Prologue – Final Part
On a Quiet Street in Surrey
The tabby cat had been perched on the low garden wall of Privet Drive since before dawn, motionless as carved stone. Its eyes—large, lamp-like, unblinking—had tracked every unusual movement on a street that prided itself on having none.
This had not been a normal day.
Owls had flown in broad daylight, their wings slicing pale November sky. Shooting stars had rained over Kent in numbers that defied astronomy. Men and women in long cloaks had been glimpsed in village lanes and city backstreets, faces pale with disbelief and wild hope, whispering the same impossible sentence again and again:
"He's gone."
Now the sky had darkened to deep navy, stars pricking through like scattered diamonds. A chill wind carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and distant bonfires. The streetlamps buzzed softly, their orange light pooling on immaculate lawns and identical front doors.
At the corner of the street, a figure appeared without sound or warning.
He did not step out of shadow; he simply was there.
A tall man in a plum-colored cloak that seemed to drink the darkness around it. Long silver beard tucked into his belt. Half-moon spectacles catching stray starlight. Albus Dumbledore moved down the pavement with the quiet glide of someone who had long ago stopped needing to touch the ground in any ordinary way.
He paused outside Number 4 and looked up at the house.
No triumph showed on his face. No smile. Only weariness carved deep into the lines around his eyes, and behind the famous twinkle, something guarded—almost wary.
A soft rustle came from the garden wall.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall," he said without turning.
The tabby stretched, limbs elongating, fur shimmering like liquid moonlight. In a single fluid motion the cat became a tall, severe woman in emerald robes and tartan cloak. Minerva McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line.
"They're celebrating," she said, voice clipped. "In Diagon Alley. In Hogsmeade. In every pub from here to the Orkneys. They're saying You-Know-Who has gone. That he was killed… by a baby."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "By Hadrian Potter."
McGonagall's gaze sharpened. "Is it true?"
"It is." A pause. "Though the precise mechanism… remains a subject of considerable speculation."
She turned her head toward Number 4. The windows were dark, curtains drawn tight. The house looked exactly like every other house on the street—safe, ordinary, aggressively normal.
"And this," she said quietly, "is where you intend to leave him?"
"Yes." Dumbledore's voice was gentle, but final. "With his aunt and uncle. His mother's sister. Blood of the blood. It is the only way the charm can be made truly unbreakable."
McGonagall's hands clenched at her sides. "The boy. Is he… normal?"
The question hung between them like frost.
Dumbledore's eyes lost their customary sparkle. "The Killing Curse rebounded. Voldemort was torn from his body. But Lily's sacrifice…" He drew a slow breath. "It was extraordinary. She died willingly. Loving her son enough to weave a shield no dark curse could breach."
"But that is not all that happened," McGonagall said, almost whispering.
"No." Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "There was… something else. A surge of power unlike anything I have encountered. Not simply magical. Ancient. Vast. Almost… cosmic in its resonance. And yet the child emerged entirely unharmed."
"You do not know what it was."
"I have theories," he said softly. "None of them comforting."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant bark of a neighborhood dog.
Then a low, mechanical rumble rolled down from the sky.
A shadow passed over the streetlamps. A huge silhouette descended—Sirius Black's flying motorbike, engine growling like distant thunder. At its center sat Rubeus Hagrid, massive shoulders hunched, beard streaked with tears that glittered in the lamplight. In the crook of one enormous arm lay a small bundle wrapped in blankets.
Hadrian Potter.
He did not cry. He did not fuss.
He simply looked.
Bright, unnaturally vivid green eyes moved slowly across the three adults. They lingered longest on Dumbledore—fixed on the wand in his hand. For a single heartbeat, something passed across the boy's face: not recognition, not fear, but a quiet, instinctive awareness. As though some deep part of him felt the wood, the core, the latent power humming inside it… and answered.
Dumbledore stepped forward and lifted the child from Hagrid's arms with infinite care.
Hadrian's gaze never wavered.
No scar marked his forehead. No cry broke from his lips. Only those eyes—emerald fire banked low, watching, measuring.
Dumbledore carried him to the doorstep of Number 4. He knelt, laid the boy gently on a thick wool blanket, and tucked a thick envelope beside him. The letter was sealed with crimson wax, the Hogwarts crest gleaming faintly.
He straightened.
"It is done," he said.
But even as the words left his mouth, he felt it.
A deep, resonant thrum beneath the soles of his boots. Not an earthquake. Not a spell. Something older. Something alive.
The silver rune-wire he had cast toward the house shimmered once—too brightly, too long—then sank into the brick. The golden wire he had anchored to Petunia Dursley's blood hummed in answer, a low vibration that seemed to echo inside his own ribcage.
The wards took hold. But they did not settle.
They thrummed.
Dumbledore frowned. He had expected stability. Instead he felt… resonance. As though something inside the house—inside the child—was answering. Echoing. Growing.
He shook his head once, as if to clear it.
"We will watch over him," he said, more to himself than to the others.
McGonagall said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the small bundle on the step.
Hagrid gave one last choking sob, wiped his face on his sleeve, and climbed back onto the motorbike.
Dumbledore raised his wand in silent farewell.
The bike rose into the night with a low growl, swallowed by darkness.
The headmaster and the Transfiguration professor stood a moment longer.
Then Dumbledore turned away.
Above them, the stars seemed to flicker once—almost imperceptibly.
A faint ripple passed across the sky, too subtle for human eyes to follow.
But it was there.
And far beyond the reach of wands or words, something ancient turned its attention downward.
The engine had started. The boy had been delivered. And the quiet street in Surrey— so very proud of its normalcy— would never be quiet again.
End of Prologue.