Night had fallen.
This was Britain—mysterious, elegant, and steeped in tradition. Tonight, however, the air felt especially still, particularly compared to the strange and lively events that had unfolded earlier that day.
On the quiet street of Privet Drive, something was happening.
A sycamore leaf fluttered down, carried by the night breeze, drifting gently until it landed perfectly inside the trash bin of No. 6 Privet Drive.
One house away from No. 6 stood No. 4—the most well-known house on the street. Whether it was because of the extremely fat Vernon Dursley, the unnaturally thin Petunia, or their peculiar relatives who always dressed in the most bizarre manner, this house was famous for all the wrong reasons.
A car pulled into the driveway of No. 4, stopping just in front of the fence. The door opened, and with some difficulty, Vernon Dursley hauled himself out, panting as he stepped onto the ground.
Vernon was massive, his face round and fleshy, covered in a thick layer of stubble. His neck was nearly nonexistent—one couldn't help but be reminded of his wife, Petunia, whose neck was nearly twice as long as that of an average person.
His mind was preoccupied with so many thoughts that he didn't even bother pulling the car into the garage. Vernon was still thinking about the odd things he had seen throughout the day: the tabby cat sitting on a wall in the morning, staring at what looked like a map; the group of cloaked people celebrating enthusiastically in the streets; and, worst of all, the elderly man he had bumped into—also wearing a cloak—who had the audacity to call him a "Muggle." The whole thing made him deeply uneasy.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that made his irritation flare up—the same tabby cat from that morning was still sitting on the wall.
His frustration boiled over. He bent down, picked up a small stone, and hurled it at the cat. The rock hit the wall with a dull thud, missing its target entirely. The cat, however, turned to glare at him with piercing eyes.
"Must be my imagination," Vernon thought, trying to shake off the strange feeling.
Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and stepped into the house.
Their son, Dudley, was already asleep, and Petunia was waiting for him at the dinner table. As they ate, they chatted about their day.
"You won't believe it!" Petunia said excitedly. "Our little Dudley learned a new word today!"
"What was it? 'Daddy' or 'Mummy'?" Vernon asked eagerly.
"It was 'Never.' 'Never,' 'Never!'" Petunia beamed with pride, tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh, our child is so brilliant! 555555..."
(Saying something three times meant it was important.)
Vernon's face lit up with pride, and they immediately decided to check on their little angel. The result? Dudley kicked Vernon square in the face, making him swear not to wash it for three days.
Later that night, as they lay in bed, Vernon turned on the news.
"Today, owls across the country have exhibited highly unusual behavior, flying erratically in broad daylight. Experts remain baffled by the phenomenon. Additionally, meteor showers were reported last night over Kent, Yorkshire, and several other regions."
Vernon's thoughts drifted back to the strange events of the day.
His throat felt dry. He coughed twice and hesitantly asked, "Petunia... hmm... have you heard from your sister recently?"
Petunia's face went pale.
"Why on earth are you asking about them?" she snapped.
Petunia's sister and her family were a forbidden subject in the Dursley household. They never spoke of them. To Vernon and Petunia, her sister and her husband were nothing but freaks—people they wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
"I just... I remember they had a kid. What was his name again?"
"Harry," Petunia spat through gritted teeth. "Such a painfully ordinary name."
Vernon's stomach twisted uncomfortably.
Today, when he had passed that group of odd people in cloaks, he was almost certain he had heard them talking about a "child"... and a name that sounded a lot like "Harry"...
But surely, that had nothing to do with them. Right?
Of course, Vernon had no idea that this way of thinking had a name in China—it was called the "Ah Q mentality," where one convinces oneself that everything is fine, even when it clearly isn't.
They dropped the subject.
As he lay in bed, Vernon reassured himself: This has nothing to do with us. If it does...
Well, then it was best not to think about it.
At midnight, the doorbell suddenly rang—loud and piercing!
Let's rewind thirty minutes and see what had happened.
The Mysterious Visitor at 4 Privet Drive
The tabby cat that had been sitting like a statue at the entrance of 4 Privet Drive suddenly moved, flicking its tail. Its sharp gaze locked onto the street corner.
A shadowy figure appeared—seemingly materializing out of thin air.
The figure walked forward, step by step. He was tall and thin, with silver hair and a beard long enough to be tucked into his belt—an undeniable sign of his advanced age. He wore long robes, a deep purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled boots with silver buckles. Behind the half-moon spectacles, his bright blue eyes twinkled with an almost mischievous light. His nose was long and slightly crooked.
His name was Albus Dumbledore.
He walked up to a streetlamp, glancing at the few windows in Privet Drive that were still illuminated. Then, he stopped. Reaching into his cloak, he rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a small silver object that resembled a cigarette lighter.
He flicked it open and raised it high.
"Click."
A single streetlamp went out.
He clicked it twelve more times, and the entire street was plunged into darkness.
Even if someone had been peering through their window, they wouldn't have been able to see a thing.
