Chapter Two
Four Emeralds
The Dursleys, of Number Four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were absolutely normal, thank you very much. They were the last people on earth you'd expect to be harboring anything mysterious or questioning, because they absolutely forbid anything of the sort.
Three Dursleys lived in the perfectly kept house in the perfectly kept neighborhood that was Little Whinging, Surrey. Mr. Vernon Dursley was a huge man, who had a thick mustache and despised everything that was abnormal; teenagers, loud music, and the crowd his wife's sister hung around with.
It would be odd, perhaps a premonition of sorts, that Mr. Dursley was thinking just of this 'ruddy' crowd, as he would call it, as he finished adjusting the tie he was wearing, casting a look out the front window at the dull, gray clouds on the Tuesday that begins our story. As he turned around, he missed the tawny owl that fluttered past his window and the pointed look he received from a tabby cat he had failed to notice, perched on one of his walls outside.
He picked up his briefcase, shouted to his wife bidding her a good day and opened the door. He stepped out, closed the door and headed for his car but stopped when he finally noticed the tabby cat; it was reading a sign that said Privet Drive -- no staring at the sign, thought Vernon; cat's don't read signs he concluded, nervously. He scowled at the cat, and it whipped it's head around, quirking an eye up at him, which made him blink but when he opened his eyes again, the cat was licking its leg. It must have been a trick of the light, he reasoned as he got into his car, backed out of the driveway, mumbling about that 'ruddy' crowd and how England was going downhill because of them.
He shuddered and shaked the thought of his wife's sister's crowd and the cat out of his mind, thinking about the huge order of drills, his company, Grunnings, was going to get today at a fair rate, if he said so himself, which meant it was nothing of the sort. But thoughts of drills and big proposals were driven out of his head as he reached the edge of town seeing things he classified under his hate and abnormal column; teenagers dressed strangely. Mr. Dursley shuddered once more, drumming his fingers menacingly on the steering wheel mentally cursing young people until he noticed a group of people huddled, whispering in what seemed to be an exciting manner. That's when he noticed they weren't young at all! Ruddy Hell! The nerve! Wearing clothes like that in public at that age! he snapped to himself. Then it struck Vernon that these people were most likely some anti-war freaks, or pro-abortionists, or even supporters of a liberal type government and were out collecting. Yes, that's it, he thought as he sighed.
Traffic moved along, and Vernon eagerly sped up and a few minutes later he was parked in the Grunnings Parking Lot, outside his office building, his mind set on drills once more. Vernon Dursley trudged up to his ninth story office and enjoyed a pleasent morning, unaware of the events transpiring below; owls swooping and hooting, numerous 'weirdos' dressed in strange outfits talking excitedly, and people who were somewhat like Mr. Dursley, looking at them as if hell had frozen over, and they had elected a liberal Prime Minister who was going to allow scruffiness. Mr. Dursley was in a very good mood until lunch time, when he decided to take a break to get a cup of coffee across the steet at his favorite bakery.
He'd forgotten all about those 'ruddy' freaks dressed in strange outfits such as cloaks and robes until he passed by a group of them outside of the bakery, talking in hushed whispers in a once again exciting manner. He eyed them angrily, grumbling about how it had nothing to do with him so he should just move on. Another premonition, if he'd think about it and he did certainly just that as he exited the bakery with an English Toffee Cappuchino and a large donut clenched in his grubby hands. As he walked by the strange group of people, dressed in all sorts of odd colors; violet, lurid green, and navy blue, he caught some of what they were saying.
"The Potters, that's right, both of them, can you imagine that. Harry and -- ?" squeaked a man with a bowler hat, but the last part of the sentence could not be heard since he finished it in an excited whisper.
Vernon Dursley stopped dead, visibly paling at what had just been uttered. Fear flooded him as he looked back at the crowd that was whispering, looking as if he wanted to inquire some information but thought better of it.
He dashed back to his office, snarled at his secretary to leave him in peace, yanked up the phone and had almost completed dialing his home phone number before stopping and thinking on the words uttered for a moment. He thought for a moment, thinking the whole plot was stupid. Potter wasn't an unusual surname and Harry was an even more ordinary name, a scruffy one at that he muttered but he was most afraid of what that man had been about to say. He snorted. It would not matter, its not like I have to deal with those ruddy freaks, he thought, calming down, perhaps another premonition...
He found it impossible to concentrate on his work as he left the building at around five, so visibly worried and afraid that he ran into a person.
