Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thankfully. They were the last people you'd expect to find involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they simply didn't approve of such nonsense. Mrs. Dursley, a tall, bony woman with a neck almost twice the normal length, spent most of her time spying on the neighbors and gossiping about anything she considered "abnormal." Her life was a study in complacent dullness.
It was on an unusually grey and cold Tuesday, before a hot summer, that the normality of Privet Drive was threatened. Mrs. Dursley, after a full day of gossiping about Mrs. Figg's gaudy new purple cloak, returned home with a strange feeling of unease. Something was not right. She mentioned this to Mr. Dursley over dinner, and he, after snorting about his neighbors' eccentricity, shrugged, absorbed in his television program.
But the next day, the abnormality became more apparent. Mr. Dursley noticed a cat reading a map. Then, people dressed in extravagant, vibrantly colored cloaks milled about the streets, whispering in low voices and shaking hands excitedly. One word was repeated over and over again, one Mr. Dursley had tried to erase from his memory for years: "Potter."
"Nonsense!" he snarled at his wife that evening, clinging to the normalcy of his dinner. "The Potters have nothing to do with this."
However, as night fell on Privet Drive, the truth began to unravel in the most unlikely way. It was Albus Dumbledore, with his long silver beard and blue eyes flashing behind half-moon spectacles, who appeared as if from nowhere on the street corner, extinguishing the streetlights with a silver contraption. Soon after, Professor Minerva McGonagall, who had spent the entire day disguised as a tabby cat, materialized at his side.
"Are the rumors true, Albus?" the professor asked, her voice choked with anxiety. "About You-Know-Who... about James..."
"I'm afraid so, Minerva," Dumbledore replied with a heavy sigh, a deep sadness in his eyes. "James... is dead. He stepped in to protect them, and the spell rebounded. You-Know-Who... is gone, at least for now."
A silence fell over the street, heavy with pain.
"And Harry?" Minerva asked urgently. "Where are the children?"
Dumbledore looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Harry is safe. Rubeus Hagrid will bring him in shortly. He is... the Boy Who Lived. And thanks to James's sacrifice, Lily survived the attack, albeit... battered and shaken. She is under the protection of the Mediwizard at St. Mungo's."
Minerva sighed in relief at the news from Lily. Just then, a familiar roar filled the air, and a huge flying motorcycle descended from the sky, stopping right in front of them. Sitting on it was a bearded giant with glowing eyes and a bundle of blankets in his arms. It was Rubeus Hagrid.
"Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid, his eyes filling with tears. "I've got him here. Little Harry."
With great care, Hagrid handed the bundle into Dumbledore's arms. A baby, wrapped in blankets, was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the lightning bolt scar on its forehead.
"Are you sure about this, Albus?" Minerva whispered, her voice choked. "Leave him with those people? I've been spying on them all day, and they're... they're the worst."
"They are his only family, Minerva. The ties of blood. The magic of Lily's blood will protect him here while his mother recovers," Dumbledore said firmly. "It is the safest place for him."
They placed the baby on the doormat at number four, next to a letter. Dumbledore stood up, looked around, and with one last glance at the sleeping child, said solemnly, "Good luck, Harry Potter."
And with that, little Harry was left at the mercy of a world that had changed forever.