Dumbledore approached the tabby cat and, without warning, spoke to it.
"Professor McGonagall, why aren't you at the celebration?"
The tabby cat leapt gracefully off the wall. But the moment it landed, it transformed—into a stern-looking woman wearing square glasses that matched the markings around the cat's eyes. She was draped in an emerald green cloak, and her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight, severe bun.
"How did you recognize me?" she asked.
"Well… because… of your glasses," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Have you ever seen a cat with panda eyes?"
"…" Professor McGonagall's face darkened.
Get lost. I don't want to talk to you.
"You saw them, didn't you?" McGonagall huffed. "Shooting star spells lighting up the sky, wizards strutting around in cloaks in the middle of the Muggle world…"
Dumbledore chuckled. "You can't blame them. After all these years, it's finally over."
"But… on the day the Dark Lord disappeared, the Muggles may have discovered our world. I doubt that's something to celebrate," McGonagall said, her tone laced with sarcasm.
"You're really going to leave Harry here?" she asked, growing more agitated. "I've been watching these people all day. I have never seen such awful parents… and that child! That monstrous child!"
"They are the only family Harry has," Dumbledore said helplessly. "Here, he will grow up safe."
"But you must know—Harry defeated Him! He's going to be famous. There will be books written about him. Children will worship him… he'll become a legend."
"You're absolutely right," Dumbledore said solemnly. "And then? Then he'll be placed on a pedestal. He'll become arrogant. Fame will destroy him!"
McGonagall fell silent.
"…Where is Harry?" she asked after a moment.
"I had Hagrid bring him."
"Oh, Merlin! You entrusted Harry to that big oaf? Do you have any idea how careless he is? Merlin's beard!"
"…Big oaf?" Dumbledore's expression turned subtly complicated.
"I believe Hagrid understands how important this is. He'll be careful…"
Just then—
BOOM! BOOM!
A deafening roar shattered the silence of the night.
A dark shadow loomed in the sky, growing larger and larger.
With a resounding crash, a gigantic motorcycle landed on the ground, bouncing three times before finally coming to a stop.
"!@#￥%...&" Dumbledore looked at McGonagall and, in all seriousness, said, "Perhaps… you were right."
-_-||| Professor McGonagall.
If the motorcycle was enormous, its rider was even more so.
The man was nearly twice the height of a normal person and at least five times as wide. His sheer size was staggering. His wild, tangled black hair and bushy beard nearly covered his entire face. His hands were the size of dustbin lids, and his feet, clad in enormous leather boots, looked like small dolphins. His muscular arms cradled a bundle of blankets.
McGonagall and Dumbledore turned their eyes toward the bundle.
Wrapped in the blankets was a baby boy. A lock of black hair fell over his forehead, beneath which a lightning-shaped scar was clearly visible.
McGonagall's heart ached as she gazed at the child.
"He has no idea what kind of miserable childhood awaits him," she murmured.
Are you trying to criticize me? Dumbledore's expression darkened slightly.
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and walked toward No. 4 Privet Drive.
"555555… Oh, my poor Harry… His parents… gone… and now… a Muggle family…" Hagrid suddenly broke into loud, wailing sobs, his face filled with grief.
McGonagall shot him a sharp glare. "Shh! Do you want to wake up the entire street?"
Hagrid immediately stifled his sobs, looking like a scolded puppy.
Dumbledore stepped into the front garden and gently placed Harry on the doorstep. Taking a letter from his pocket, he tucked it into the blankets. He gazed down at the child for a long moment.
Then, raising a hand, he rang the doorbell three times.
A moment later, a muffled curse could be heard from inside the house.
Satisfied, Dumbledore turned back to the others.
"Well, we should be off now. Let's wait… for Harry to grow up," he said calmly.
Hagrid, still sniffling, climbed back onto his motorcycle. With a thunderous roar, it shot up into the sky and disappeared into the night. A tabby cat slunk swiftly around the corner and vanished from sight.
Dumbledore walked to the end of the street, pulled out the Deluminator, and clicked it once.
One by one, all twelve streetlights flickered back to life.
Turning slightly, he glanced toward No. 4's doorstep, where the bundle of blankets lay.
"Good luck, Harry."
Dumbledore reached into his sleeve and drew out his wand.
"Apparate."
With a sharp crack, like a whip striking the air, Dumbledore vanished into thin air, as if he had never been there at all.
The baby in the bundle slowly opened his eyes.
Unlike a typical infant's gaze—full of confusion and innocence—his were calm, reflecting the starlit sky above. The clarity in his eyes seemed almost unnatural.
"Do good people really get rewarded?" The baby's lips moved slightly, murmuring as if pondering a deep question.
The door creaked open.
The baby shut his eyes tightly, as if unwilling to witness what was about to happen. If he could, he would have covered his ears too—but he was powerless to do so.
A moment of silence.
Then, the woman at the door noticed something at her feet.
Her eyes widened.
And then, she screamed.
Her shriek echoed through the entire length of Privet Drive!