the Ministry was again unlikely to believe the truth. Dumbledore knew just what he had to do to get around the Ministry’s ingrained tendency to disbelieve news of this sort....

But first he would need to guarantee Harry’s safety. He knew of only one person he trusted enough to take on the task of delivering Harry to Surrey. Stepping to his open window, he put his wand to his temple and then opened his eyes, flicking his wand at the night sky, as a whispy white-grey bird erupted from his wand-tip and sped its way across the grounds.

* * * * *

Severus Snape heard a strange crack! and looked around in a panic, suddenly remembering Barty Crouch and the fact that Barty now knew that he was not loyal to the Dark Lord, that he had tried to warn Lily. He gently laid her body on the ground and withdrew his wand, stepping carefully and silently around the corner of the still-burning house, ready to defend himself. Harry had fallen asleep some time ago, leaning against Severus, breathing deeply, and he wasn’t disturbed by Severus leaving his side, simply turning over and putting his thumb in his mouth. The blood on his forehead had already dried and Severus could see that the wound there was in the shape of a lightening bolt.

He breathed a sigh of relief when, from around the opposite corner of the house stepped Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, carrying an incongruous pink umbrella. That could mean only one thing: Dumbledore knew what had happened here. Dumbledore always seemed to know what was happening everywhere. Severus watched Hagrid walk heavily to where Harry lay by Lily’s side, oblivious to the fact that his mother was dead.

“Oh, Dumbledore was righ’,” he sobbed, upon seeing Lily. Hagrid took out a large spotted handkerchief and mopped at his eyes before crouching down to sit next to Harry, his umbrella across his lap. He pulled the sleeping baby into his arms, his eyes still streaming. “Poor li’l tyke. Ole’ Hagrid’s here now, never fear. You jest go on sleepin’, an’ we’ll wait t’gether to get our instructions from Dumbledore. Don’ you worry, Harry....” Hagrid said gruffly, through his tears. But a moment later, the sound of a siren rang through the night air--a Muggle fire truck. Severus looked up; the Dark Mark still hovered over the house. He thought of the corresponding mark on his arm and shuddered; who would believe that he, a Death Eater, lurking outside the destroyed Potter home, had not had anything to do with the attack? Only one person: Dumbledore.

He chanced another look at Hagrid, who was struggling to his feet, still carrying Harry and speaking to the sleeping child as though he knew what the enormous man was saying. “Well, li’l Harry, it looks as if the Muggles are coming roun’ to see what’s happened. The folk in the village proper must ‘ave smelled the smoke. We’ll jest take care o’ this firs’....” Severus’ eyes went wide as Hagrid aimed his umbrella at the sky over the house and cried in a booming voice, “Deletrius!” The Dark Mark dissipated and the sky over the house had only a dark cloud of smoke from the flames that still burned within its walls. Hagrid leaned over the sleeping child, saying, “Now, I’d appreciate it if you didn’ mention that to no one, Harry. Righ’? Righ’,” he said again, nodding. “Far as we’re concerned, that didn’ happen....”

As the fire company came over the hill, Hagrid crept out of the cottage’s front garden and into the trees; Severus crouched down behind a shrub so that Hagrid wouldn’t see him. Then Hagrid made him think of Hogwarts, where he knew he’d be safe....after he’d tracked down Sirius Black, the traitor who had sold Lily to the Dark Lord. Barty Crouch’s words rang in his mind: Oh, hadn’t you heard? The Potters tried to hide using the Fidelius Charm, but it turned out their Secret Keeper was a Death Eater! How’s that for luck?

He could hardly see for his rage. Black hadn’t even bothered to keep silent about the fact that he was the Secret Keeper; everyone knew, it seemed. And Severus had no reason to believe that Barty had been lying about Black. If he said Sirius Black was a Death Eater, then Sirius Black was a Death Eater. After all, Barty had had no reason to believe that Severus was anything but a loyal servant of the Dark Lord himself--he’d seemed genuinely surprised that Severus had tried to warn Lily....

The truck with the screaming siren pulled up outside the house and Severus raised his wand, Disapparating with a soft pop! that was not noticed by Hagrid, now hiding in the trees with Harry. Nor was it noticed by the Muggles who were members of the Godric’s Hollow volunteer fire company. He never saw them put out the fire and remove the bodies of Lily and James Potter, and the Muggles never knew that there should have been a third person present, a fifteen-month old baby who was now an orphan.

Hagrid watched the Muggles work from the shelter of the trees, feeling the comforting warmth of the sleeping baby in his arms. He couldn’t help crying again as he watched Lily and James’ bodies being taken away. It didn’t take the Muggles long to complete their job, putting out the fire--which was already dwindling--and taking away the bodies. They prepared to leave again, shaking their heads, and Hagrid heard a few snippets of what the men and women were saying:

“Oil lamp, looks like. Knocked over. That’s what started it,” said a large authoritative woman with hair the color of steel.

“Shame. This old place had been empty for years, and then I even forgot it existed, but for some reason I remembered again tonight. Don’t know why. But I didn’t know anyone was actually living here again. Old Ed noticed it first....Never bothered to put in electricity, I reckon....shame....” said the old man with her, who seemed to be her husband.

“But what did she die of? Damn strange. Him, it’s obvious, burnt like that. God, what an awful way to go. But what did her in?” said a younger man with a dark beard. He appeared to be carrying the pieces of the oil lamp to which the woman had referred.

“Dunno. There’ll have to be an autopsy,” the woman replied before climbing into the van.

“And the roof blown off like that. Damn queer.”

“Shame, such a shame....” the old man muttered, following her.

Hagrid watched the Muggles drive off; the house smelt of both damp and smoke now, which was making his nose tickle. He wished he knew how long he would have to wait before Dumbledore contacted him with further instructions. Then he heard another noise, and it was a familiar and welcome noise, one he had heard not too long ago. It was a motorcycle, and Hagrid knew that Sirius Black was on his way. The thought made him smile and whisper to Harry, “Yer godfather’s comin’, Harry. Prob’ly tha’s what Dumbledore’ll be tellin’ me ter do, give ye to yer godfather. So we can settle down, all three o’ us, and wait tergether.” The thought was cheering; he was growing lonely and fearful, his imagination running away with him the longer he waited. He remembered the image over the house, the dreadful Mark which was the calling card of the Dark Lord and his servants....

At last, the motorcycle noise grew very loud and Hagrid heard it touch down. A voice said, Finite Incantatem, and suddenly Sirius Black appeared before him on his motorcycle, looking around, appearing mystified to find no one present and a damp, smoldering ruin of a house.

Hagrid stepped out of the trees carrying Harry and speaking in a loud whisper. “Sirius! Righ’ here! Dumbledore sen’ me on to make sure Harry was all right’. I’m ter wait fer further instructions from ‘im. Are you the instructions? Since yer Harry’s godfather, I assume he’s goin’ with you....”

“Er, no. I haven’t spoken to Dumbledore,” Sirius said uncertainly, climbing off the bike. “Can--can I see Harry?” he choked out. He approached Hagrid and the enormous man leaned forward and placed the sleeping child in Sirius’ arms. Sirius couldn’t help the tears that rolled down his face, nor the sobs that escaped from him as he gazed down at Harry’s peaceful visage, forever altered by the lightening-bolt-wound.

“Pull yerself tergether, man!” Hagrid boomed, patting Sirius on the back so hard he almost went right over, baby and all. But Hagrid was hardly ‘tergether’ himself; he’d begun crying anew, spurred on by Sirius’ example.

