:

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚: 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝘼𝙙𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙨

"Three, two, one,"

The sound of the mailman's scream reached Harry's ear. The black-haired boy smirked in delight, as he and his two laughing siblings stuck their heads through the bushes of their home, watching as the mailman ran, screaming and waving his hands in the air, as a spider climbed down the mailbox and into his little sister's awning hands.

"Good job, Homer, you managed to scare that man out of his wits," commented Harry as he stood up from the ground, Wednesday and Pugsley following. "How did you know he was afraid of spiders, Harry?" questioned Pugsley as he looked up at his older brother, admiration and wonder in his piercing blue eyes. "Yes, how did you know, Harry?" Wednesday asked in a skeptical tone. Her eyebrows rose in question, as her noose braids (braids he helped her do early this morning before elementary school started) swayed as they walked back to the house.

Harry smirked at his siblings. "Simple. I gave him a ring last week and pretended to be a person from a cruise company, saying he won a free cruise to the Caribbean. I asked him a bunch of questions, where he was from, his favorite color, before asking what he was most afraid of. To which he answered, saying: "Spiders, I hate spiders". Before I hung up on him."

Wednesday gave a smirk of her own. She loved her older brother and his schemes. He was very good at plotting a plan and hatching it. Of course, their mother and father taught him from a very young age.

"How thrilling, who shall we prey on next, dear brother?" she asked. Harry gave her an amused look. "I was thinking, Mr. Tully, he should be easy. Knowing that he's a coward would make my job easier." mused Harry, before they walked up the stairs of their home and opened the door. The three Addamses strode into their home, their dirty shoes creating stains and footprints on the plush carpet in the entryway, right by the winding staircase.

"Children!" said a silky voice coming from the top of the stairs. Standing there in a tight-fitting black dress was their mother. Morticia Addams. Her long glossy hair was in waves, and her arms were crossed over her chest. Her blood-red nails tapped against her arm as she arched a brow at her children. "Have you seen your father? He was supposed to be back by now." Harry turned his head to look at his siblings before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, mother. We have not. We'll let you know when we see him." Harry gave her a nod before trailing off to the kitchens, where he knew his grandmother would be cooking some delicious dinner. Wednesday and Pugsley tried to follow, but their mother called their names, making them stop. Harry didn't stick around to hear what his mother wanted from his siblings and continued walking towards the kitchens - passing portraits as he went.

There were many portraits of his family. A lot of them were portraits of his siblings, with a few of his entire family—father, mother, sister, brother, and grandmother,—and a couple of just his parents; who were usually in a passionate embrace; and a few of his distant relations.

Of course, there was a portrait of his mother and him. It was his favorite. His mother and Harry were sitting in the cemetery, his mother wearing her long black dress and her blood-red lips were pulled into a smirk. Morticia had her hand resting on a toddler, Harry. His unruly black hair was as long and curly as ever, and her nails were running through the locks. He wore black shorts and a white button-up shirt with black suspenders, and in his hands was a butcher knife he stole from the kitchens earlier that day. His pale skin looked sickly and his green eyes were narrowed in concentration with his round glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and a sneer was curled at his lips. The portrait was perfect for Harry, and it made his stomach tingle with a feeling he didn't understand.

After admiring the portrait, he made a mental note to tell Lurch to dust this portrait corridor and make sure this particular portrait was extra dusty. He sighed and ran his hands through his black curls before counting his journey to the kitchens. The closer he got, the better he could hear his grandmother screeching the lullaby song she always sang while cooking. His Grandmother's voice could send a man to an early grave, and the thought of it made Harry shiver in pleasure.

He pushed the doors open and smirked at his grandmother. Her hair was fizzy and in a matted mess, and she wore an apron with blood and rips, and in the pockets of her apron were bits and pieces of body parts and herbs. He could smell witch hazel and herbs brewing in the many pots and cauldrons, and on the walls were recipes and potion recipes tacked up. Dried herbs were hanging from the ceiling and the walls, and glass vials and bottles were stocked everywhere.

"Hello Grandmother," said Harry in a bored voice. Grandmama looked over her shoulder to see her oldest grandson striding into the kitchen. She smirked and clapped her hands together. "Ah! Harry! Come, come! It's time for our lessons." an eager spark was in her eyes as she brushed her white hair back. "Today I'm going to show the art of poison, something that every child your age should have perfected. Tell me, did you read that book I gave you?"

Harry smirked in response. "Of course I did." He laced his hands together and bent them back, cracking them. He was buzzing in anticipation of the prospect of poisoning someone. He knew the basics, but he wanted to learn how to become immune to the poisons and how to get away with murder by only giving the victim small doses at a time.

