Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be caught up in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense. So, of course, it was to the Dursleys that the strange and mysterious Verity Potter was set to go.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck—although he did have a very large mustache.
Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde, with nearly twice the regular amount of neck, which came in useful as she spent most days spying on the neighbors. She did not have a job, choosing instead to let her husband support her, in favor of raising her son, Dudley.
Dudley Dursley, though just a year and a half, was already spoiled. He was a pink beachball of a toddler, with soft blond hair that seemed permanently plastered to his skull. His eyes were blue; they were small and would no doubt attempt to disappear into the melon of his face if the child kept on as he was. Though people on the streets might give him dark looks and mutter about the quality of Mrs. Dursley's parenting, the Dursleys themselves could often be heard to say that there couldn't be a finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted: a neat, well-tended lawn, on which sat a square house identical to all others on the street; a large company car, which Mr. Dursley could drive proudly to and from work; more than enough money to support themselves, but they also had a secret. They didn't think they could watch the perfect life they'd made for themselves tumble down around them, should anyone unearth that secret. They simply wouldn't bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, though they hadn't met in ages, and it was quite common for Mrs. Dursley to neglect to mention, or pretend she didn't have, a sister. The Potters were, of course, as un-Dursleyish as you can get, and even worse, they were proud of being so.
Mrs. Dursley had conveniently forgot to attend her sister's wedding, and the last letter she ever received from Mrs. Potter was the announcement that she'd given birth to a healthy son: Harry James. After glancing at the letter with a disgusted curl of her lip, Mrs. Dursley threw it away. She'd never be so stupid as to let Dudley mix with a child like that, and Harry was a filthy common name.
On a dark Tuesday night, which followed diligently behind a dull grey day, an old man appeared suddenly on Privet Drive. This did not mean that the man walked quickly to Privet Drive: He just popped into existence as though he'd always been there. No one noticed his sudden presence but a tabby cat, who sat stiffly on the garden wall of number four.
The old man had a long silver beard, twinkling blue eyes and a very crooked nose. He wore a set of robes and a purple cloak, which he rummaged through as he swept down the street. He was the exact opposite of anyone living on Privet Drive, and he was unwelcome because of that.
From his cloak the old man pulled what appeared to be a silver cigarette lighter. He opened it, contemplated it half a moment, then began to click it. But instead of creating light, the cigarette lighter took it away, until Privet Drive was as dark as death.
With the threat of detection eliminated, the old man sat down carefully on the garden wall beside the stiff tabby cat. He did not look at it—in the dark the was no way he could have seen it—but the old man must have been aware of its presence for he said, "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."
"How did you know it was me?" said the cat, but, of course, it was a cat no longer. It had shifted into a black-haired woman wearing square glasses and an emerald cloak.
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day."
The old man looked mildly surprised. "All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall seemed to wilt a moment, but then she rallied in anger. "Oh yes," she said. "Everyone's celebrating, all right. You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news."
The old man looked as if he wanted to say something at this point—ask why Professor McGonagall had been watching the news—but held his tongue.
"Flocks of owls... shooting stars..." the professor continued. "They're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent. I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle; he never had much sense."
The old man stared reproachfully at the professor. "You can't blame them. We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that. But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless: out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors." And here, the professor glanced meaningfully at the old man, as if to ask what was true and what was not. But he said nothing, so Professor McGonagall went on: "A fine thing it would be if on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have gone at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
The old man—Dumbledore—rummaged through the pockets of his cloak again, and retrieved a small box. "It certainly seems so. We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"
"A what?"
"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you. As I say, if You-Know-Who has gone—"
"My dear Professor," Dumbledore said, "surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his chosen name. All this "You-Know-Who" nonsense... for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched at the sound of the "proper name" but Dumbledore paid her no mind. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying "You-Know-Who." I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't, but you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know-Who—oh, all right—Voldemort was frightened of."
"You flatter me. Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore a rather exasperated look. "The owls are nothing to the rumors that are flying around," she said. "You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
Dumbledore said nothing. He extracted another sherbet lemon—as calm as you please—and continued to watch Professor McGonagall.
"What they're saying 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—they're—dead." The last word was choked and final.
Dumbledore bowed his head. "Harry, too."
Professor McGonagall gasped. "Lily and James... Little Harry? I can't believe it—I don't want to believe it... Oh, Albus." The tears Professor McGonagall seemed to have been fighting flowed, then.