“But--but Hagrid--” Sirius sobbed, gazing at Harry, “you don’t understand. It’s--it’s all my fault--” He thought of the way Peter had looked when he agreed to be the Secret Keeper. He’d seemed resigned, and yet--was that just Peter masking his true feelings of elation? Had he been planning all along to make Sirius turn around and suggest that Peter be Secret Keeper? Or had it all been perfectly innocent, had Peter had every intention of protecting Lily and James? Had someone figured out that Peter was the Secret Keeper? Had he been tortured into telling? Sirius wouldn’t know until he tracked him down. There was no way to know until then. It should have been me, Sirius thought, anguished. Peter wasn’t strong enough. I wouldn’t have told. I’d have died rather than tell....

“There, there,” Hagrid said, pounding Sirius on the back again quite painfully as Sirius continued to cry over Harry. Sirius didn’t know how much more comforting he could take from Hagrid before he needed to check into St. Mungo’s to have most of his bones repaired. Sniffing loudly, he handed Harry back to Hagrid very carefully, so the baby wouldn’t be disturbed.

“Listen, Hagrid, there’s something I need to do. I can’t wait with you for instructions. Before the trail grows cold--” If Peter was even still alive, Sirius thought with chagrin. He might have been killed as soon as he gave up the secret. I hope he was killed, Sirius thought bitterly for a moment, before shaking himself. No, no, not everyone can take torture....he may have tried very hard not to tell.... He kept going back and forth on this; he’d never suffered torture himself. He could tell himself repeatedly that he wouldn’t have crumbled, but he’d never actually been tested. I should have been the Secret Keeper, he thought for the millionth time. If anyone was going to be tortured unto death, it should have been me....

“Trail? What trail? But you’ll be needin’ ter know where ter go ter get Harry! Wait just a bit. ‘S’almost after midnight. I’m sure Perfessor Dumbledore’ll be sendin’ instructions soon...” Sirius nodded and sat down to wait with Hagrid. What he didn’t know was that, across the field, hidden by the spinney, Peter saw them retreat back into the trees and sat down to wait, too.

Peter was waiting for the time when he would lead Sirius on his merry chase.

* * * * *

Sunday, 1 November, 1981

An old man in a grey traveling cloak entered the dingy wizarding pub just after midnight. The establishment was still doing a brisk business from Halloween revellers. A long white beard hung down the old man’s front and his face was lost in the shadows of his hood. He stepped up to the bar, ordering a Firewhiskey. While he waited, he spoke to the wizard next to him without actually looking at him.

“Buy ye a drink? Ter celebrate.”

The wizard had been flirting with a handsome dark-haired witch of about forty, and he was startled at being addressed by this stranger.

“Eh? And what would we be celebrating? I like Halloween as well as the next wizard, but--”

“Not ter celebrate Halloween. Ter celebrate the Dark Lord’s fall.”

“The what?” the man practically squeaked.

“Last nigh’ You-Know-Who went ter Godric’s Hollow ter try’n’ kill the Potters. You know--James Potter played fer the Montrose Magpies, and fer England as well. And ‘is wife Lily was an Auror. Well, You-Know-Who did indeed kill James and Lily, but when it came time ter kill their little ‘Arry--’e couldn’. Somethin’ prevented’im. Lost’is power, ‘e did. Now ‘e’s gone, and we all ‘ave ‘Arry Potter to thank fer it, wee babe though ‘e is...”

The wizard had turned around and was facing the old man now, staring so hard it seemed his eyes would pop out of his head. “What do you mean he couldn’t kill Harry Potter?”

“’E tried ter put the Killin’ Curse on ‘im. And that’s what did’im in.”

“Well, of course that did him in! It’s the Killing Curse, after all!” the man said in frustration.

“No, it didn’t do ‘Arry in! It did in You-Know-Who.”

“But you said he was the one who did the curse,” the man persisted, still not getting it.

Inside his enveloping cloak, Albus Dumbledore sighed. This was going to be more difficult than he thought....

But just then, the witch spoke up. “Are you saying that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone?” she cried. Suddenly, the pub was utterly quiet. “And--who did it again?” she asked.

“Harry Potter,” Dumbledore said clearly into the silence, not bothering with the accent this time. The crowd began making noise again, a rumble of murmurs rippling through the Halloween revellers.

“You-Know-Who is GONE?

“Harry Potter? Wasn’t there a James Potter who played Quidditch for England?”

“He survived the KILLING CURSE? No one’s ever done that before!”

“Harry Potter...”

“Harry Potter...”

“Harry Potter...”

Dumbledore smiled and nodded, slipping out the back door of the pub unobtrusively after putting two Galleons on the bar, far more than he owed for his Firewhiskey, which had remained largely untouched. He had made a start. He should write to Hagrid with his instructions before much more time passed, although he needed to make certain that Hagrid did not get to Surrey too quickly. There were other stops to make before he could go to Surrey himself. A groundswell had to be created, followed up by some hard news. He knew just the reporter to write the story, too. The more outlandish and unsubstantiated she thought it was, the better she would like it. It was a very delicate thing, gossip, and required careful planting and nurturing, more careful than the most finicky of Professor Sprout’s plants....

Dear Hagrid,

I am sorry to take so long to give you your instructions. On Tuesday evening at eleven-thirty I will meet you with Harry at number four, Privet Drive, in Little Whinging, Surrey. Until then I know that you will take good care of him. Do what is necessary--I trust that you have your umbrella with you. The city of Cardiff is also a good place to acquire various articles that you will find useful in caring for him.

I will need time to make some necessary preparations. I know I can count on you to carry out this task, but do not hesitate to contact me if you should encounter any trouble. This is of utmost importance, Hagrid. Keep your umbrella handy and your wits about you. This parchment is charmed so that only you can read it, but you should memorize the address in Surrey and burn this as soon as you have committed it to memory.

I remain your humble friend,

Albus Dumbledore

He quietly approached Old Tom, the barkeep, and asked whether he could use one of the pub owls to send a letter. They were usually for the use of patrons staying in the upstairs rooms, but Dumbledore put seven sickles down on the bar and winked at Tom, and Tom nodded, taking the parchment and disappearing into a back room. Dumbledore knew he would take care of it.

He retreated to his corner table again, licking the tip of his quill and staring into space, thinking. This letter was the more delicate, difficult letter. It required a great deal of finesse.

Finally, he put his quill to the parchment and began:

My dear Mrs. Dursley, he wrote, It is my sad duty to inform you of the deaths of your sister and her husband....

* * * * *

“Well, there ye have it,” Hagrid said, rolling up the parchment and then tossing it into the fire he’d kindled in a clearing from which he’d carefully removed twigs and dried leaves.

“There you have what, Hagrid?” Sirius wanted to know, crouching before the fire, idly poking the wood with a stick. He felt like a coiled spring, ready to strike, but he had no target, no goal, and a hollow feeling in his stomach was making him edgy and discontented. He wanted to be doing something, instead of babysitting Hagrid and Harry.

“I’m ter take’im ter number four, Privet Drive in a village called Little Whinging, in Surrey. Don’ know why--”

Sirius’ brow furrowed. “I think I remember Lily saying her sister lived in Surrey. They weren’t exactly close though....”

“Still,” Hagrid said confidently. “She’s his auntie. How could she not take’im in?”

Sirius thought of Petunia's sour face and shuddered; how could he consign Harry to that woman? He'd never seriously thought about what it would mean, to be Harry's godfather, yet Hagrid's first instinct had been that Dumbledore must have sent Sirius to take care of Harry. It was what a godfather was supposed to do. How could he let revenge consume him to the point where he neglected his duty to Harry?

“Hagrid, I'm his godfather. I'll look after him--” He swallowed; he didn't know the first thing about taking care of a baby, but maybe Cecilia--

Cecilia! He'd completely forgotten about her! She probably would never want to get within a mile of him again after the way he ran off. And she'd very likely be rather miffed if she got the impression that he was relying on her to help with Harry....

But Hagrid wasn't taking his offer seriously. “No,” he said reluctantly, shaking his head. “That letter said 'e's to go to his aunt an' uncle's.”