Poisoning is a natural art for the Addamses. And even though he wasn't born an Addams, he's still an Addams in name and because he grew up in this family of eccentrics and "weirdos". Maybe he could even poison Bradly Chiles — an annoying boy from his elementary class. He was pretty, blonde, with perfect blue eyes, and a dick. He was a bully and hated Harry. Although, he never tries anything with Harry. Not since the third day of school. Not since Harry embarrassed Bradly so badly, he pissed himself in front of the entire 4th grade. Yes, that was a delightful day. The memory made Henry smirk to himself before he shook himself awake and took in the information his grandmother was giving him.

For the next two hours, Harry and Grandmama were in the kitchen, cutting herbs and roots, brewing poisons, and learning how to cut a mandrake root the proper way. It wasn't until the shrill scream of the alarm in the kitchen did they stop.

"Oh! That's dinner." Grandmama shuffled over to the oven. "We'll continue this lesson tomorrow, Harry." Harry nodded his head. "Okay. I'll go let Pugsley and Wednesday know that dinner is ready." He strode out of the kitchen and passed the portraits and heard his family before he saw them. Wednesday and Pugsley were screaming at each other, trying to see who had the most terrifying scream, and his parents were dancing to Lurch playing the harpsichord. His parents—as always—sported loving expressions on their faces as they waltz, his mother's head leaning against his father's shoulders.

Harry's face muscles twitched at the sight before clearing his throat.

"Dinner is ready," Gomez stops and turns his head towards Harry, a smirk on his face. "Ah! Harry my boy!" He and Morticia glide over to Harry. Wednesday and Pugsley followed their parents close behind. "Grandmama has demanded that it's dinnertime," he explained.

"Oh, Grandmama, what would we do without her repulsive dinners and demands?" cooed Morticia as the family of five wandered down to the dining room.

•••★•••

It was a horrible Saturday morning. The blasted sun was out, and the birds were chirping, and children were riding their bikes outside. When Harry woke up this morning, he recoiled in disgust at the sight of the sun's rays streaming into his black and bleak room. Poor Wednesday had screamed in terror at the sight.

He sighed and rolled off his bed, donning his black shorts and black-and-white striped shirt, and pulled on his socks and combat boots before striding down the stairs. Lurch was currently dusting the house and as he passed, Harry dragged his index finger across the railing of the winding staircase and saw it covered in dust. He smirked.

"Thank you Lurch," Lurch groaned in response and watched as Harry walked down the stairs with all the grace he learned from his mother, and the confidence he learned from his father. He watched as Pugsley ran around the house from Wednesday, clutching the headless doll she slept with.

"Come back here, you big lump!!" she shouted as Pugsley laughed. Harry's heart softened at the sight.

The doors opened from Gomez's office and Harry watched as Tully slumped away, keeping his briefcase close to his chest. Harry noticed immediately that Tully's suit was ripped in a few places, most likely because of his father beating him once again at their duel. Of course, that's what Harry expected. Gomez Addams has years of Mazurka training and Addams blood running through his veins. He's a natural swordsman.

Tully ignored all the chaos around him and walked out of the Addames home. He didn't even realize that the pet lion; Kitty walked past him and into the home. Purring in contempt. Once the doors slammed shut, Harry smiled and placed his hand on Kitty's head.

"Hello Kitty, pleasant sleep?" the lion purred in response as Harry's pale, long, and spider-like fingers threaded through his mane.

"Harry!! Tell Pugsley to give me back my doll!!"

Harry let his eyes land on his 9-year-old sister. Her black hair was in braids and her eyes were filled with anger and mischief. He knew, once this was all over, Wednesday would play a dangerous prank or use Pugsley as a guinea pig for one of her newest torture devices she received from her subscription: "Torturous Tortue". His mother had insisted she'd get a membership for her 9th birthday.

"Pugsley, why on earth did you outright steal her doll?" scolded Harry. His eyes filled with disappointment. "Haven't I taught better than this? You don't steal the doll, you do something to the doll. Fill it with confetti, or worse, pink glitter." Pugsley looked down in shame.

"Now, Pugsley, give Wednesday her doll back," Pugsley sighed and gave the doll back to Wednesday before he slithered off into the manor. Wednesday smirked before walking off in the opposite direction, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.

Harry smirked and walked towards the dining room where Lurch was preparing breakfast while his mother sat next to his father's chair, opening up letters and muttering to herself.

"Good morning, Mother," greeted Harry. Morticia looked up and gave her eldest a loving smile.

"Good morning Harry, how was your sleep?" Harry kissed his mother's cheek before sitting down next to her. "Oh, it was horrible, filled with night terrors and darkness."

"Wonderful!" she chimed in. Lurch handed Harry a plate full of slop from his Grandmother's brew and he rubbed his hands in glee. His grandmother was the perfect cook.