Dumbledore patted her on the shoulder. "I know," he said gravely, and he did. You could tell by the look on his face.
"That's not all." Professor McGonagall's voice trembled. "They're saying he tried to kill the Potter children, Harry and Verity, but he couldn't. He couldn't kill... No one knows why, or how, but when he couldn't kill the Potter twins, Voldemort's power somehow broke, and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "This is partly true. Harry Potter is dead, I'm afraid. Only Verity Potter survived."
"After all this time... all he's done... all we thought and the people he's killed... he couldn't kill that little girl? How in the name of heaven did she survive?"
"We can only guess. We may never know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
Dumbledore took a gold pocketwatch, with twelve little hands, from his cloak and looked it over. "Hagrid's late," he said. "I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here?"
"Yes," Professor McGonagall agreed stiffly. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here of all places?"
"I've come to bring Verity to live with her aunt and uncle." Dumbledore gestured grandly at number four.
Professor McGonagall jumped to her feet. "You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here. Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day; they're the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. And they've got this son; I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, begging for sweets. Verity Potter, come and live here?"
"It's the best place for her." Dumbledore rose to stand beside the professor. "As an added precaution, she'll take her brother's name. Harrietta, I was thinking—it's close enough. We can make no secret of Verity's existence now; as we speak the Prophet is gathering information on "the Girl Who Survived" or some-such nonsense. Her aunt and uncle will be able to explain things when she's older. I've written them a letter."
Professor McGonagall crumpled back down to the garden wall. "A letter? Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand her. They cannot protect her. And our world would take her. She'll be famous. I wouldn't be surprised if today came to be known as Verity Potter Day. Let her stay."
Dumbledore shook his head. "It would be enough to turn any child's head. Famous before she can walk and talk. Famous for something she can't even remember? Can't you see how much better she'll be, growing up away from all that until she is ready to take it? Can't you see how much safer—"
"They aren't asking for her yet. We have time." Professor McGonagall seemed to be on the verge of shouting. With great effort she said more quietly, "Verity Potter and the Longbottom boy would be best protected if they stayed together, behind the strongest—"
"But it isn't Verity Potter coming to live here. It's Harrietta," Dumbledore interjected. "She'll be safest with her family, hidden behind her brother's name. The strongest wards would only alert the wrong people of something important behind those wards. Obscurity is the safest hiding-place there is."
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth as if she wanted to argue, but closed it again. "Yes," she said. "You're right—of course you're right. But how is she getting here?" She eyed Dumbledore's cloak, as though Verity might be hidden in its folds.
"Hagrid's bringing her."
"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life."
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall, "but he does tend to— What was that?"
A low rumbling noise came ever-closer, like thunder before a storm. It rose to a terrible criscendo, and then stopped. A huge motorcycle fell from the sky with a thump.
If the motorcycle was huge, the man astride it was gigantic. He was twice as tall as an ordinary man and five times as wide. In his muscular arms, with surprising gentleness, he held a small bundle wrapped in a blue blanket.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore. "At last. Where did you get that?" He gestured at the flying motorcycle.
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," Hagrid said proudly. "Young Sirius Black lent it me."
"No problems, were there?"
"No, sir." Hagrid carefully dismounted the motorcycle. "Molly Weasley didn't seem too keen on partin' with her, but she came 'round in the end. Verity fell asleep, just as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Both Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall leaned over the bundle Hagrid held. Inside, a baby girl la y lay fast asleep. Dumbledore moved aside a jet-black curl to reveal a raw cut, in the shape of a lightning bolt.
Professor McGonagall reached out, as if to touch the cut. "Is that where—"
"Yes," answered Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar for ever."
They stood in silence, contemplating baby Verity, until Dumbledore said, "Give her here, Hagrid. We'd better get this over with." Dumbledore took Verity—soon to be Harrietta—and turned toward the Dursleys' house.
"Could I say goodbye to her, sir?" Hagrid asked.
At Dumbledore's nod of assent, Hagrid bent his great shaggy head over the baby and gave her what must have been a very scratchy kiss.
Then, he let out a howl like a wounded dog, which woke the baby, who began to cry.
"Shh," said Professor McGonagall. "You'll wake the Muggles."