Sirius felt it was his duty to argue. “But Hagrid--” He knew he probably sounded rather half-hearted about it.

“No,” Hagrid said, louder still. “Dumbledore said, and that is that.”

Sirius nodded reluctantly; he thought again of Lily’s sister, and didn’t think she’d think much of the plan. But to a certain extent he could see why Dumbledore was doing this. She couldn't very well turn a baby away, her own nephew, and she was very unlikely to think of Sirius Black as a suitable person to raise--anyone. And if he was free to go after Peter, he could make sure he was brought to justice. If the Ministry didn't punish Peter properly--Sirius would do it himself. “How are you going to get him there?” he asked Hagrid, resigned.

“Oh, er, em,” Hagrid said nervously. “I hadn’ though o’ that. I have a couple o’days, though. Dumbledore says ‘e’s seein’ ter some other thin’s firs’.”

“Why don’t you take my bike?” Sirius said, waving at where it was parked at the edge of the clearing. “I won’t be needing it.” The bike would be cumbersome while tracking Peter; he would do better to change into his dog form and just follow a scent, and without the bike he could Apparate whenever he liked without leaving his beloved motorcycle in the middle of nowhere.

“Are ye sure?” Hagrid said, looking at it admiringly. “But--ain’t it a bit small fer me?”

Sirius regarded Hagrid and his motorcycle thoughtfully. “You’ve got a point. But I don’t think an engorgement charm or two would affect the works at all. Should function just fine--it’d just be bigger. Hang on.”

He strode toward the motorcycle and pulled out his wand. “Engorgio!” he cried, pointing at the bike. It seemed to glow and vibrate, then it seemed to be stretching itself all over, until finally it was still again, considerably larger than before. But when Hagrid handed him Harry and stood next to it, it still appeared to be a toy beside him. Sirius handed Harry back and tried adding two more engorgement charms. They finally had something that looked like a good fit; Hagrid sat astride the seat, bouncing up and down a little while Sirius stood by, holding Harry in his arms, rocking him gently while Harry made small contented sounds in his sleep.

Sirius instructed him on how to operate the motorcycle, how to go up and down, faster and slower. “And don’t forget--you’ll be needing to make a lot of stops to change Harry’s nappy and feed him and also just to let him run about and stretch his legs. He’s been walking for months, you know,” Sirius added with a catch in his voice, trying not to start crying again.

“I’ll go when it’s abou’ two hours b’fore dawn,” Hagrid said. “Let ‘im sleep ‘til then. I know a place I can take’im, we can spend the day there. We’ll get goin’ again after dark.” Sirius nodded and reached out to shake Hagrid’s hand, but as he did so, Hagrid said, “You runnin’ off now?”

“I really have to, Hagrid. I can’t wait any longer. I know where Harry will be. I can come get him there when I’m free to do that....”

“Well, if Dumbledore says ye can,” Hagrid cautioned him.

“Of course, of course,” Sirius said quickly.

Hagrid nodded. “All righ’, then. Good luck an’ all.”

Sirius nodded. “Yes. To you, too.” He Apparated out of the clearing, but he didn’t go far, arriving on the far side of the singed cottage, so Hagrid could no longer see him; he immediately changed into his dog form and began sniffing around, not expecting much, but--

There it was.

Peter’s scent. Sirius stopped and thought about it for a long moment. Yes, no doubt about it, it was Peter. Hatred welled up inside him; had Peter been here this night? Had he given up Lily and James to save himself, and then come to inspect the damage? Sirius ran along toward the spinney, his nose to the ground, all thoughts of Cecilia having long ago fled his brain.

Hiding in the trees, Peter was suddenly alert, seeing the large black dog heading straight toward him. He changed into his rat form and began pelting through the trees, frequently changing directions, his tiny heart hammering in his chest. He was dreading the moment they would have a real confrontation, although he knew it was inevitable. In fact, he planned for them to have a confrontation, and a dreadful one.

The hunt was on.

* * * * *

Maggie Dougherty awoke with a gasp, sitting up in bed. Valerie was perched on the footboard of her bed, waiting for her to awake, the morning sun shining through her translucent body. Maggie wasn’t at all surprised to see the little girl’s ghost.

“S-something has happened, Valerie,” Maggie said softly. “And I have a strange feeling it has something to do with me....”

Valerie came to sit next to her on the mattress, making Maggie shiver with cold, although she did not ask her to retreat. She was smiling broadly. “Something did happen,” she told Maggie, “something wonderful. I’ve been speaking to other ghosts all night....”

Maggie frowned. “You have? But I thought you usually stayed in our house.”

“Not on Halloween,” Valerie said sensibly, as though Maggie ought to have known this. “That is when spirits walk abroad. I was all over the country last night.”

“Oh,” Maggie said simply. Of course, she should have realized. “I had the strangest dream last night...” she said haltingly. “I saw a man with long dark hair and a large nose holding a woman with long red hair. He was crying over her; I think she was dead. Did you meet any ghosts like that?” Valerie shook her head, although she also seemed to be preventing herself from saying anything at all about Maggie’s dream. “But that wasn’t all. After the man crying over the red-haired woman disappeared, the dream changed. It wasn’t one of those dreams anymore where I’m watching other people do things, like on the telly; I was in it too, but I was swimming in some very cold water, with clothes on, and the same man was there again. He was up on the deck of a ship, trying to get me out of the water, telling me everything would be all right....”

She looked at Valerie. “What do you think it means?” Maggie was in the habit of having dreams about others and finding those dreams coming true; she wasn’t often in her own dreams and when she was, she could never work out what they meant. Valerie retreated to the footboard again.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “It could mean anything.”

Maggie frowned at her; Valerie seemed to be hiding something--but what?

Suddenly, a swift-moving shadow flitted past her window. Something made Maggie spring to her feet and run to the glass, pressing her face against it. She watched the bird fly away toward the school; it was an owl! And it was flying about in the daylight!

“How curious!” she whispered.

She went to the calendar that was tacked up over her desk and flipped up the page so that the month of November was showing now. She stared at the first square. All Saint’s Day it said. She stared and stared at it, remembering that she’d had a strange feeling about this day the year before, and the year before that. There was something about this day....

But a moment later, her mother called to her to make sure she was dressing for church, and all thoughts of what the day meant were gone from her mind as she checked whether her favorite tights had a hole in the toe and whether her blue cardigan had all its buttons.

If she hadn’t had her memories of her early life taken from her, her life as Peggy Weasley, she might have remembered that this day was her ninth birthday.

* * * * *

Severus Snape paced the floor of Minerva McGonagall’s office, waiting for her to return. He’d tried to accost her as she entered the Great Hall for breakfast, but she had recoiled, frowning at him, telling him to wait for her in her office. With a wave of her wand she had declared that some food would be waiting for him if he hadn’t yet broken his fast. Then she had turned from him abruptly and entered the Hall, taking her usual place at the head table, next to Dumbledore’s empty chair.

He climbed the stairs to her office slowly, wondering where Dumbledore was. It seemed that McGonagall didn’t want both the headmaster and deputy headmistress to be missing from the Great Hall for a meal. When he arrived in her office he did indeed find a pot of tea and a tray of food waiting for him, but he had no appetite and let the tea, bangers and mash grow cold and the chilled fruit grow warm without touching any of it.

When Professor McGonagall finally entered the room, she surveyed him with a distasteful glare; he’d never been one of her favorite students, and while she knew Albus had been somewhat indulgent toward him, because of his medical difficulties, when he had retaliated against other students who had teased him she had been stern and unbending with him. In her book, there was no excuse for hexing another student in the corridors. That was explicitly against the rules, regardless of whether one was goaded into acting. That was what prefects were for, not to mention professors. Students weren’t to take matters into their own hands.