As he ate his food, Morticia gasped at the sight of a letter. He looked up, his brows furrowing in confusion and curiosity. His mother hastily looked over the letter, reading the address and recognizing her old teacher's handwriting. She smiled softly before looking up at her son.

"Harry, darling, you are aware that we adopted you," started Morticia, as she placed the letter down on the table. Harry stopped eating and nodded his head. His parents never once kept the truth from him, that he was adopted and a mass murderer killed his biological parents.

"Well, my little snake, you have been invited by the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to attend their school." Harry looked down at his ringless fingers. "Is that the same school you attended, Mother?" Morticia nodded. "Yes, I had a lovely time there." She sighed happily.

"The school is in England and we would have to schedule a port key to take you there, and I would have to write to my sister to meet you and house you for a couple of weeks before term starts, and you'll have to do you shopping there as well." Gomez walked into the dining room and sat down next to his wife, kissing her cheek.

"But, I think you'll be able to go if you wish," Gomez looked up at his wife, confusion laced in his eyes. "Go where Cara Mia?" Morticia smiled and looked at her husband. "Oh my dear, Harry has been invited to attend Hogwarts, and I was just explaining to him what we'd have to do to ensure he goes." Gomez looked at his son with pride. "Oh, that's wonderful! Yes, we shall have to make all the arrangements."

"What if I refused?" said Harry, making his parents look at him in shock. "What do you mean, son?" asked Gomez, his brows shot up into his hair. "What if I do not wish to attend Hogwarts?" he repeated, his voice trembling. Morticia caught his tremble and smiled sadly at her boy.

"Oh Harry, this decision is not up to your father or myself. This is yours. You must decide, and whatever your decision is, we shall support you. No matter what." She reached across the table and held his hand in hers, rubbing her thumb on his pale skin. Harry gave his mother a rare smile and nodded his head.

"I wish to go, Mother, Father,"

Next Chapter

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳

Harry Potter Characters

A Song Of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones Characters

Marvel Characters

Book Characters

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝

Next Chapter

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 involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

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 and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as un-Dursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen the boys. They were another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. 'Little tyke,' chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen—then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat.

It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes—the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.

They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt—these people were obviously collecting for something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.

Most of them had never seen an owl, even at night-time. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker's opposite.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the bakers. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard–"

"–yes, their sons, Harry and Y/n–"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name.

He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had sons called Harry and Y/n. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephews were called Harry and Y/n. He'd never even seen the boys. It might have been Harvey, (similar name). Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley. She always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her—if he'd had a sister like that ... but all the same, those people in cloaks ...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare: "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood—was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior, Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ('Shan't!'). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns.' The newsreader allowed himself a grin. 'Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted,' said the weatherman, 'I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early—it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters ...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Petunia, dear—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls ... shooting stars ... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today ..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to do with ... you know ... her lot."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter". He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "Their sons—they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's their names again? Howard and (similar name), isn't it?"

"Harry and Y/n. Nasty, common names, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind ... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect them ...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street.

For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop.

He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement.

Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment, he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"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," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "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." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars ... Well, 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."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. 'We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.'

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "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."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared, at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "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," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone–"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this,"You-Know-Who" non-sense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. "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," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, Voldemort—was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too—well, 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 a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

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 sherbet lemon 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' sons, Harry and Y/n. But—he couldn't. He couldn't kill those little boys. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry and Y/n 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 two little boys? It's just astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry and Y/n 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 and Y/n to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family they have left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor 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 and Y/n Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "They're aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they're 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! They'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry and Y/n Potter Day in the future; there will be books written about Harry and Y/n; every child in our world will know their 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 they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off they'll be, growing up away from all that until they're 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 are the boys getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry and Y/n underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"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 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 surrounding silence. 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 motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike 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 dustbin 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 motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—the house was almost destroyed, but I got them both out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundles of blankets. Inside, just visible, were two baby boys, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair and h/c hair over their foreheads, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where–?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

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

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

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give them here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry and Y/n in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say goodbye to them, sir?" asked Hagrid.

He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and Y/n and gave them 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 and Y/n 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 and Y/n 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'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorbike 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 and Y/n," 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, while his twin wrapped his chubby little arm around him. Holding him close. In the light, you could see the tear stains on Y/n's cheeks and his little fingers wrapped around Harry, almost afraid to let him go.

One small hand closed on the letter beside Harry and the boys slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they 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 they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley ... They 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 and Y/n Potter—the boy's who lived!"

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚 (Tyrion Lannister x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapters

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

HP Series

Harry Addams (x reader)

The God & The Mortal (god!d.m x mortal!reader)

Metanoia (d.m x male potter reader)

Just finished the debt of time and I’m sorry but this is canon now