1st November, 2001
A chill clung to the November night, threading the air with a bite that teased the coming winter. The sky above was ink-black, only faintly smudged with the pale glimmer of distant stars, while a crescent moon floated quietly behind the scudding clouds. It was several hours past midnight and still several hours before dawn. Number 4, Privet Drive stood in orderly neatness under the glow of electric street lamps, each window shut and curtained, the front garden trimmed with perfect precision.
At the edge of the lamplight's reach, just beyond the tidy picket fence, a sleek brown tabby cat crouched in the shadow of a hedge. Her sharp green eyes—distinctly human in their scrutiny—narrowed at the house. A faint flick of her tail betrayed her growing irritation, the tip swishing through the cold air like the tick of an unseen clock. To an ordinary passerby, she would seem nothing more than a housecat, well-fed and curious, but there was nothing ordinary about this particular feline.
For Minerva McGonagall—currently in her Animagus form—stood sentinel beneath the electric glow with her whiskers twitching in thought. Her paws were planted firmly in the cold dirt, but her mind raced. It's madness, leaving the boy here. What is Albus thinking? She wondered grimly, her fur rippling down her spine as if disturbed by a sudden breeze.
She watched the house with squinted eyes, every line of her feline posture rigid with cautious contemplation. Earlier that day, she had observed the household from this very spot—Vernon Dursley driving off in his compact sedan, dressed in a well-pressed grey suit and carrying a leather satchel over one shoulder, looking every bit the orderly university professor. Petunia Dursley, meanwhile, had emerged wearing a navy pantsuit and neatly tied scarf, ushering a bright-eyed toddler into the car seat of a small hatchback. The child, a two-year-old boy with golden curls and an insistent pout, had waved a chubby hand, calling "Mummy!" until Petunia shushed him with a patient smile.
Minerva's whiskers twitched. They seem civil enough… educated, even. Perhaps they mean well. But that's not the point, is it? It was one thing for the boy to be left in a Muggle household, but this one… No magic here. None at all. The mere thought of young Harry growing up without any connection to his heritage set her tail flicking again.
It wasn't just the absence of magic that troubled her. From what little she could glean, Vernon and Petunia were busy people, both holding demanding jobs. How would they manage two children, particularly one as unique as Harry? Raising their own son seemed to consume all of their energy and affection. Would they have anything left to offer a child thrust into their care under such tragic circumstances? And even if they were capable… would they want to?
Minerva shifted her weight, her soft paws sinking deeper into the dirt. She knew that Lily Potter—Harry's mother—and Petunia Dursley had once been close, but it had been years since she had seen any evidence of contact between them. Did they even remain on speaking terms? And if not, how could the boy ever feel truly at home here? What kind of childhood would he have, raised in a world so entirely devoid of the magic that ran through his veins?
She exhaled slowly, her feline face contorting into an oddly un-catlike frown. She knew Albus believed that leaving Harry with the Dursleys would be the safest option. The logic made sense—tucked away from the wizarding world, the boy would be protected from any lingering dangers connected to his parents. And perhaps… perhaps Albus was right. But still, a gnawing unease clawed at her.
Just as she was about to leap down from the hedge and stretch her cramped limbs, a sharp crack split the quiet air like the snapping of a whip. The sudden sound made her ears flatten against her head, and she turned with a start, eyes wide.
There, standing on the pavement in a flash of shimmering robes and half-moon spectacles perched upon a crooked nose, was Albus Dumbledore. His long silver beard swayed gently in the night breeze, and he adjusted the deep purple cloak wrapped tightly around his thin frame as if the cold didn't trouble him in the slightest.
"Good evening, Minerva," he greeted softly, his voice warm and amused, as though nothing could be more ordinary than finding his colleague watching a suburban house at such an ungodly hour.
McGonagall didn't respond immediately. Instead, she gave him a long, measured look, her green eyes sharp with unspoken questions. After a brief pause, she transformed with a soft ripple of magic, straightening into her tall human form. The wind tousled her neat bun of black hair as she adjusted the sleeves of her emerald-green robes, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"Albus," she said coolly, her voice cutting through the night like the crisp air. "I must say… I am not entirely convinced this is the right place for him."
Dumbledore smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that maddeningly serene way of his. "I had a feeling you might say that."
Her sharp gaze flicked back to the house, where the curtains stirred slightly in the upstairs window, perhaps moved by a breeze—or someone peeking out. "They seem decent enough," she allowed, her tone reluctant. "But it's hard to tell from a single day's observation. The boy… I wonder if they'll have any idea what to do with him."
"They'll manage," Dumbledore replied gently, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles. "You'll see."
McGonagall crossed her arms, her lips thinning further. She knew Dumbledore well enough to recognize when his mind was set. Still, it didn't stop her from feeling the heavy weight of uncertainty pressing against her chest. She glanced at the sky again—still dark, with no hint of dawn on the horizon—and thought grimly that it might be a long time before the light finally broke through.
For now, all she could do was hope that Dumbledore was right. But deep down, a flicker of doubt remained, curling like the night wind around her heart.
McGonagall crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing at Dumbledore's maddeningly serene expression. "And where is Harry, anyway?" she asked, the words clipped and cold.
Dumbledore smiled softly, a knowing twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles. "Hagrid is bringing him. From your quarters, in fact."
Minerva's lips pressed into a sharp, disapproving line. "You sent Hagrid to retrieve him?"
"Now, Minerva," Dumbledore said, a slight chuckle in his voice as he raised a placating hand. "You know very well he is a most responsible lad."