"Sorry." he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and nearly fell. It was only a split second before Vernon noticed the guy was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem too angry that he had nearly been ploughed over, but instead, broke out into a huge grin and said in a squeaky voice that made several other's stare, "Don't be sorry, sir! Don't dear Muggle-friend! For today is the grandest of days for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has finally fallen from his Dark Throne! Even our dear Muggle-friends should be rejoicing!"
The old man hugged Mr. Dursley, bowed, and shouted, "Defeated by children!" and he laughed.
Mr. Vernon Dursley stood rooted to his spot. He had just been hugged by a homosexual, he thought. And he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car, got in, and sped towards home, hoping for the first time ever that he was imagining things, simply because imagination fit under that category of weird, and abnormal.
He pulled into the driveway and got out of his car but visibly tensed as he caught sight of what was still perched upon his wall, the tabby cat, and he bellowed at it to get lost but the cat gave him a stern glare. Is this normal behavior for a cat, he thought, not improving his mood in the slightest. He went inside his house, determined to relax and not utter a word to his wife, Petunia Dursley, a blonde, tall and petite woman who had a large neck, horse teeth, and pale white skin.
She too was a neat-freak who despised abnormal things as she gossiped over dinner about the next door neighbor's problems and how it was utterly abnormal to have garden gnome statues and how it should be punishable by death, preferably a firing squad. Mr. Dursley tried to act normal, as he and his wife head up to their room after a delicious meal but stopped Petunia before they opened their bedroom door.
He cleared his throat nervously, afraid of the reaction from his wife as he asked a question. "Uhm -- Petunia, dear, have you heard anything from Lily, your sister?" he inquired, his mind pleading for some reassurance that England wasn't going to go to the dogs due to the abnormality of recent events.
As he expected, his wife immeadietly looked shocked and angry. Afterall, they pretended she didn't exist. The ruddy freak, he thought.
"No" she said, rather coldly, "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news" mumbled Vernon "Owls sighted, shooting stars all over England and no place else... and there were a lot of funny looking people in town today."
"So?" snapped, Mrs. Dursley.
"Possibly her crowd," he said, in an even more silent whisper.
Petunia pursed her lips, scowling. Mr. Dursley wondered if he dared to mention he had heard the name 'Potter.' He instantly decided he didn't dare upon seeing the murderous look on her face but instead asked casually, "Their son, he's about Dudley's age, r-right?"
"Unless you're counting minutes as ages, then they'd both be about Duddykin's age" she snapped, in an irratible manner.
"What's his name again? Howard, isn't it?"
"Harry. The other little freak is Erynn," she spat the name out as if she had just tasted horse manure, "Utterly pathetic names, common and vile names if you ask me."
"Oh yes, I quite agree" Vernon mumbled, his heart sinking into his stomach, "Yes... quite agree..."
He didn't say another word on the subject as he opened the door for his wife, following in after her and creeping towards the window, staring down towards the street. He wondered if his heart could have taken anymore as he noticed the cat staring down his street, as if it was waiting for something.
Could he be imagining things? Oh dear, he thought. Could this all have to do with 'those' Potters?, he continued within the recesses of his mind. If it did, he couldn't bare to think of how horrible it would be if anyone found out they were related to them.
He finally got into bed with his wife, Petunia instantly falling asleep but Vernon was very much awake, staring at the ceiling as the thoughts turned over in his mind. His last and only comforting thought before he drifted off into a dream about drills was that even if all was true and if it was those Potters, they had no reason to involve themselves with his family, they knew how they thought of their kind. He couldn't see how he and his lovely Petunia could ever get mixed up with those freaks, he thought, finally turning over and drapping an arm around the waist of the wife he loved, dearly. He yawned and finally fell asleep, it couldn't affect them..., his final part of that final thought stated.
Was he ever wrong.
The Dursleys may have been off into a peaceful and very much wanted sleep but the cat perched on the wall outside Number Four Privet Drive was nothing of the sort. It was sitting still as a statue, its eyes piercing at a corner of Privet Drive, unblinkingly. It didn't even flinch or move a single hair as a car made a screeching noise on the next street, something that made all three Dursleys snort in their sleep. Infact, it had not moved since six and it remained that way till nearly midnight.
A man appeared on that corner where the cat's eyes had been piercing, so suddenly as if he had appeared right out of thin air or perhaps out of the ground. The cat twitched as its eyes narrowed.
