Chapter 10: Petunia's Doorstep
Privet Drive was quiet. Perfectly, painfully quiet.
The street was a portrait of suburban discipline. Driveways spotless, hedges clipped with militaristic precision, and windows so clean they reflected the moonlight like polished mirrors. Each house stood like a brick guardian of order, conformity, and silence. It was the kind of neighborhood that noticed the sound of a leaf falling out of season.
A gentle wind swept along the curb, carrying the scent of damp leaves, chimney smoke, and clipped grass. Somewhere, a sprinkler creaked. Somewhere else, a garden gnome squeaked as it shifted slightly in the breeze. But otherwise, all was still.
Then the sky tore open.
A low rumble at first—distant, echoing, unfamiliar. Then louder. Metallic. Impossible. A motorcycle.
But not just any motorcycle.
It descended from the sky like thunder on wings.
Hagrid's massive black bike roared over the rooftops, trailing streaks of silver sparks. The sound rolled down Privet Drive like a tide of rebellion against the order the street prided itself on.
The bike landed with an earthshaking thud, its tires crunching onto the paved curb outside Number Four. The smell of burnt oil, leather, and cold night air wafted into the street.
Albus Dumbledore stood beside the front gate, perfectly still.
His robes, deep as midnight, fluttered in the breeze. The embroidery of stars along the hem seemed to shift with their own light. In his arms, wrapped in a woolen green blanket and a soft golden one, lay two sleeping children.
The lamplight above them flickered faintly, as if unsure whether to illuminate this moment or hide it in shadow.
Professor McGonagall, perched like a sentinel on the brick garden wall, whispered, "Both of them?"
Dumbledore nodded, his expression unreadable. "Both survived."
She stepped down, her eyes flitting to the bundles in his arms. "The scar... it's real?"
Dumbledore gently shifted the green bundle. A tiny forehead gleamed under the moonlight. A jagged, fresh scar, raw and red, burned like a rune.
"Harry carries it," he said quietly. "But both carry something. Power. Pain. A link to something greater."
McGonagall looked at the golden bundle. Hardwin slept more peacefully, his face calmer, as if holding something ancient behind those closed lids.
"You're leaving both here?" she asked, disbelief tightening her voice.
"I must," Dumbledore replied.
McGonagall stepped toward the house. The walls were blank. Sterile. Lifeless. "Petunia was always jealous. Cold. And Vernon is..."
"Ordinary," Dumbledore said. "Aggressively so."
"They won't understand them. Not their magic. Not their grief."
Dumbledore's eyes flicked toward the brass number above the door.
"They don't need to understand. They only need to love, however imperfectly. The protection works through blood. Lily's blood."
The wind rustled the hedges. A cat yowled somewhere far off. The neighborhood held its breath.
Dumbledore walked slowly toward the door, every footstep echoing across the concrete path. The motion-sensor light clicked on with a dull hum, throwing a sterile beam over the front step.
He knelt.
Harry shifted in his sleep. A whimper escaped. Dumbledore gently brushed a silvery strand of hair from his forehead.
Then he looked down at Hardwin. The boy didn't stir. But his tiny hand twitched.
And for a fleeting moment, Dumbledore felt something radiate from him—a stillness deeper than sleep.
He set them down gently, side by side, their blankets tucked around them.
The doorstep was cold stone, slightly damp with dew. He conjured a warming charm.
Then, from his robes, he drew a thick envelope.
The parchment was textured, hand-cut. The handwriting upon it flowed with unmistakable clarity:
Petunia Dursley
The ink shimmered as he placed the letter carefully beneath the folds of Harry's blanket.
"You must read it," he murmured. "Please, Petunia."
Professor McGonagall stood beside him now, her hands trembling. Her lips were tight with unspoken worry.
"They'll be alone," she said. "No one here will know them. Understand them."
Dumbledore rose slowly. "They will not be truly alone."
"Will you tell them? About each other? About what they are?"
"In time. When the world is ready. When they are ready."
A silence followed, long and hollow.
The wind tugged at Dumbledore's beard. The lamplight buzzed above them.
Then, Hagrid sniffled from behind. "I hate leavin' 'em here," he said thickly. "Feels wrong."
Dumbledore placed a hand on the half-giant's arm.
"Thank you, Hagrid. You did more than we could have asked."
"I'd've raised 'em meself if I could," Hagrid mumbled.
"I know."
Far down the lane, the clock from the village church chimed once. One o'clock.
A breeze blew through the hedges. The garden gnome squeaked again.
Dumbledore took one final look at the boys.
Two sleeping faces. One marked by death. One marked by memory.
Side by side.
Wrapped in protection, in hope, in the weight of all that had been lost.
"Good luck, my boys," he whispered.
Then, with a swirl of robes, he vanished.
McGonagall gave the house one last glare. Then she transformed with a crack, paws padding silently into shadow.
Hagrid revved the motorbike, its engine growling like thunder in a cathedral.
And with a final burst of wind, he soared into the sky.
Privet Drive fell silent once more.
The wind calmed.
The light above the door flickered.
And inside Number Four, Petunia Dursley stirred.
She dreamed of a red-haired girl and a boy with glasses.
She dreamed of promises broken and a letter on the doorstep.
She did not yet know that history lay just beyond her door.
But the knock would come.
Soon.