Chapter Text
Author's Note: (This is Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall's (a bit of Rubeus Hagrid) conversation of how you get here and also a background on Privet Drive and the Dursleys. 3682 words).
Bold = Time-skips, P.O.V.s, stuff like that. Examples: (Harry's P.O.V.):, Time-skip: (We're on the train):, Small Recap:, The Present (Now):.
Italics = A character's thoughts. Or if it is in a sentence, it's a word that carries meaning to it, emphasizing a point. Examples: "Why does it have to be this way?", "I wish I could've changed the outcome.", "I want this.", "I can't lose."
Bold + Italics = A flashback of some sort. Example: I (John) lifted the perfume bottle to his nose, smelling the flowery, sweet scent. I smile softly at the remembrance of the scent.
Flashback:
My wife sat at her vanity, brushing her hair. A flowery, sweet scent engulfed the room.
"What's that smell?" I asked.
Wife: "Oh! I just got this new scent today. Does it smell nice, John?"
"Yeah, it does." I smiled at her happy figure.
The Present (Now):
"I miss you..." I said softly as I put the perfume down, looking outside my window. The sunset peering in.
Underlined = An Author's Note, but I'll be sure to tell you anyway. Example: Author's Note: (Blah, blah, blah...).
Bold + Underlined = A spell being used. Example: "Accio!" or "Lumos..."
Italics + Underlined = A animal talking but only you know what it's saying. Example: "I'm warning you.", "Ssssso, why are you here?"
Author's Note: (This guide will help you throughout the story).
The night was chilly, and a thick fog hung low over Privet Drive. Dark and light-patched owls flitted silently around the tall black streetlamps, their soft hoots and gentle whistles the only sounds in the still, empty streets. Every house was dark, its occupants tucked into their warm, cozy beds, undisturbed by the world outside. This was a place where nightlife did not exist. No teenagers skated through the roads, no shady figures lurked on street corners, and certainly, no thumping music echoed from behind closed doors. Privet Drive was a picture of quiet, controlled normalcy-, so pristine that even the grass refused to wither into yellowed imperfections.
And, of course, its children were no different. Every boy and girl carried home neatly graded papers, marked with bright red "100%" stamps and cheerful phrases like "Good job!" or "Excellent work!" No fights, no gossip, no unruly behavior. "Drama" was something reserved for theater performances, not the whispered conversations of schoolyards. Even rumors, when they did surface, were harmless-, announcements of promotions, birthday parties, or perhaps news of a new pet in the neighborhood.
Crime? There was none. No one carried pepper spray, no one eyed passing white vans with suspicion, and certainly, no one locked their doors in fear of what lurked in the shadows. Privet Drive was, for all intents and purposes, abnormally normal. That is, until a certain tabby cat decided to take up residence on the porch of Number Four.
The Dursleys were the most normal of them all-, or so they liked to believe. Petunia Dursley took great pride in her immaculate home, her neatly pressed clothes, and her carefully curated appearance. Pearls dangled from her ears, circled her wrists, and adorned her neck in layers, a constant display of her self-proclaimed sophistication. Though she kept up with trends, she favored vintage elegance, always ensuring her outfits were flawlessly ironed and her house free from even the faintest speck of dust.
"A dirty house equals an unhappy woman!" she would declare daily, as though it were a universal truth.
Her long, swan-like neck-, just shy of giraffe status-, gave her a perpetual air of superiority. She painted her thin lips a striking red, ensuring they stood out as much as her judgmental gaze. Petunia Dursley tolerated nothing less than perfection, and anything falling short of that was swiftly discarded, no matter the cost.
"If you're not perfect, then you might as well find a different neighborhood," she often boasted, much to the mild amusement (and secret exasperation) of her husband, Vernon Dursley.