"That's not the point," she snapped, her frustration bubbling over. Her cloak shifted as she turned sharply to face him fully. "And why can't I take Harry myself, Albus? Why leave him with—" She gestured sharply toward the Dursleys' darkened windows, her voice a touch louder than intended.
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but there was an understanding softness in his gaze. "You know as well as I do, Minerva," he said quietly, "how dangerous it is for Harry to remain within the wizarding world, given the circumstances."
McGonagall folded her arms even tighter, her knuckles white beneath the soft green fabric of her sleeves. "The circumstances," she repeated bitterly. "It was his parents—not Harry—who were involved. I'm sure people would understand that. It isn't fair to punish the boy."
Dumbledore's sad smile deepened, the kind of smile that carried far too much weight for words. "Perhaps. But not everyone would see it that way."
Minerva exhaled sharply through her nose, a sigh of frustration and reluctant acceptance. She knew, deep down, that Albus was right. No matter how she turned it over in her mind, there was no other option—at least, not one that offered Harry the kind of protection Dumbledore insisted he needed. But that didn't make it any easier to swallow.
Just as the silence between them threatened to stretch too long, a sharp pop echoed across the quiet street. Both heads turned toward the source, and McGonagall's frustration momentarily ebbed as Hagrid materialized before them. He stood a few steps away, a towering figure draped in his massive moleskin coat. Cradled in his enormous hands was a small cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Got 'im right here, Professor," Hagrid whispered, as if afraid to disturb the night. He stepped forward carefully, revealing the sleeping face of baby Harry—his dark, tousled hair a soft mess atop his head, and his tiny fists curled near his cheeks. The boy's slow, even breaths fogged the air in soft puffs, oblivious to the cold and the weight of the decision being made about his future.
McGonagall's stern expression softened, just for a moment, as she looked down at the child she had taken care of over the past day. She pressed her lips together tightly, as though holding back words she knew would make no difference.
Dumbledore gave Hagrid an approving nod, then conjured a small wooden basket with a flick of his wand. The basket was simple but sturdy, with a thick quilt folded neatly inside. He motioned for Hagrid to place the sleeping child within it, and with a tenderness that seemed almost comical from a man of his size, Hagrid set Harry down gently.
From the depths of his robe, Dumbledore produced a small envelope—his familiar looping handwriting visible on the front. He tucked the letter under the quilt beside Harry, then gave a slight flick of his wand, casting a warming charm over the basket to shield the boy from the chill of the October night.
McGonagall looked away, her jaw tight, her fingers flexing restlessly at her sides.
Without a word, Dumbledore approached the Dursleys' front door and rang the bell, the chimes echoing softly down the empty street. He rang it twice more for good measure, then quietly retreated into the shadows where McGonagall and Hagrid waited, the three of them disappearing into the darkness like whispers in the wind.
They stood silently, watching from the cover of the hedge as the minutes stretched on. McGonagall's sharp gaze flicked between the basket and the darkened house, her thoughts a tangle of regret and reluctant acceptance.
"Will they be good to 'im, Professor?" Hagrid asked softly, his voice a low rumble laced with concern.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the front door, as though waiting for it to open, his expression calm but distant.
"We can only hope," he murmured at last.
And with that, the three of them waited in silence as the night stretched on, the world holding its breath for what was to come.
The front door of Number 4 creaked open, revealing Petunia Dursley standing in the threshold. Her ash-blonde hair was tousled, and she wore a worn dressing gown over her pyjamas. She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes half-lidded from sleep. Squinting against the glow of the porch light, she glanced around the empty street.
Her brow furrowed when she saw no one. But then, her gaze drifted downward, and she froze. There, at her feet, lay a small basket. Petunia knelt slowly, confusion etched across her pale features, and carefully lifted the basket with both hands. The quilt shifted slightly, revealing the tiny face of a sleeping baby—his dark hair sticking out in soft tufts.
For a moment, Petunia just stared, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. Then her eyes caught the edge of an envelope tucked beneath the quilt. With a hesitant hand, she pulled it free and read the name scrawled on the front. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. She tore open the envelope, her eyes scanning the letter inside.
The more she read, the more her expression softened. Her face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes. She sniffled, pressing the letter to her chest for a moment, and then—with great care—brought the basket closer, wrapping her arms tightly around it as if to shield the baby within.
"Harry," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "Oh, Harry…"
She stepped back into the house, closing the door quietly behind her with a soft click. A murmur of voices soon followed from within—Vernon's baritone mixed with Petunia's quieter, emotional responses—though the words were muffled and indistinct through the closed door.
In the shadowed hedge across the street, Minerva's gaze remained fixed on the house, her sharp eyes watching the door that had just closed. Her heart ached with unspoken doubt, fear, and hope, all tangled into a knot too tight to unravel.
Albus, standing beside her, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You saw her reaction," he said softly, his voice warm with reassurance. "Now, we can hope for the best."
McGonagall gave a slow, reluctant nod. Her expression was composed, but her eyes betrayed the sadness she couldn't quite suppress. "I only want him to grow up in a happy family," she murmured. "He deserves that, at the very least."
Albus didn't respond, but his silence was a kind one, filled with the quiet understanding of a man who knew the weight of hope as well as she did.
For a moment, the two of them stood there, watching the stillness of Privet Drive as though looking toward the future itself. Whatever lay ahead for Harry, it was now beyond their control. All they could do was wait—and hope that, in this small Muggle home, the boy would find the love and happiness he needed to flourish.
With a soft sigh, McGonagall looked to the horizon, where the first pale hints of dawn were beginning to streak the dark sky.
"Come, Minerva," Dumbledore said gently, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "It's time to go."
And with a soft pop, the three of them vanished into the night, leaving only the promise of an uncertain future behind them.