The nursery was still, save for the faint creak of the rafters in the wind. The air smelled of scorched wood and something sharper — the tang of magic burned to its dregs. Moonlight spilled through the shattered window, silvering the edges of the crib where Harry lay.
He was awake, eyes wide, tiny hands gripping the blanket. His hair, once dark, was now shock‑white, catching the light like spun frost. His eyes — silver threaded through emerald — fixed on the ceiling, pupils narrowed to fine slits. He didn't cry. He didn't fuss. He simply watched the shadows move.
The floorboards whispered under lighter steps than a giant's. A small, hunched figure slipped into the room, wand clutched tight. Peter Pettigrew's eyes darted to the crib, then to the crumpled black robes on the floor. Voldemort's wand lay just beyond the reach of where a pale, lifeless hand had been moments ago.
Peter's breath came quick and shallow. He stepped over Lily's body without looking down, snatched up the wand, and held it close to his chest. The instant his fingers closed around it, the air shifted — the robes collapsed in on themselves, and the body beneath them dissolved into nothing, scattering like ash on a wind that wasn't there. In seconds, only the robes remained, limp and empty on the floor.
Peter's gaze flicked to Harry — the white hair, the strange eyes — and he shivered. His lips moved soundlessly, as if forming an excuse for an audience that wasn't there.
A sound downstairs froze him in place. The front door creaked open, heavy boots on the floorboards.
Panic flared. He stuffed the wand into his robes and backed toward the window. The boards groaned under his weight, and he winced, glancing once more at the child in the crib. Then he was gone, vanishing into the night just as the stairs groaned under a much heavier tread.
The nursery doorway filled with a massive silhouette.
"Hullo there, Harry," Hagrid rumbled, voice thick. He ducked under the splintered frame, eyes sweeping the room. They lingered on the still forms of James and Lily, then returned to the crib. "Poor little bloke…"
He stepped closer, the boards creaking under his weight. His huge hands, calloused from years of work, were surprisingly gentle as he reached down. Harry blinked up at him, unblinking, as if studying the giant's face.
Hagrid frowned. "White as snow… and those eyes… pupils like a cat's…" He shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Never seen the like."
A sharp, fast tread pounded up the stairs. Sirius Black appeared in the doorway, pale and wild‑eyed, wand drawn. His gaze swept the room — James, Lily, the empty window — before locking on Harry in Hagrid's arms.
"Where's Peter?" Sirius's voice was raw, almost a snarl.
Hagrid blinked. "Don't know. Didn't see him."
"I'm Harry's godfather," Sirius said, stepping forward. "Give him to me."
"Orders from Dumbledore," Hagrid replied, shifting his stance. "I'm to take the boy."
"Take him where?" Sirius demanded.
"Dumbledore's orders," Hagrid repeated, his tone final.
Sirius's jaw tightened. "You think I'd let anyone else protect him? I've got the means, the will, and the right. He's my responsibility."
Hagrid didn't move. "Not my choice. My orders are clear."
The air between them thickened. Sirius's grip on his wand flexed, his eyes locked on the bundle in Hagrid's arms. "You're making a mistake."
"Maybe," Hagrid said, "but I'll not go against Dumbledore."
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Sirius exhaled sharply, pulled the keys to the motorbike from his pocket, and shoved them into Hagrid's free hand. "Fine. But me and Dumbledore will be having words about this."
He stepped forward, brushing a hand over Harry's hair. The white strands were impossibly soft, almost weightless. Harry's strange eyes met his, and for a moment Sirius felt something — a hum in the air, like the echo of a spell long cast. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
Without another word, Sirius turned and thundered back down the stairs, the front door slamming behind him. Somewhere in the dark, Peter Pettigrew was running, and Sirius would not stop until he caught him.
The motorbike roared to life under Hagrid's hands, its engine breaking the stillness. He swung into the seat, settling Harry securely in one arm. Hedwig wheeled overhead, her pale shape ghosting through the dark.
---
A tabby cat sat perfectly still on the low brick wall of Number Four, Privet Drive. Her tail curled neatly around her paws, her green eyes fixed on the corner of the street. She had been there all day, watching, waiting, unmoving save for the occasional twitch of an ear.
A soft pop broke the quiet. The cat's ears flicked toward the sound, and her gaze followed the tall figure now walking up the street. Albus Dumbledore, his robes whispering against the pavement, paused when he saw her.
"I should have known you'd be here, Minerva," he said warmly.
The cat leapt lightly from the wall, and in mid‑stride her form shimmered and stretched, resolving into Professor McGonagall. She adjusted her tartan cloak, her expression tight. "How did you know it was me?"
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
She allowed herself the briefest huff of breath before her eyes sharpened. "Is it true?"
"It is," Dumbledore said gravely. "Voldemort is gone."
Her gaze flicked toward the darkened houses. "And the boy?"
"He will be here shortly."
"Albus, you can't possibly mean to leave him here," she said, her voice low but fierce. "I've watched them all day. These people… they're the worst sort of Muggles. Proud to be 'perfectly normal,' looking down their noses at anyone different, and sweet as sugar to those they think are worth their time. It's an act — and a cruel one."
"They are his only living family," Dumbledore replied.
"They'll never understand him. They'll never love him. You're condemning him to grow up in a place where he'll be shunned for what he is."
"It is precisely because they will not coddle him that he will be safer here," Dumbledore said, though his tone was gentle. "Fame is a dangerous thing for a child. Here, he will have the chance to grow away from it."
McGonagall's mouth tightened. "You think safety is worth that kind of childhood?"
"I think survival is worth many things," Dumbledore said quietly.
Before she could answer, the low growl of an engine rolled over the rooftops. A great motorbike descended from the sky, its headlamp cutting a swath through the darkness. It landed softly on the road before them, and Rubeus Hagrid swung off, cradling a small bundle in his arms.
"Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said, his voice thick. "Got him."
McGonagall stepped closer, her eyes falling on the child. The shock of white hair, the strange silver‑flecked green eyes, the pupils narrowing in the lamplight — it was all wrong and yet heartbreakingly familiar.
Hagrid shifted his grip, reluctant to let go. "He's been quiet the whole way. Didn't cry once."
Dumbledore looked down at the boy. "It is the only way."
They moved together toward Number Four. The house was dark, its windows blank. At the doorstep, Hagrid hesitated, his massive frame hunched over the bundle.
"Are yeh sure, Professor?"
Dumbledore nodded once. "Quite sure."
McGonagall stood beside him, her eyes never leaving the child's face. The night air was cool, the street silent. Somewhere far above, Hedwig circled once before disappearing into the darkness.
And there, on the quiet porch of Number Four, they prepared to leave Harry Potter at the door.