She’d lectured him more than once about it, telling him that if everyone did as he had done, the school would collapse in absolute chaos. She’d never found him to be the least bit contrite, but he had also accepted his detentions without verbal protest. His protest was always in the tightness of his jaw when scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing, or when writing line after line saying, “I must not hex other students in the corridors.” But unlike some students, he never complained to his uncle, and his uncle had never come to the castle ranting about his nephew having suffered a miscarriage of injustice. And yet--every moment that he bore his punishment, it was clear that the boy had thought he was the one being wronged, although he bore it all in silence. He was an odd one, Severus Snape.

Severus saw the expression in McGonagall’s eyes as she entered the room, the one which said, I thought I was rid of him. No, he didn’t expect to be welcomed back to Hogwarts by Professor McGonagall. But, unfortunately, Professor Dumbledore was not present.

“What brings you here this morning, Severus?” she asked briskly, folding her hands together atop her desk. He could see her eyeing the full tray of food out of the corner of her eye, and it seemed that it was an effort for her not to comment on this.

“I wanted to see Professor Dumbledore. It is a most urgent matter....”

She nodded. “I see. Well, the headmaster is not here presently. He left me a note last night, when he left the castle,” she sniffed, clearly put out that he had not woken her to speak face-to-face about why he’d been called away. “You will have to settle for me.”

“Yes. Well,” he started to say, uncertain as to whether Dumbledore had confided in her. Did she know of his role as a spy? Did she know about the Fidelius Charm and Sirius Black? Black had been in her own house, and although he’d actually tried to kill Severus, for which he was certain Black should have been expelled, McGonagall had always favored Black (and Potter) in her Transfiguration lessons, and Severus had usually received only adequate marks. Her high praise had always been reserved for Black and Potter, and he was surprised to realize that this still stung.

“I--I believe that soon I will be in grave danger,” he said quickly, before he lost his nerve.

She observed him from beneath half-closed eyelids, skeptically. “And why is that?”

His lips were drawn very thin; he had to do it. He had to reveal it to her.... “Because of this--” He pulled back his left sleeve and revealed the skin there, but to his surprise, the Mark was almost translucent; it was as though a stamp in the shape of the Dark Mark had been pressed to his skin and was now fading over time.

“Because of your arm? Come now, what is this about, Mr. Snape?”

Somehow, the Mark fading from view was heartening; it gave him courage to go on. “What I had thought to show you seems to have faded, Professor. You see, I bore the Dark Mark--”

She hissed through her teeth and backed up in her chair. He put his hands up in supplication.

“Please listen to me! I have already told all of this to Professor Dumbledore. He knows that--that I was recruited to be a Death Eater in my seventh year here at Hogwarts, and when I told him I couldn’t go on, that I could no longer pretend to be a loyal servant of the Dark Lord--I became Professor Dumbledore’s spy....”

She leaned forward now, observing the tortured young man before her. “You--what? You spied on You-Know-Who?”

He nodded. “I found out that James and Lily Potter and their son were being targeted by the Dark Lord. Professor Dumbledore instructed them in the use of the Fidelius Charm, but--but they were betrayed. They’re dead. Except for the baby....”

She stood and paced as Severus had done. “How do you know this?” Severus drew his mouth into a line and would not answer, just looked at the floor. She did not wait for an answer. “That’s why Hagrid is gone....” she whispered under her breath, not realizing Severus could hear her. She looked up at him suddenly. “Why did you come here?”

“I--I may need to take shelter here. There is another Death Eater who knows that I was not loyal to the Dark Lord. There is probably a price on my head now. I didn’t know where else to go....”

She surveyed him skeptically again. “Well--until Professor Dumbledore can confirm your story about being a spy, I’m afraid I cannot just allow you the run of the castle. You will understand, I hope, why I need to lock you in here?” She held out her hand and he reluctantly took out his wand and handed it to her.

“Yes, Professor. I understand,” he choked out, his face hot with shame. I should never have let Malfoy browbeat me into being a Death Eater.

She nodded in a business-like way and waved her own wand at the tray again, which was now supplied with sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice. “However, there is no reason for you to starve. Perhaps this selection will be more to your liking? I’m afraid I don’t know how long I will be; I will need to ascertain that your story is true, and I must also find and speak to Professor Dumbledore.” She waved her wand again, producing out of thin air a camp bed with a chamber pot under it. “I will tell Mr. Filch that you are waiting here for me and not to disturb you. I will also be contact a personal friend of the headmaster’s who happens to be an Auror, to stand guard in the corridor. If you are innocent, you of course have no cause to worry...”

An Auror! “But--” he stammered. How was he going to go after Sirius Black if he was cooped up in McGonagall’s office and being guarded by an Auror?

“What, Mr. Snape?” she said, daggers in her eyes. He sagged and pursed his lips.

“Nothing, Professor,” he said quietly. “This will be quite adequate until you return. I can guarantee that you will find that what I have told you is true.”

She nodded at him before closing the door, although she still looked unconvinced. It was only after she was in the corridor again that his words had their true impact on him. James and Lily were dead! She felt tears fill her eyes; poor young things! And now their little boy was an orphan....

Angrily wiping the corners of her eyes, she strode down the corridor to the headmaster’s office, where she intended to write a letter to Alastor Moody, summoning him to the castle to guard Snape. She was fairly certain that he would jump at the chance--she doubted, for instance, that he would put much stock in the rumors about James and Lily until he had solid proof before him. He would consider guarding a possible Death Eater to be far more important than listening to gossip. However, she did intend to spend some time listening to some gossip herself. It wasn’t always wrong.

And then--she was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened in Godric’s Hollow.

* * * * *

Monday, 2 November, 1981

“Did you see the front page of the Evening Prophet?” Alex Wood demanded of Bill Weasley through a mouthful of roast beef. He passed the paper across the Gryffindor table to his best friend; Bill’s Head Boy badge gleamed in the candlelight as he took the paper and read the enormous front page headlines:

Potters killed by Dark Lord, but where is he now?
Harry Potter mysteriously survives what should have been fatal attack

“Whoa,” he said simply, glancing down. He thought of poor Lily and James, dead, and, inexplicably, his nose started to run and he had to pull out a handkerchief and blow it. “Ruddy awful,” he said thickly, at a loss for words.

“Isn’t it, though?” his brother Charlie agreed, sitting next to him, shoveling massive quantities of shepherd’s pie into his mouth. “Potter was an amazing Quidditch player--”

“Is that all you care about?” Bill said angrily, glaring at his brother.

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean--he was so young, had so many years ahead of him--and now their poor kid is an orphan, too. Bloody hell.”

Bill backed off, nodding his head, staring at the picture that was with the article; it showed a happy young family, mother, father and baby, all three of them smiling and oblivious to the fate that awaited them. Lily and James frequently turned and beamed down at their small son, and then Lily bent slightly and brushed her lips on the top of his head, which bore the same unruly dark hair that James sported.

Bill’s nose was running again, and he blew it again, feeling irritated. “It’s not fair, it isn’t.”

Charlie nodded. “It just never seems to stop. But what’s this bit about their not knowing where You-Know-Who is? Who cares where he is? The less anyone sees of him, the better, it seems to me.”

But then something in the article made Bill stop dead; he swallowed a half-chewed bite of food and stared down at the words:

That the Dark Lord went to Godric’s Hollow because of a Prophecy predicting his downfall is merely rumor at this time, but speculation abounds that his mysterious disappearance means that the Prophecy was in fact fulfilled....

A Prophecy. A bleeding Prophecy. He thought of little Peggy, whom he hadn’t seen in over two years. Peggy’s Prophecy. It was real. It had to be. He looked down at the paper, but it was merely a blur now, because of his tears. Charlie was looking at him funny, but Bill shoved the paper under his nose and pointed in the general vicinity of the word Prophecy.

