A cat sat outside Number 5, Privet Drive. It was a very purposeful cat, a tabby with intelligent eyes and a strict demeanour that demanded the utmost respect—even if it was just a cat, and even if it was pouring down rain. But it wasn't just a cat and it wasn't simply passing through Little Whinging on a search for food scraps and small animals; no, it was there with a purpose and it was there commanding respect in that wet, stuck up little neighbourhood and it was certainly not there to hunt.

It was also outside the wrong house.

So it had happened that when Albus Dumbledore had informed her of his intent to leave their small saviour with his aunt and uncle he had also admitted that he wasn't exactly sure where they lived. Oh, he knew that it was Privet Drive and he knew that the aunt was Petunia who happened to have a small son a few months older than little Harry, but he didn't know the house number or her husband's name and it would be so much of a bother to go find out, given the chaos the Wizarding world currently found itself in. But Minerva certainly wouldn't mind going to check, would she? It would be such a help, especially considering the state of things. And he had a (albeit old) photo.

And she hadn't minded, not really, glad for an excuse to go and watch the muggles who were supposed to watch the son of two of her favourite students. She recalled Lily crying and complaining about how her sister shunned her out of jealousy for her magic and she was loathe to leave Harry with that woman. But perhaps things had changed...?

As it turned out Minerva had ended up there in the late morning and so had missed Petunia leaving Number 4, but she had certainly heard the loud wails coming from Number 5 and, promptly looking through the window, saw who could only be the woman she was looking for and the boy who Albus must have been referring to—though "small" wasn't exactly the word for him. A man was at the table as well, a man with slightly tousled chestnut hair and clear brown eyes who had a rather forced smile on his chiselled face as he served the woman tea.

There was nothing visible to dissuade Minerva from believing that this was the house of Petunia and her son, and apparently a rather unfortunate husband who had perhaps rushed into this whole family business a tad too soon, judging by his young features. She couldn't see the moving boxes that were stacked haphazardly in the bedrooms or the plate of biscuits in the kitchen that Petunia had brought as a "welcome to the neighbourhood" gift.

It wasn't her fault that around 1 when Petunia was leaving Minerva was being distracted by a rather excitable dog that either wanted to play with her or eat her—it wasn't particularly clear. Or that when 5:30 came and the woman in question came out to greet her actual husband an incredibly lost semi-truck whose driver looked terribly confused thundered down the obviously residential street and made the usually stern witch leap head-first into the bushes. And when night fell and the rain started (along with some actual thunder and lightning), every curtain on Privet Drive was drawn tightly shut.

It was that chain of very strange coincidences that left Minerva McGonagall forever bemused about the muggle world and saw Harry Potter being set on the doorstep of Number 5, Privet Drive with a letter that contained information about the Wizarding world clasped tightly in his chubby toddler hand.

Anthony Bishop liked to consider himself an honest man. He worked hard to earn the money he had, kept well within the boundaries of the law, and would never be one to look covetously at another man's wife (especially not Vernon Dursley's, he'd thought grimly as he finally managed to shoo the ghastly woman from his house.) He had originally thought that Privet Drive would be a good neighbourhood to move to as he worked to make a name for himself, but if Petunia Dursley was any indication of the rest of the street's occupants he'd found himself rather out of luck.

The idea that luck had decided to take a vacation from his life was reinforced when he heard a crying sound from outside his door the following morning. Opening it up he found a baby on the doorstep, wrapped in a wet blanket with tufts of jet black hair sticking up in every direction. Its eyes were screwed shut and its face was red and soaked with tears while its forehead was marred by an angry, jagged scar. Not entirely sure of what he was doing Anthony quickly scooped up the little one and the thick envelope beside it and returned inside.