"S-Sorry," Hagrid sobbed. He took out a large handkerchief and buried his face in it. "But I can't stand it. Lily an' James an' Harry dead, and poor little Verity off to live alone with Muggles—"
"Yes, yes: it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found." Professor McGonagall patted Hagrid gingerly on the arm, but she was blinking back tears of her own.
Professor Dumbledore was soothing baby Verity, much more quietly than Hagrid was being comforted, and when she seemed calmer, Dumbledore stepped over number four's garden wall. He laid the baby on number four's step and knelt beside her. With a tiny silver needle and a drop of Verity's blood, the wards—to protect Harrietta, for the greater good, Dumbledore told himself—were activated.
The old man tucked a letter into the baby's blanket and stepped back. He, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid stood, observing their handiwork.
"That's that," Dumbledore said finally. "We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid. "I'd best bring Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall. Professor Dumbledore, sir."
With a roar, Hagrid flew away on the bike, and with a click of Dumbledore's cigarette lighter, the streetlights of Privet Drive sprang back to life.
"I expect I shall see you soon," Dumbledore said, but Professor McGonagall was already gone. All that was left of her was a tabby cat, slinking down the street.
Imagine mundane Mrs. Dursley's surprise when, on a dreary Wednesday morning at the very beginning of November, she went to put the milk on the step and found a baby girl wrapped in blankets already there, one small hand clutching a letter. The little girl's eyes opened at her aunt's scream, and she stared up at the startled Mrs. Dursley, stretching out her arms with a gurgle of laughter.
The child is to be called Harrietta Lily Potter, the accompanying letter said, and she is your niece. Born at war and in the presence of a spy, it was deemed best to conceal everything. Every small detail, including the gender and given name of this child, could be used against us.
Your home holds a special protection for Harrietta, and as long as she calls it her home, too, those who would do her harm can not touch her.
Keep her safe, Petunia. Many condolences. Your sister fought bravely.
It was grudgingly that the Dursleys took Harrietta, but there would never be love left over for her in their care. The only reasons the child wasn't shipped off to the nearest opphanage were that Mrs. Dursley owed her sister for every unkind word she'd ever said and the numerous mean things she'd done, and that she couldn't help but admire the way Lily had sacrificed herself for the safety of her daughter. Sometimes, on the darker side of midnight, Mrs. Dursley wondered if—doubted that—she loved her family enough to sacrifice her own life for them, and the prospect made her feel bitter and hollow and unwell.
In a hushed argument between Mr. and Mrs. Dursley all was settled: Harrietta could stay, though Mr. Dursley agreed with the utmost reluctance. "She doesn't belong here, Petunia," he sighed. "I have half a mind to refuse to shelter one of her lot on principle alone. It might even be kinder; if anything could stamp the freakishness out, it's the system."
"We'll just have to make the best of it, dear," Mrs. Dursley said, and she stared down a moment at Harrietta Potter with thinly-veiled pity. "If anyone can get rid of her freakishness, it's you."
Harrietta, almost as if she understood the proceedings around her, whimpered fitfully. She stared up at her aunt with her mother's green eyes.
Mrs. Dursley shivered. Something about the baby's stare made Mrs. Dursley unreasonably nervous. "We'll just put her in the cupboard," she decided, and she rose, gingerly lifted the baby as though it might bite her, and went to do just that: She stashed little Harrietta in the cupboard under the stairs, where she was out of sight, out of mind.
There was no way the isolated, rather melancholy child Harrietta grew up to be would know—would guess-that all over England people met in secret while her living arrangements were made. They raised glasses of smoky liquor in the shadowed corners of London, in lonely manors on the moors, around cozy fires in small villages. They whispered as glass clinked on glass:
"Here's to the end of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, to the Girl Who Lived, to the end of the war."
And how could they, poor jubilants, ever guess that they were wrong? For the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the newly-named Harrietta were the catalyst, the beginning of something much murkier, much darker, than they could ever have imagined.
Author's Note: I do not own Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling does. If you recognize anything, it's from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived.)
I changed Harrietta's birthname because, as a Reddit user pointed out somewhere down the line, Lily probably wouldn't have named her daughter some weird feminine form of Harry. Most likely fem!Harry's name would be a flower name, but none of the flower names I found and liked were sufficiently British for this. Verity means "truth" and, like Harry, has always struck me as a very old, stuffy name.
I hope you enjoy the new and hopefully improved version of this story.
—Avra Kedavra