Vernon, in contrast, was a large, heavyset man with barely any neck at all. His thick chestnut mustache twitched when he spoke, often accompanied by a blustering tone that made it clear he expected to be listened to. He worked as the director of a drill-making company, a job that suited his no-nonsense personality. He was the breadwinner, the man of the house-, but anyone with a keen eye could see that it was Petunia who truly ran things.
Their son, Dudley, was the light of Petunia's life, the very embodiment of her ideal future. Even when he screamed, threw tantrums, or caused a mess, she saw only perfection. She imagined him growing up into a fine young man, admired by all, destined to be the most popular boy in school. She could hardly wait to parade him around the neighborhood, ensuring everyone in Privet Drive knew just how special he was.
But despite their pristine façade, the Dursleys had a secret-, one they desperately wanted to keep buried.
The Potters.
Petunia Dursley had a sister, though she never cared to mention it. Lily. A name that tasted bitter on her tongue. Her sister was not normal. The man she had married was not normal. And worst of all, their child-, born around the same time as Dudley-, was almost certainly not normal either.
Vernon had nearly left her when he learned about them. But Petunia assured him that they were far removed from Privet Drive's perfect world. They would never visit. They would never cross paths. And their child would certainly never set foot near her precious Dudley.
As the tabby cat perched on the Dursleys' porch, her sharp green eyes keenly observed the household. She had spent the entire day watching, listening. And oh, how dreadful they were.
She had seen Vernon bark orders at his employees in the morning, his arrogance on full display. She had watched Petunia fuss endlessly over her appearance, fussing over every wrinkle in her dress while barely glancing at the baby in her arms. Even their interactions with the neighbors were steeped in self-importance, their superiority complex woven into every word they spoke.
The tabby cat sighed, shaking her head. This was going to be difficult.
Difficult, indeed.
The feline sat on the porch from morning to afternoon, from afternoon to night. Waiting. Watching. Her green eyes flickered toward every movement, but none of them were the one she was waiting for. Someone important. Someone very important.
Did he know she had been here all day? Did he know she had resisted the urge to pace, to stretch, to leave? She didn't know. But as the clock struck midnight and the last of the Muggles had long since gone to bed, her tail flicked with impatience. It seemed like he wasn't going to show.
Not that he had asked her to be here. This was her decision, her curiosity. She needed to know-, was it true?
With a quiet sigh, she curled herself up on the cold porch, tucking her paws under her body for warmth. The chill of the night bit at her fur, but she ignored it, trying to rest her eyes.
Then-
The crunch of leaves. The snap of a twig.
She sat bolt upright, ears pricked forward, back straight as can be. There he was. Finally.
A tall figure emerged from the fog, walking down Privet Drive with slow, deliberate steps. His long purple cloak billowed slightly with each movement. He reached into its depths, rummaging through his pockets until his fingers found what he was looking for. His expression brightened as he pulled it free-, a strange, silver device, bulky and heavy-looking. It gleamed under the moonlight.
With a flick of his thumb, he opened it, aimed at a streetlamp, and clicked.
The light flickered and was pulled toward the device as if drawn by an invisible force. He turned, aimed at another lamp, clicked again. Another light vanished. Again. And again. Until the entire street had been swallowed by darkness.
Humming to himself, he snapped the device shut and strode toward the Dursleys' house. Just as he reached the porch, his keen blue eyes landed on the cat. He stopped, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips as he shook his head.
"I should have known you'd be here waiting, Professor McGonagall," he mused.
The cat huffed before, in an instant, she was no longer a cat at all.
Now, in its place, stood a tall, thin woman, her emerald cloak draped neatly over her shoulders. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was pinned tightly into a bun, and square-rimmed glasses perched low on her nose. With a professional air, she folded her hands in front of her and fixed him with a sharp look.
"Good evening, Professor Dumbledore," she greeted coolly before arching a brow. "How did you know it was me?"
Dumbledore's chuckle deepened, warm and knowing. "My dear, I have never seen a cat sit so stiffly for so long."
