The stars above Privet Drive shone weakly, their light smothered by the thick blanket of suburban haze that seemed to hang over the neighborhood like a shroud. The moon had retreated behind a thin veil of clouds, leaving the street cloaked in a dim, silvery gloom. Only the faint hum of distant cars broke the silence, a whisper of a world far removed from the suffocating order of this little cul-de-sac.
At exactly midnight, the streetlights flickered again—once, twice—and then went out entirely. Darkness settled over Privet Drive, heavy and absolute, except for the faint glow that suddenly appeared at the far end of the street. The glow grew brighter, more intense, until it resolved into the shape of a tall figure, his silhouette sharp and severe against the dimness around him. He stood there for a moment, unmoving, as though taking stock of the quiet houses that lined the street. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he began to walk.
Albus Dumbledore was not a man who hurried. He moved with a purpose that seemed to transcend time, his long, dark cloak billowing around him as though it had a life of its own. There was no cheer in his expression, no twinkle in his eye—only a cold, calculating look that seemed to pierce the very fabric of the night. In his hand, he held a slender silver instrument, which he raised to the sky as he came to a stop outside Number Four. With a flick of his wrist, the streetlights flickered back to life, casting their yellow glow over the neat hedges and polished driveways.
Dumbledore turned to look at the house, his gaze lingering on the pristine white door of Number Four. His lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. It was the smile of a man who saw the world not as it was, but as a game to be played—and who always made the winning move.
There was a rustle of fabric behind him, and he turned to see a second figure stepping out of the shadows. Professor Minerva McGonagall looked as severe as ever, her hair pulled tightly back into a bun and her sharp eyes scanning the street with a mixture of caution and disapproval. She wore a dark green cloak, and her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, as though she were trying to restrain herself from speaking.
"You're late," she said at last, her voice low and clipped.
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, unbothered by the accusation. "Am I? Or have you simply arrived early, as you always do, Minerva?"
McGonagall pursed her lips, but said nothing. Instead, she glanced toward the house. "This is the best you could do?" she asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "These people, Albus... I've been watching them all day. They're dreadful. The man is a bully, the woman is obsessed with appearances, and the boy—" She broke off, shaking her head in disgust. "I wouldn't leave a stray cat with them, let alone—"
"Let alone Harry Potter?" Dumbledore finished, his tone as calm as ever. He slipped the silver instrument into his pocket and turned to face her fully. "Minerva, you worry too much. Harry will be safe here."
McGonagall took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. "Safe? With these people? They hate magic, Albus. They'll never treat him properly. You can't seriously believe—"
"I don't need to believe," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. "I know. This is the only place he can be."
There was a flicker of something in McGonagall's eyes—fear, perhaps, or anger—but she swallowed whatever retort she had been about to make. Instead, she turned away, staring at the house with a look of deep unease.
"Why not with someone else?" she said quietly. "Anyone else. There are families who would take him in, who would love him—"
"Love is not enough," Dumbledore said, his voice as cold and hard as stone. "Harry's safety requires more than love. The blood wards will protect him here, as long as he remains with his mother's family. That is all that matters."
"And what about what Harry needs?" McGonagall shot back, her voice rising slightly. "He's just a child, Albus. A baby. He deserves to grow up knowing who he is, where he came from—"
"Enough," Dumbledore said, and though his voice was quiet, it carried a weight that silenced her instantly. He stepped closer to her, his piercing blue eyes boring into hers. "You forget yourself, Minerva. Harry's destiny is not for you—or anyone else—to decide. He will grow up here, as I have decreed. And when the time comes, he will be ready."
McGonagall took a step back, her face pale. "Ready for what?" she whispered.
Dumbledore didn't answer. Instead, he turned and looked up at the sky, his expression unreadable. "Hagrid will be here soon," he said, as though the conversation had never happened. "We mustn't keep him waiting."
As if on cue, there was a distant roar in the night air, growing louder and louder until it became the unmistakable sound of a motorbike engine. A moment later, a massive, black motorcycle descended from the sky, its headlamp cutting through the darkness like a blade. Hagrid landed with a thud, the ground shaking slightly under the weight of both him and the bike.
"Professor Dumbledore! Professor McGonagall!" he called, his voice booming with relief. He swung one leg over the bike and dismounted, cradling a small bundle in his enormous arms. "I've got him. Little tyke fell asleep on the way here."
McGonagall stepped forward, her expression softening as she looked at the bundle. "Is he all right?" she asked. "No trouble on the way?"
"Not a bit," Hagrid said, though there was a catch in his voice, and his eyes were red-rimmed. "Though I'll tell yeh, Professor, it's been a hard night. Poor little thing... doesn't even know what's happened."
"Good," Dumbledore said, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. He reached out and took the bundle from Hagrid, his hands impossibly gentle as he cradled the sleeping infant. "He doesn't need to know. Not yet."
McGonagall watched as Dumbledore carried Harry to the doorstep of Number Four, her hands twisting nervously in her cloak. "Albus, please," she said one last time, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't do this."
Dumbledore didn't look at her. He placed Harry on the doorstep with deliberate care, tucking the blanket around him and sliding a letter into the folds. Then he straightened up, his face as unreadable as ever.
"It is done," he said simply. "Come, Minerva. We have no more business here."
As they turned to leave, Hagrid lingering behind with one last mournful glance at the baby, a cold wind swept through the street, carrying with it a whisper that only Harry could hear—a soft, serpentine voice that seemed to coil around him like smoke.
"Sleep well, Harry Potter," it said. "We'll see you soon."