Charlie’s mouth hung open in shock; this was unfortunate, as it was full of half-chewed shepherd’s pie at the moment. Some girls on the other side of the time squealed, “Eeeeew! Close your mouth, Charlie Weasley!” Charlie did, with a snap, staring back at his brother, his brown eyes wide as Bill nodded.

When he’d swallowed, Charlie whispered, “Peggy--”

“--predicted it, yeah,” Bill whispered back. “She was the real thing, Charlie. A true Seer. And if You-Know-Who hadn’t been trying to prevent his own death--”

“Right,” Charlie said softly, thinking of his little sisters. He tried not to think about them much these days, and had plenty to occupy himself, being the captain of the Quidditch team now (although his mother had been disappointed that he hadn’t been awarded a prefect’s badge). But sometimes, when he saw the first years wandering through the corridors or hanging about together in the Gryffindor common room, he’d think, Annie should be with them. She should have started school this term. It was hard, seeing the other eleven-year-olds and thinking, Annie would have wiped up the floor with them. She’d be at the top of every class, probably.

As much as he and Annie had fought, there were times when he missed her dreadfully. When they were younger, he’d particularly wanted to hear her reactions to some of their Hogwarts professors when she started school; he was certain that she would have quite a lot to say about Professor Binns, and not a little to say about Kettleburn, as well, who often got Charlie to help him handle the animals that they were studying in Care of Magical Creatures. The poor old man didn’t seem to want to touch most of them anymore and went about with bandages on all of his fingers all of the time. (There were rumors that two of his ‘fingers’ were really all-bandage.) Annie had always been able to make him laugh with her wry observations, and when he and Bill were at home with their parents and younger siblings lately, laughter seemed to be in particularly short supply (although the twins were showing signs of promise).

Bill looked at the article again, shaking his head. “What if You-Know-Who is really gone? What if it’s all--all over?”

Charlie brightened. “Dad’s job might not be so dangerous anymore. If the Ministry rounds up all of You-Know-Who’s supporters, you’ve probably got most of the people illegally putting spells on Muggle artifacts right there.”

“True,” Bill said, nodding. And maybe if one of them confesses to--to whatever he did to our sisters, we’ll at least know....We’ll at least be able to have a service or something....

He didn’t say this to Charlie. The official position in the Weasley home--although never spoken--seemed to be that someday Annie and Peggy were going to return. It was true that his mother had given their room to the twins, once they were no longer sleeping in cots in the big bedroom, with Mum and Dad. Ron and Ginny now slept in the cots, and soon his parents would have to consider adding onto the house, to create more bedrooms. There had been four, and Percy had taken the last spare one when he’d been moved out of their parents’ bedroom upon the arrival of the twins.

As Bill stared at the paper, he felt a strange sort of pride well up in him. If You-Know-Who is gone, it’s my sister who predicted it, and predicting it seemed to lead to it. That was something, at least. Her life meant something, brief as it was. For somehow, despite his parents’ assurances that someday his sisters would come home, he remained unconvinced.

You did more than most people do in a lifetime twenty times as long, Peggy, he thought, picturing her as she appeared on the last day he ever saw her. He couldn’t tell anyone about this, not even Charlie, but as he listened to the talk about the Godric’s Hollow attack whirl around him, he felt comforted by the pride he was able to take in his sister, knowing that, in her way, she had changed the world.

* * * * *

Peter ducked into the Leaky Cauldron, his hood obscuring his face. He had changed into his human form in the rear yard, knowing that Sirius wouldn’t dare enter the pub as a dog. And unlike Remus, when he was in his human form, he didn’t have the same enhanced sense of smell that he possessed as a canine. Peter did his best to disappear into the press of people around the bar, where he quickly and quietly ordered an ale and a pumpkin pasty; both came quickly and he started eating very fast.

He’d been on the run for Sirius for over forty straight hours. Several times he almost let weariness slow him down, but he wasn’t ready to give in yet. He needed Sirius to be worn down with the chase as well--he needed him to be tired and irrational. He needed him to miss small details. And he also needed enough time to contact someone at the Ministry to make sure they were on the scene quickly when he and Sirius did have their confrontation--not immediately, but soon after it was all over. Peter had carefully planned what he was going to do while he’d waited in the spinney for Sirius to begin the hunt. He’d worn Sirius down but had got him to continue the pursuit. Now all he needed to do was make sure the Ministry officials were Johnny-on-the-spot when it really mattered.

He’d come to the conclusion that simply possessing Voldemort’s wand wouldn’t necessarily protect him from the other Death Eaters. And simply turning Sirius in to the authorities on the strength of so many people being told that Sirius was the Secret Keeper wouldn’t work either if, in court, Sirius told the full story of how that was to deflect people from Peter. If Sirius was believed in court, Peter would be going to Azkaban for being a Death Eater and for being an accomplice to James and Lily’s murders (and his role in other people’s deaths might come out as well). No, Peter had come to the conclusion that he didn’t just have to get Sirius to follow him so that the Ministry could easily catch him, he had to frame Sirius for yet another crime: Peter’s murder. He had to fake his own death and then disappear. Then, even if the Ministry and the Death Eaters wanted to come after him, they’d think it was pointless. And it all had to be done where there were plenty of witnesses, in broad daylight. Only then would Peter be safe.

And I deserve to be safe, he thought. If it wasn’t for me, the Dark Lord would still be around. He tried not to think about Lily, lying on the ground, staring up lifelessly....

He heard some talk around him, talk about the Potters, and pricked up his ears.

“That’s right. I heard that Voldemort found out that little Harry Potter was going to be an even greater Dark Lord than he is, so he set out to kill him, while he was still a baby. And look what happened! Harry Potter survived the Killing Curse! No one’s ever done that!” The man shuddered and took a swig of his drink. “I’d say that someone should try to off the lad now, before he does turn into the next great Dark Lord, but who would be able to do it without being killed themselves? If You-Know-Who himself couldn’t do it?”

“Oh, come on. You’re talkin’ abou’ killin’ a innocent babe! I don’t believe You-Know-Who couldn’t kill’im because ‘e was even more evil. I think it was ‘cause Harry Potter was a greater wizard than You-Know-Who, not a greater dark wizard. I mean, look at Dumbledore. Everyone always said ‘e was the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of, and you know that isn’t ‘cause ‘e’s evil! Quite the opposite. What we could ‘ave on our ‘ands is someone ‘oo’s even greater than Dumbledore. That’d be something, eh?”

“Just think!” a third wizard declared. “Harry Potter is only person ever to have survived the Killing Curse! He’s the Boy Who Lived!”

The cry was taken up and repeated, until all around the pub, people were raising their tankards and declaring, “To Harry Potter! The Boy Who Lived!”

Suddenly, across the room, Peter saw someone familiar--a tall dark-haired witch with her hair pulled back into a severely tight bun, square-framed spectacles and an emerald-green cloak. What is McGonagall doing away from Hogwarts in the middle of term? he wondered. She seemed to be scanning the crowd with her eyes, too, over the rim of her wine glass, taking in everything with a steely glint in her eye but not joining in the boisterous toasts or trading gossip about the Potters; instead she seemed to be absorbing everything going on around her with great interest. He didn’t like the idea of her possibly recognizing him, so he sidled toward the door leading to the Muggle street, his heart speeding up painfully when she glanced in his direction as he opened the door. He closed it quickly, leaning on it, trying to get his breathing under control. He opened the door again, a crack, and saw, to his alarm, Sirius Black striding across the pub right for him, looking him in the eye.

With a squeak of alarm, Peter fled toward the tube station, not bothering to close the door of the pub again, and he heard Sirius’s pounding footsteps pursuing him, although he didn’t dare turn around. Peter paused for only a moment to change into his rat form and then continued on toward the station and then below the street, scampering past screaming Tube passengers crying out, “Rat! A rat!”