Curious as he was, Anthony's years as a med student kicked in (and he finally had his doctorate) and he knew his first priority was to get the little one dried and warm. This provided the answer to one question; peeling off the wet clothes and the soiled nappy, Anthony was able to see that his charge was very much a boy. He briefly considered ringing Petunia and asking to borrow some baby things, but he quickly decided that he would rather not let the Privet Drive Gossip Queen in on this business quite yet. Instead he grabbed a soft towel and pinned it around the child's nether regions as a crude sort of nappy before wrapping it in a layer of saran wrap to prevent too much leakage. At some point the child had stopped crying and instead was sniffling softly, gazing up at him with the most brilliant pair of emerald eyes Anthony had ever seen. He smiled gently.

"It's alright, little one, I'm not going to hurt you," Anthony murmured softly, placing a blanket around the boy's shoulders before turning his attention to the gash on his forehead. The boy whimpered and pulled away when he reached out to touch it. "Hey, I said I wasn't going to hurt you. I just want to help you get better," he soothed.

"Hep?" the boy asked timidly. "Muma? Dada?" Anthony frowned and he could feel his heart break.

"I can help you, little one, but I don't know about your parents," he told the child, slowly reaching out to brush the fine black hair away from the cut again. This time the boy didn't pull away, but he did stare at Anthony with his wide emerald eyes. "What's your name?"

"Hauw," the boy said, slapping a hand on his chest. Anthony tilted his head slightly in confusion. "Hauw!" the boy insisted, apparently not liking Anthony's inability to grasp his take on the English language.

"How?" Anthony asked, running a hand through his hair in bewilderment.

"Hauw-ee," the child emphasized and this time Anthony understood.

"Oh, Harry?" The boy nodded, looking pleased with himself. "Well my name's Anthony and it's very nice to meet you."

"Anfin?" Harry squinted at the strange man who was gently prodding the skin around the cut. He grinned when Anthony chuckled.

"Close enough, kiddo."

That had been morning and for some reason Anthony had not yet called anyone—not the police, not child services, not even the Dursleys. Instead he laid Harry down for a nap in the middle of his bed after a very hectic breakfast ("'Muma!' 'I'm sorry kiddo, but your mama's not here,'" and "Wan' Dada, Anfin no!" and "Pafoo, Mooni, wan' Muma!" and definitely the least heart wrenching of all "'Mik!' 'You can have milk after you drink some water, Harry.' 'No wa'oo, mik!'").

He really wasn't sure why he hadn't called anyone yet.

Perhaps it was the promise of answers that were potentially held in that parchment envelope.

So Anthony sat down on the bed beside Harry, leaning against the headboard, and turned the thing over in his hands. It was addressed to a Petunia and he could only assume that it was meant for Petunia Dursley and that Harry had only accidentally ended up on his doorstep. Thinking back to the woman's horrid behaviour the day before and her overweight, spoilt son, Anthony realized very quickly that he was glad that Harry had ended up with him instead. With some hesitation, he broke the wax seal and opened the letter.

What was this? Anthony grimly noted that Harry's parents—Lily and James Potter—were dead, but what sort of people had they been mixed up in? Murdered by a Lord Voldemort (flight from death, what sort of person was this?) who called himself a dark lord wizard, and allied with a group of people who believed that magic was real and that they were also wizards—and that Harry had saved them from this death man after being hit with something called a "Killing Curse" (and if that wasn't macabre Anthony didn't know what was). And they were expecting him back when he turned eleven so that he could go through a sort of wizard training.

If this idea of people who believed they could perform magic coming to sweep up Harry after abandoning him with his aunt (had they managed to actually find the right house) didn't make up Anthony's mind then the last paragraph of the letter did. Apparently this "Albus Dumbledore" (which seemed nearly as bad as the name "Voldemort") knew that Lily and Petunia had been estranged for years, that Petunia had done her best to make her sister's life miserable throughout their teen years, but was asking that all that be put aside in favour of the little boy who was being forced upon her. And why? Something about wards being tied to Harry and Petunia's shared blood that would protect the boy from the spirit of his parents' murderer.

If Anthony ever met Albus Dumbledore, he was punching the man in the face—"wizard" or not.

Anthony Bishop liked to consider himself an honest man, but in that moment he realized that he would much rather be a good one. And he started to plan.