•°HARRY POTTER And The Philosopher's Stone °•

•°THE BOY WHO LIVED 4°•

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most

anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with

such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever “everyone”

was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

“What they’re saying, “ she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort

turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that

Lily and James Potter are – are – that they’re – dead. “

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James... I can’t believe it... I didn’t want to believe it... Oh,

Albus...”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know... I

know...” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.

They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ son, Harry. But – he couldn’t. He

couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying

that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke

– and that’s why he’s gone.” Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s – it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s done...

all the people he’s killed... he couldn’t kill a little boy? It’s just astounding...

of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry

survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her

eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to

tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family

he has left now.”

“You don’t mean – you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Pro-

fessor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.

“Dumbledore – you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t

find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son – I saw him

kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry

Potter come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt and uncle

will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve written them

a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on

the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter?

These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous – a legend – I

wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter Day in the future

– there will be books written about Harry – every child in our world will

know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his

half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous

before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even remem-

ber! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all

that until he’s ready to take it?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed,

and then said, “Yes – yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting

here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he

might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

“You think it – wise – to trust Hagrid with something as important as

this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor McGo-

nagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to

– what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew

steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a

headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky – and a huge

motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it.

He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide.

He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild – long tangles of bushy

black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast,

muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did

you get that motorcycle?

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said the giant, climbing

carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me.

I’ve got him, sir. “

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir – house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before

the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was flyin’ over

Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of

blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a tuft of