McGonagall's sharp green eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, perhaps if I hadn't been sitting against a brick wall all day while someone took their sweet time arriving, I wouldn't be so stiff."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "All day? Minerva, you didn't have to wait here. You could have been celebrating. I passed quite a few feasts and parties on my way."
McGonagall scoffed, tapping her foot impatiently. "Celebrating? Oh, everyone's been doing plenty of that. You'd think they'd be more discreet, but no. Even the Muggles have noticed something is happening. It's been on their televisions. The news."
She cast a glance toward the Dursleys' window, ensuring no one was eavesdropping, before continuing in a hushed tone.
"I saw it. I heard it. The flocks of owls, the shooting stars... Of course, they were going to notice. They're not completely oblivious."
Dumbledore gave a soft, knowing sigh. "I understand your frustration, but can you really blame them? We haven't had anything to celebrate in eleven years."
McGonagall closed her eyes for a brief moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I know that," she admitted, then exhaled sharply. "But that's no excuse for them to lose all sense. They're reckless. Careless. Out in broad daylight in robes, swapping rumors like it's nothing. And the worst of it? They're openly calling people Muggles."
Her voice dripped with exasperation, and she shook her head. "For crying out loud, Albus. They're going to get us all caught."
Professor McGonagall realized she had lost her composure. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then exhaled in a slow, controlled breath. Her sharp eyes flickered toward Dumbledore, searching for a reaction, but he simply stood there, patient as ever. When he said nothing, she finally asked, "Has You-Know-Who really disappeared at last, Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully. "It seems so." He paused, then, as if discussing the weather, added, "I think it's a rather nice thing to celebrate."
Then, without missing a beat, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of small yellow sweets, extending them toward her. "Would you like a lemon drop?"
McGonagall arched a brow, unimpressed. "A what?"
"A lemon drop," he repeated, popping one into his mouth with evident delight. "They're a Muggle candy that I find quite enjoyable."
She eyed the sweets with disinterest before giving a curt shake of her head. "No, thank you."
Sighing, she pressed on, the weight of her thoughts dragging her back into her earlier frustration. "But these rumors, Albus... They're spreading faster than my owl ever could with a letter. Do you know what they're saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped You-Know-Who?"
This was it. This was why she had spent the entire day on the Dursleys' porch, enduring the cold, waiting for answers.
But instead of addressing her concerns, Dumbledore only sighed and gave her a patient, almost amused look.
"Minerva, surely someone as logical as yourself can bring yourself to say his name? This 'You-Know-Who' nonsense is exhausting. For eleven years, I have been trying to convince people to call him by what he is truly called-, Voldemort." He popped another two lemon drops into his mouth, unfazed. "It's far too confusing when no one will say it outright."
McGonagall huffed, folding her arms. "I know you don't see the point, but you also can't control how others choose to address him."
Dumbledore gave a small nod, conceding the point, but she wasn't finished. Her expression darkened as she pressed forward.
"The rumors, Albus," she repeated. "They're saying that last night, Voldemort appeared in Godric's Hollow. He went there to find the Potters." She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The rumor is that Lily and James are... they're-"
She couldn't bring herself to say it. Instead, she looked up at him, hoping-, desperately hoping-, he would deny it.
But Dumbledore only sighed, his expression somber as he gave her a slow, confirming nod.
McGonagall let out a small, strangled gasp, one hand covering her mouth. "No... Lily and James... Oh, I didn't want to believe it. Albus..."
Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his voice soft. "I know, Minerva. I know."
She drew in a shaky breath, regaining her composure just enough to continue. "But that's not all. They're saying he tried to kill their son. Harry. But... he couldn't." She met Dumbledore's gaze, her own filled with confusion and disbelief. "For whatever reason, he couldn't kill the baby. No one knows why or how, but when he failed-, when he couldn't kill Harry Potter-, Voldemort's power simply... extinguished. That's why he's gone. That's why he's disappeared."