Peter ran on, leaping off the platform and scuttling along next to the tracks, into the darkness of the tunnel between stations. He looked over his shoulder before the platform was out of sight, seeing Sirius staring after him with a murderous glare. Peter knew he dared not transfigure himself or pull out his wand to do magic around so many Muggles. Peter was safe for now.

And then he realized that running into the Underground was probably the smartest thing he could do. He could run through the tunnels to Westminster station and go directly to the Ministry, not bother with trying to find an owl to send a message. First, however, he had to think of the perfect spot for his confrontation with Sirius. Once he knew that, he could tell the Ministry where to look for Sirius and when, and he could go to the Diagon Alley post office to send a note to Sirius, luring him to the spot in question. As long as Sirius came alone, and not with someone else, like Remus Lupin, Peter would be all right.

Peter’s small legs ran and ran through the London Underground.

* * * * *

Minerva McGonagall surveyed the people in the pub warily; all day, every person she had seen was saying the same thing, that the Potters had been killed and that Harry Potter had lived. How extraordinary! she thought, sipping her wine. She’d never heard of such a thing. She understood now--or thought she did--why Dumbledore had run off and left her in charge at the school without a by-your-leave. Of course, she had left her post, but the school would be fine. She had instructed one of the prefects to post a notice on her classroom door saying that Transfiguration classes would be cancelled until further notice. They’d probably think it was part of the celebration of You-Know-Who’s defeat.

Of course, some people were doing far too much celebrating in her view. Since she’d departed Hogwarts, she’d seen numerous magical folk walking about Muggle streets, greeting perfect strangers (Muggle strangers!) with waves and hearty handshakes, declaring what a wonderful day it was since You-Know-Who had gone! She had been disguised in her cat form when she had seen these things and had had a fierce urge to scratch the legs of the half-wits who were being so public about their glee.

She just wished she knew where Dumbledore was, and whether little Harry was going to be safe. Just as she wondered how to find out (from experience, she knew that Dumbledore surely would not tell her if he didn’t want her to know), she thought of Hagrid, and knew that he would tell her, if he knew. Hagrid was rubbish at keeping secrets. She often wished Dumbledore could see that, but this time she was glad of it, as it would serve her purposes.

A small man in a hooded cloak darted quickly across the room and left through the door to the Muggle street; he glanced back into the pub for a moment and Minerva frowned; there was something familiar about those small, beady eyes....

She shrugged and rose to leave, just as a dark-haired wizard was pushing his way through the crowd and heading toward the door. At a quick glance, he looked familiar too, but she had already waved her wand and was gone from the pub with a soft pop!

She arrived in the Diagon Alley post office a moment later, taking out a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbling a very brief note: Where may I find Professor Dumbledore? She signed it and tied it to the owl’s leg and paid for the owl to both deliver it and wait for a reply. Surely Hagrid would know. She intended to get to the bottom of this.

In the meantime, however, she Disapparated from the post office and set out for yet another wizarding pub she knew of. Although some people were being extremely imprudent about what they were saying around Muggles, she was actually starting to catch a little of the excitement of the wizarding world in celebration mode, and she was finding it quite fascinating to listen to the rumors on the way and try to put together a plausible sequence of events from what she was hearing. She sincerely hoped, however, that some of the rumors were wrong and James and Lily were all right. When she thought of her former Head Boy and Girl being dead, she had to dab at her eyes and blow her nose.

Still, everywhere she went, the rumors persisted, about the Potters being killed, Voldemort being gone, and it being Harry Potter who vanquished him....

* * * * *

Tuesday, November 3, 1981

Minerva McGonagall arrived on Privet Drive with a soft pop! She looked around at the identical houses, the nearly identical cars (as far as she could tell), and the neatly bordered lawns, shuddering slightly. She’d been bouncing from one place to another all night, going from one celebration to the next. Everywhere she went, the rumors were the same: Last night, You-Know-Who went to Godric’s Hollow and--

She pursed her lips, taking a map out of her pocket and glancing down at it, then up at the neat suburban street, wondering why Hagrid had written back telling her that Dumbledore would be here. Unfortunately, she had neglected to ask Hagrid when Dumbledore was going to be in a particular place and so, of course, Hagrid did not give a time in his reply. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten and Minerva put the map down on a nearby brick wall; she then closed her eyes, feeling the transformation move through her quickly as she changed into a sleek tabby cat with markings around the eyes that bore a decided resemblance to her square-rimmed spectacles. She sniffed the air, not detecting Dumbledore’s scent--or much of anything in the way of scents, for that matter, other than a clean sort of antiseptic Muggle odor. She wrinkled her small pink nose distastefully and leapt up on the brick wall to wait, giving a small feline sigh. There was no telling when Dumbledore would show up--he seemed to operate on a different schedule from all other people in the world. She would just have to wait.

The sky was dull and grey this morning, which was nothing unusual for November. Minerva began to see lights going on in the Muggle houses, although the glow of the street lamps was starting to fade as the blank, cloud-filled sky grew lighter still. She heard a baby’s scream emanate from number four and ducked her head instinctively, putting one of her paws over her ears to block the noise. The screaming continued, shrill and sharp. She sighed again, hoping Dumbledore would arrive soon. She was already bored; the most interesting thing that had happened was that another cat--a large grey tom--had tried to pass her, and she had arched her back and hissed at him so fiercely that he glared at her only a moment with alarmed yellow eyes before fleeing Privet Drive in a grey streak. She settled down again to wait after that, sighing a little.

It wasn’t that she minded Muggles in general, and in fact, she quite enjoyed observing them at times. She especially liked visiting Muggle-born witches and wizards to introduce them to the wizarding world for the first time.

A milkman drove around the corner, the glass bottles in his little vehicle rattling noisily before he parked and began toting the milk deliveries to the houses of Privet Drive. Minerva was closest to number one, and when the milkman walked toward that house, milk and eggs in hand, he stopped to remark to her, “Here, now, Kitty, be good and don’t knock over any of these here bottles and I’ll have a nice treat for you before I go.”

She looked up at him impassively, unblinking, but he didn’t notice anything unusual about her and had moved on to the front door, setting the delivery down and then going back to fetch another delivery, whistling cheerfully.

When he’d completed his work on Privet Drive, he returned to Minerva and placed before her a small cup with a delectable scent coming from it. yogurt.

“Here you go, Kitty. There’s a good boy. You’ll leave those nice milk bottles alone now, wontcha?” He scratched her behind the ears and she purred at him for a moment before remembering herself, thinking that it was a bit unseemly. She did step forward, however, and tentatively licked the edge of the yogurt cup, the tangy creaminess making her cat-senses sing.

The milkman had already driven off as she whole-heartedly thrust her face into the cup, eagerly licking up every bit of yogurt. What a nice man, she thought as she ate. Some Muggles are really all right.

It wasn’t that she actively disliked Muggles or looked down on them, but she did see them as a threat to the wizarding world and thought it best to avoid contact with them whenever possible. It wasn’t a violent hatred of Muggles, as she knew some witches and wizards harbored. It was simply prudence, self-preservation. She detested Muggle-baiting or any suggestion that Muggle-born witches and wizards weren’t as ‘good’ as other magical people. Why, she thought as she ate, look at Lily, one of the smartest and most talented witches who ever--

She stopped eating and looked up at the houses around her, remembering why she’d come to this place. Please let it not be true, she thought desperately. Please let them be all right...

When she had licked the last drop of yogurt from the cup, she set about the task of washing her face. Suddenly, the door of number one opened; a woman in a smart navy suit bent over to take in the milk delivery while a man with a briefcase walked past her, saying, “I’ll start the car. Make sure you leave that note for Mrs. Thompson--I don’t think our Hoover has been on speaking terms with the floor under our bed for at least a fortnight. You could make eight small kittens from the dust under there. What are we paying her for, anyway?”

