Ch 1. continue of 1st chapter

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor

McGonagall 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, sit," 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 jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously

shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself

above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well

-- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house.

"Could I -- could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very

scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a

wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and

burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it -- Lily an' James dead

-- an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or

we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly

on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to

the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out

of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to

the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at

the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall

blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying

here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his

bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself

onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose

into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore,

nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he

stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and

twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet

Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking

around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the

bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish

of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and

tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect

astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his

blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside

him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was

famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs.

Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk

bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and

pinched by his cousin Dudley... He couldn't know that at this very

moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up

their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter -- the boy

who lived!"

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