Her voice wavered slightly. "Is it true? Are the rumors true, Albus?"
Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so, Professor."
McGonagall exhaled, her emotions tangled between grief and relief. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a baby? He couldn't destroy the most fragile life?" She shook her head, utterly bewildered. "How in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
Dumbledore's expression remained unreadable. "We can only guess." He paused. "Though, I should tell you-, Harry was not the only one to survive Voldemort's attack."
McGonagall's breath caught. "What do you mean, Albus?"
Dumbledore glanced at his watch, then sighed. "Hagrid's late."
Dumbledore had changed the subject, deciding it was best to wait for Hagrid before saying more. "I assume it was he who told you I'd be here?"
McGonagall nodded. "Yes. And why here, of all places?"
Dumbledore didn't hesitate. "We're placing Harry and Y/n with their aunt and uncle. They're the only family the twins have left."
McGonagall froze.
Y/n? Twins? And he was leaving them here-, with them?
"Who is Y/n, Albus? What do you mean, twins?" Her mind raced. "Don't tell me-"
"-Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Lily and James had twins, not just Harry."
McGonagall stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "What? How did I not know? How did no one know? There were no rumors, no whispers-, nothing about a second child." Her sharp gaze bore into him. "How do you even know their name?"
Dumbledore glanced at his watch before answering. "I didn't-, until Hagrid told me. He found a baby girl in the crib beside Harry, her name spelled out on the wall alongside his. It's safe to assume her name is Y/n."
McGonagall was still reeling. "Why didn't Lily and James tell us? Why keep her a secret?"
Dumbledore sighed. "We may never know."
But McGonagall wasn't finished. "And now you're going to leave them here? Albus, you can't! I've been watching these Muggles all day-, they despise anything to do with magic!"
"I know," Dumbledore admitted. "But it's the best place for them. The only place. Their aunt and uncle will explain everything when they're older. I've written a letter."
McGonagall blinked at him. "A letter?" She repeated it as if he had lost his mind. Maybe he had. "You really think a letter is enough to explain this? These Muggles will never understand them! Harry will be famous! He'll be a legend! There will be books about him-, everyone in our world will know his name!"
"Exactly," Dumbledore said simply. "He'll be famous. And when I reveal that Y/n is his twin-, that she survived as well-, she'll be famous too. They'll be famous before they can even walk or talk. Famous for something they won't even remember." He turned to her, eyes twinkling despite the grim topic. "Can't you see, Minerva? This is the best place for them. Here, they'll grow up away from all of that-, until they're ready to face it."
McGonagall let out a slow breath. She wanted to argue. She wanted a better outcome. But deep down, she knew there wasn't one.
"You're right," she murmured at last. "You're right."
She cleared her throat. "How will they be arriving, then?"
"Hagrid is bringing them," Dumbledore said.
McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "You're entrusting Hagrid with something this important?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, Professor, I would trust Hagrid with my life."
McGonagall rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," she said carefully, "but you can't pretend he isn't-"
She never got to finish.
A low rumble filled the quiet street, accompanied by a growing beam of light cutting through the night sky. McGonagall turned, eyes narrowing as she spotted the source. Within moments, a massive motorcycle descended from the heavens, its headlight illuminating the empty road as it landed with a soft thud.
The machine itself was enormous-, but the man riding it was even more so. He was easily twice the height of an average man and five times as wide, his sheer size making the motorcycle beneath him look almost comical. His wild, dark brown hair and thick beard obscured much of his face, but the soot and grime covering his features were unmistakable, leaving behind the imprint of his goggles-, like a sunburn outline but made of smoke. He pulled the goggles up onto his forehead and swung a leg over the bike, landing with a heavy thump on the pavement.
In his massive arms, two small bundles stirred.
"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid greeted gruffly, nodding at McGonagall as well. "Professor McGonagall."
Dumbledore exhaled, relieved. "Hagrid. I trust there were no complications?"