Minerva had settled herself fully on top of the map while the man was speaking to his wife, so he wouldn’t see it. He did, however, see her, and the yogurt cup.

“Well, well, well!” he said when he was approaching her. “Speaking of kittens, look who we have here! You look happy enough,” he said to her, stooping to pick up the cup. “We have a clever milkman, we do. I reckon this is why our bottles weren’t knocked over this morning, eh? Is it you who’s been doing that?”

Minerva gave him her best indignant cat look. It most certainly has not been me, she thought, glaring balefully at him.

He stepped around the side of the house and placed the yogurt cup in a dust bin, then went to his car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Soon, the motor was purring along, making Minerva wrinkle up her nose again, from the fumes. Finally, the woman emerged from number one, also carrying a briefcase, as well as a peculiar-looking tankard of some sort; the smell of coffee wafted toward Minerva and this scent she breathed in approvingly. She rather liked Muggle coffee and usually found it preferable to wizarding coffee. Wizards did tea well, she thought, some somehow they’d never quite got the hang of coffee, in her opinion.

The car pulled out of the driveway and moved off toward the village, joined by other cars at the cross-street. Well, that was something. They’d probably be gone most of the day, and hopefully Dumbledore would show up before they returned so they wouldn’t find her still lurking about.

The screaming from number four had begun anew, making her wince and simultaneously think, Spoiled brat.

Then she thought her heart would leap into her throat as a large tawny owl flew down the street at eye-level (for humans, not cats). What in Merlin’s name? she thought. People needed to be more careful; owl post usually arrived at Hogwarts during breakfast so that the owls could spend most of their flying time in the dark. It wasn’t forbidden to send owls during daylight hours, but most people had the good sense to wait until after dark, especially when the owl was going to an area where a lot of Muggles lived.

She moved off the map and stared down at it again. Had she come to the right place? she wondered. Surely Dumbledore couldn’t have any business here, or he’d have shown up by now?

The door of number four opened at length, and a beefy, neckless man with a rather large mustache emerged, carrying a briefcase very similar to the ones the couple from number one had carried. The screaming seemed to double in volume when the door opened, and Minerva winced again. She’d almost grown accustomed to the sound when it had been muffled within the walls of the house.

The man started his car and began to back out of the drive. Minerva returned to consulting the map. Perhaps she was supposed to be one block over....

Some instinct made her look up suddenly and she found the man from number four staring at her through his car window. She froze, but when he looked away for a split second, she quickly sat on the map, so that it was no longer visible. The man quickly looked back and Minerva met his gaze again, unflinching. He looked very disturbed.

As he drove away, she looked up at the sign at the end of the walk leading to number one; sure enough, it read Privet Drive. She was in the right place. If it had occured to her that the man could be watching her in his car mirror, she might have waited to check the street sign, but she wasn’t accustomed to thinking about things like this.

She watched the other residents of Privet Drive leave their houses for the day. Men and women climbed into their cars and drove off to their jobs. Children left their houses wearing rucksacks, walking toward the village center, presumably to school. An elderly woman emerged from number five with three corgis on leads. Minerva stiffened as they drew nearer. The dogs all started straining at their leads, pulling their mistress along, rather against her will, but as soon as they were within a stone’s throw of Minerva, she arched her back menacingly and hissed, glaring into the dogs’ eyes. All three corgis looked very alarmed and started yelping excitedly, pulling the old woman past her as fast as they could. She watched them go with a smug satisfaction.

At length, a bony blonde woman emerged from number four, bumping a pram down the one step. In the pram was the source of the screaming Minerva had heard earlier. The baby was very round and his mouth was open and screaming once more.

“Calm down, my love, we’re going to the park so you can play with your little friends and Mummy can see her friends,” the blonde woman warbled to the screaming toddler.

Minerva sniffed disdainfully. Just who is in charge here? she wondered.

But even more disturbing than the interaction between the woman and her son was the fact that more and more owls were passing overhead, far too many for Minerva’s comfort.

When mother and child were returning to number four, the toddler was walking beside his mother while she pushed the empty pram; with every step the overlarge, pudgy toddler kicked his mother in the shin, screaming, “Want sweets! Want sweets!”

Minerva had a strong urge to give the child a good scratch, but they had returned from the far end of the street and did not pass by number one before reaching number four. Minerva winced--she was doing a lot of wincing this morning, because of the residents of number four--as the mother attempted to placate the brat.

“Now, now, Diddy darling--ouch! Mumsy doesn’t have any sweets with her--ow! But as soon as we’re inside, my dumpling can have--oof!--all the sweets he wants--ouch! Please calm down--”

“Shan’t!” he cried. “Shan’t! Shan’t! Shan’t!”

She beamed at him. “Oh! You’ve learnt a new word! That’s my clever boy--ouch!”

The child kicked her one more time before she was able to struggle inside with the pram. After the door was again closed, Minerva shook her head, disgusted. It was certainily no mystery as to why the child was so large if he was getting all of the sweets he demanded at such a young age (although Minerva couldn’t begin to hazard a guess as to what that age was--it could be anywhere from one to three).

The street was relatively quiet during the balance of the afternoon (perhaps the brat was napping). Then, all at once, the residents of Privet Drive began returning to their homes. The man from number four returned before the couple from number one. Minerva had grown weary of sitting on the wall near number one for so long; she’d hidden the map under some shrubbery and had moved to sit on the garden wall outside number four so that she could hear the blonde woman and her spoiled son; she had a sort of morbid fascination with them, they were so dreadful.

However, this meant that the man who had seen her looking at the map that morning noticed her as soon as he pulled into the driveway of number four. He seemed distinctly unsettled by seeing her again; she had no way of knowing that he’d been accosted by wizards in the village when he’d gone to buy his lunch, or that he even knew wizards existed. She did think he looked remarkably suspicious for a typical Muggle (the sort who never noticed anything). When he was on his way to the front door of the house, he frowned and cried, “Shoo!” at her. Minerva gave him a stern look.

As it grew later, Minerva drew closer to the front window; she was momentarily startled when it was suddenly thrown open, directly over her head.

“Rather hot for November,” Minerva heard the blonde woman say.

“Quiet, please, Petunia. I can’t hear the news....”

But Minerva could, her alert cat ears swiveling around to take in all of it, now that the window was open. And she didn’t like what she was hearing one little bit.

“Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern,” came an unctuous voice from the living room of number four. Minerva closed her eyes; some people had no sense, no sense at all. And then a different man’s voice began talking about the weather, saying that “a downpour of shooting stars” had been reported in Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee. Kent, she thought. Probably that Dedalus Diggle. Minerva would have tutted if she could have; she understood that people wanted to celebrate, but this was getting completely out of hand. And the idiot Muggle evidently didn’t even know when the Muggle holiday of Bonfire Night was going to occur--he was claiming it was ‘next week’ when even Minerva knew it would be on Thursday.

She walked to the end of the driveway, where she could no longer hear the Muggle news. She looked down Privet Drive, wondering where in Merlin’s name Dumbledore was. If Hagrid had sent her on a wild goose chase, she would give him such a tongue-lashing when she returned to Hogwarts!

The front window of number four was closed again and the lights on the ground floor went out. Soon, however, the upstairs lights went on and Minerva was startled to find the beefy man staring down at her again. She turned and looked down Privet Drive once more; she didn’t like the man in number four. He noticed things. Muggles weren’t supposed to notice things. She hoped Dumbledore would come soon.

Finally, the lights were extinguished and, one by one, the lights in the other houses on Privet Drive also went out, leaving the street lamps and moon as the only illumination on the quiet suburban street.