Hagrid shook his head. "No, sir. The house was nearly destroyed, but I got 'em out in time. The Muggles were startin' to gather, so I had to be quick. Harry fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." He glanced down at the second bundle, his expression softening. "But little Y/n's been awake the whole time."
Dumbledore and McGonagall leaned in, peering at the infants wrapped snugly in their blankets. The boy-, Harry-, slept soundly, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. A tuft of jet-black hair fell over his forehead, revealing a fresh, lightning-shaped scar.
"Is that where-?" McGonagall whispered.
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "-Yes. He'll have that scar forever."
They turned their attention to the baby girl nestled beside him. Unlike her brother, she was wide awake, gurgling happily as she gnawed on the edge of her blanket.
McGonagall frowned. "She... doesn't have one?"
Hagrid grunted and adjusted his grip. "No... she, er, doesn't..." He gently tilted her head, trying to see if there was anything at all. Y/n let out a small giggle at the touch, reaching up to grab at Hagrid's massive finger. The half-giant chuckled, his expression full of warmth despite the sorrow hanging over them.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Alright now, Hagrid. Give them here. We'd best get this over with."
Hagrid hesitated, his grip tightening around the tiny bundles. "Can't we keep 'em, sir?" he asked, voice thick with emotion.
Dumbledore sighed. "No, Hagrid. This is the best place for them."
"Not even little Y/n?" Hagrid looked at the baby girl, his heart clearly breaking.
"No," Dumbledore said firmly.
Hagrid sniffled loudly, swiping his sleeve across his nose. "Well... can I at least say goodbye?"
Dumbledore nodded, stepping aside.
Hagrid bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's forehead before hesitating over Y/n. The baby girl beamed up at him, her tiny hands reaching for his face. She latched onto his beard, giving it a tug as if testing its texture.
Hagrid let out a watery chuckle. "Ah, yer a cheeky one, ain't ya?" He pried her fingers off with just two of his own before planting a scratchy kiss in the center of her forehead. The moment he pulled away, he let out a choked, mournful howl-, like a wounded dog.
"Shh!" McGonagall hissed, glancing around anxiously. "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-S-Sorry," Hagrid stammered, tears streaming down his sooty face. "I just... I mean, look at 'er! All smiley and sweet! I c-can't stand it! Lily an' James... gone... an' now poor Y/n, off to live with these Muggles! I just wanna take her with me-!"
But it was too late.
Dumbledore had already stepped onto the porch, kneeling to place the twins gently on the doorstep. Y/n let out a soft whine of protest, kicking her tiny feet.
With a small smile, Dumbledore reached into his cloak, pulling out a letter. He tucked it into Y/n's tiny hands, watching as her fingers instinctively curled around it. She immediately stopped fussing, distracted by the new object in her grasp.
Dumbledore straightened, rejoining McGonagall and Hagrid. He gave the half-giant a reassuring pat on the arm, his voice gentle. "There, there, Hagrid. This isn't truly goodbye."
Hagrid sniffled and nodded, but his eyes remained on Y/n's tiny form. Even McGonagall, who had spent the evening trying to suppress her emotions, looked down at the girl with sorrow in her eyes.
Dumbledore murmured, as though the twins could somehow hear him, "Good luck, Y/n. Good luck, Harry."
Then, without another word, they turned away.
Hagrid mounted the bike and flew into the night sky to return the bike he borrowed, and with a swish of their cloaks, Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall were gone.
Y/n cooed curiously, accidentally hitting her brother Harry with her small fist, making him roll over without waking up (surprisingly). They both didn't know that they were special or famous. They didn't know that Y/n would be crying (which woke up Harry and he couldn't help but cry too) when Mrs. Dursley opened the door and screamed, or that they would be pinched and poked by their cousin, Dudley... They both didn't know that at this very moment, people were meeting up to celebrate all over the world and were raising their glasses to shout, "To Harry and Y/n Potter, the twins who lived!"