* * * * *

Peter had done it; he had slipped into the Ministry and had unobtrusively written a discreet message to the head of Magical Law Enforcement himself, Barty Crouch, telling him where and when to find Sirius. And then he sent a note to Sirius, telling him that he was willing to talk, and to be at the appointed place half an hour before Crouch was going to arrive. It was perfect. And he didn’t think he had to worry about Sirius trying to turn him in to the Ministry; if he knew Sirius, he was planning to kill Peter personally. And even if Sirius did think of trying to tell anyone that Peter was the one who’d told the Dark Lord where to find James and Lily, Peter had already told Crouch exactly the same thing about Sirius, in his letter. And on top of that, there were all of the people Sirius had been talking to about his being the Secret Keeper....Why, even Dumbledore probably thought the Secret Keeper was Sirius.

Peter raised his wand to Disapparate from the Ministry to the Burrow. His heart was beating very fast when he arrived and he swallowed nervously; he already chosen his refuge. He didn’t relish the idea of spending the winter in the Weasleys’ garden, but with any luck, he would be able to make his presence known to Percy again, and the boy might bring him the odd scrap or two for him to eat.

Peter walked to the warmly-lit kitchen window, remaining hidden behind the curtains. It was an unseasonably hot night, so the casement was open a crack and he could hear voices within.

“Oh, Molly! Can you believe it? You-Know-Who, finally gone!”

“Sssh! Arthur, I’ve only just managed to get her to sleep! Thank heavens Ron is such a good sleeper; I doubt Ginny ever will be....”

Peter shifted his head very slightly so that he could see Molly Weasley sitting in a comfortably padded rocking chair near the fire, cradling a small red-haired bundle close to her breast. None of the other children were in evidence, but it was rather late.

“I’m sorry, Molly. I just feel like a celebration!” Arthur Weasley was capering about the kitchen, raising a bottle of what seemed like butterbeer in a silent toast to a non-existent crowd. His wife smiled indulgently at him.

“I know, Arthur, I know,” she said gently, leaning over to press a kiss to the baby’s brow.

Peter stared at her. She’s all right, he thought. And would continue to be, thanks to him. He stepped away from the kitchen window, drawing a relieved breath and closing his eyes. The Prophecy had been fulfilled.....

Prophecy. His eyes flew open again as he remembered the Centaur talking about the Prophecy. He had talked about the Dark Lord’s falls, and the first Lion, the second Lion, the first Daughter of War, the second Daughter of War....

Peter swallowed. No, it wasn’t over, was it? But when would it be? He thought of Harry, and of the Malfoy child, and of little Ginny Weasley and knew--it wouldn’t be over until they were old enough to take up the mantle of responsibility. Which meant--

At some point, the Dark Lord would be back.

Peter shuddered. When that happened, surely he would find a way to locate Peter and punish him for what he’d done. Peter’s breathing had sped up again in panic, as though the Dark Lord might appear in the Weasleys’ garden at a moment’s notice. Well, he thought, if I help him, if I do things for him, maybe he’ll forgive me....and then, when he’s really back, they can get rid of him once and for all....

He had a hard time imagining a son of Lucius Malfoy helping to defeat the Dark Lord, but then, he reflected, if, five years earlier, anyone had told Peter that he would become a Death Eater and be instrumental in bringing down You-Know-Who, he would have laughed in their faces....

Peter changed swiftly into his rat form and ran into a gnome hold to curl up to sleep. He had a big day ahead of him tomorrow. He had his own murder to fake and one of his remaining best friends to frame for it. Peter sighed. No one would ever know that if it wasn’t for him, the Dark Lord would still be wreaking havoc. Truly, no good deed goes unpunished, he thought, as he settled down to sleep.

* * * * *

Dumbledore fought the urge to sigh while Professor McGonagall continued her tirade. She was dropping very broad hints about the rumors that had been going about--the rumors that he had helped to start. She wanted some confirmation from him, some indication of whether any of the rumors held an ounce of truth. She was also very incensed about the lack of common sense many people were displaying. Dumbledore blamed himself for that; when you started by rumor mongering, you were very likely to get overexcited people worked up into a state where they forgot utterly about not revealing themselves to Muggles.

To get her to change the subject, he offered her a sweet, but Professor McGonagall was undistracted by this. Finally, she then irritated him in turn by saying “You-Know-Who” one time too many.

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name?” When he said it, Voldemort, she flinched visibly. He pretended not to notice.

She tried flattery next, but he wasn’t going to fall for that; she finally asked him outright about the rumors. She was so worked up that she said, “last night,” instead of “Saturday night,” but he could understand that. Two days after it had occurred, people were still repeating the rumors in pubs using the phrase, “last night,” when describing what had happened. Dumbledore would make certain that the correct date went into the history books, however. He would make certain that a number of things went into the history books.

When he finally confirmed for her that the rumors were true, she gasped and he patted her on the shoulder to comfort her; it was the most physical he thought he had ever been with her. She was a very stand-offish woman. Her voice was trembling as she went on asking about Harry, and he looked glumly at her. Why, the normally-stoic Minerva McGonagall was getting quite choked up about it all. He reckoned that she had been very fond of the former Head Boy and Girl, more than he realized.

And then he had to admit that he also didn’t know how Harry had been saved. He did have a strong suspicion, though, which he preferred not to reveal to Professor McGonagall at this time.

Dumbledore was quite amused, however (and having a hard time hiding it) when he explained to her why they were on Privet Drive. “I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”

She simply exploded then, telling him about the horrid people who lived at number four. But he knew that he was doing the right thing, although Professor McGonagall doubted that everything Harry would need to know could be communicated in a letter. She--very rightly, he thought--pointed out how famous Harry would be. He agreed with that assessment and turned it around, making it another excellent reason for Harry to grow up away from the wizarding world. She seemed rather disgruntled about his doing this, but finally, reluctantly, agreed.

He was getting somewhat concerned about Hagrid being late. He wasn’t very late, but soon it would be after midnight....

And then, of course, Professor McGonagall had to bring up whether it was wise to trust Hagrid with something so important. Dumbledore defended him, but was very grateful when a large, loud motorbike fell out of the air a few minutes later, bearing Hagrid, who was in turn bearing a bundle of blankets. Dumbledore was not surprised to learn that he’d borrowed the bike from Sirius Black. Yes, he thought. Sirius Black. I think Sirius and I need to have a long chat....

But he didn’t say that to Hagrid. “No problems, were there?”

“No, sir - house was almost destroyed but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around....”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall listened to Hagrid talk briefly about his flight and then leaned over the bundle to look at Harry Potter. When Dumbledore saw the lightning bolt-shaped cut, he drew in his breath for a moment. Tom scarred him. As I scarred Tom....

“Is that where--?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.” He hoped saying it would convince him that it should be so. No one must remove that scar, he thought. Not if Tom isn’t really gone....

He quickly brushed off McGonagall’s idea that he could do something about it. He could, but he wouldn’t. Dumbledore just wanted to get it all over with.

After Hagrid had given Harry a great, whiskery kiss, he started howling like a wounded dog, causing Professor McGonagall to hiss at him as though she were still in her cat form; she started going on about Muggles.

Hagrid blubbered for a bit, for which Dumbledore didn’t blame him a bit; he was an orphan himself, was Hagrid, and had his heart in the right place. Even McGonagall was somewhat moved and patted him on the arm to comfort him.

Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door, laying Harry gently on the doorstep and taking a letter out of his cloak which he tucked inside Harry’s blankets. When he returned to the pavement, Professor McGonagall seemed to have something in her eye and Hagrid’s shoulders were shaking. Albus Dumbledore was also feeling somewhat deflated and tired, feeling old. He suggested they go and join some celebrations; there were certainly any number to choose from, and had been going on around the clock for days already. At any rate, he had yet another element to add to the rumors he’d been so carefully spreading:

The Boy Who Lived had a scar.

* * * * *

Please be a responsible reader and review.

Thanks to Dan, SadieSue and Eagle-Eye Emily for the beta reading.