The man simply waved his hand and all the lights on Privet Drive suddenly went out, casting the entire street into darkness save for the two unblinking eyes of the tabby cat that had seemed to smirk for a mere second. No man like this had ever appeared on normal and unweird Privet Drive, but considering recent events, it was plausible. He was tall, thin, and looked quite old, but seemed to be hiding his true age as he strided unlike any man of his age should. He was wearing elegant white robes and elegant boots that seemed to be made of an unusual material. The man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize he had just arrived on a street and in a community where his apperance was worthy of stoning, should any of the neighbors find out. He knew he was being watched as he finally looked around and spotted the tabby cat with his light blue eyes that were twinkling with mirth, madly. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."
He continued down the street towards Number Four where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it but he spoke to it after a few more moments of peaceful quietness that seemed to calm the old man, as well as the cat down.
"Fancy seeing you here, Minerva."
He turned to smile at the tabby cat, but it had left. In its place sat a stern-looking woman who held herself up in a prim and proper manner. She wore square-framed glasses and her hair was slightly ruffled, but held in a bun.
"How did you know it was me, Albus?" she asked.
"My dear lady, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you sat on a wall all day," said Minerva McGonagall.
"All day? When you could be out feasting and celebrating. Why, I must have past a half-dozen feasts on my way here," he chuckled, softly.
Ms. McGonagall sniffed, angrily.
"Yes, everyone's celebrating alright," she started impatiently, "You'd think they'd tone it down a bit, perhaps be a bit more careful, but no -- even the non-magical people have noticed something is going on. It was on their news!" she snapped, even more impatiently. She jerked her head back to the Dursley window, "I heard it. Flocks of owls, shooting stars, and odd sightings of people wearing weird cloaks and robes. Well they're not completely stupid, they've noticed it. Really!" she added, "Shooting stars down in Kent! No doubt the work of Dedalus Diggle. Never did have a brain, that one."
Dumbledore smiled at his colleague, "You can't blame them," he started, gently, "We've had precious little time to celebrate in so very long -- eleven years," he added, staring off into space, his eyes losing their twinkle for a brief moment.
"I know that," she added with a sniff, recalling memories of her own, "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being utterly careless, dressed up in our normal wear out in plain daylight, not even cloaks Albus! Robes, I tell you..." she finished, also looking off into space.
She threw a glance at Albus Dumbledore, as if waiting for him to say something that she had been patiently waiting to hear, noticing that he didn't she added gently, "It's true, isn't?" she spoke feably, "T-they're really gone?" a tear, which was so uncharacteristic of the woman, slid down her cheek.
"No, they're not all gone Minerva," he added, his eyes losing all of the sparkle, "Lord Voldemort-" Minerva flinched, "showed up in Godric's Hollow last night, set his sights on taking the entire family out... he... he killed Lily and James..." he whispered, his eyes closing, but he too, let a tear out.
"No, Albus!" she gasped, "No, how, they're- but... oh dear... then, then its true... he - they..." but she could not form a coherent sentence, for she felt the loss of her two most favorite students and beloved friends causing too much grief.
"He turned his wand on Harry and Erynn... The oddest situation I've ever seen... he sent the curse, that is no doubt, and it bounced off of them, I believe, and he lost his power," he said, thinking deeply.
"What? How can they both be hit?" Minerva asked in a sad whispher, still surprised.
"Harry's head was laid upon Erynn's chest, atleast when I found him, and I inspected them both and found two scars that are the oddest things I've ever seen, remarkably identical; one on Mr. Potter's forehead, and one on Ms. Potter's stomach, an inch away from Mr. Potter's head. I'm being silly of course, but I believe Mr. Potter may have... actually tried to take the curse..."
"Albus! What proof is there of that?" she snapped, suddenly irritated at such an idea of infants being saviors, although, stranger things have happened this day, she thought.
"I have my reasons..." he whispered, and Minerva knew that was the end of that so she decided to repeat something she had been hoping to see for eleven long years.
"You-Know-Who is finally gone," she whispered, as she smiled a teary smile.
"Surely my dear professor, a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' and 'He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named' nonsense. For eleven years I've tried to teach and persuade people to call him Voldemort-" McGonagall flinched, once again, "It all gets confusing when we keep saying 'You-Know-Who' and quite, frankly there's nothing to be afraid of when it comes to his name."
"You of course don't feel that way Albus," she added gently, "you're different. You're the only one You-Kn -- ok, Voldemort, ever feared. You have every right."
"You flatter me," Dumbledore said calmly, "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're the most noble man of of our time and would never use them, Albus," she said, smiling.
"Thank gosh its dark. I haven't blushed so much since Poppy told me she simply adored my new ear muffs," he said, chuckling a little. Minerva turned and smiled at him before pondering for a split second.
"So, that's all you have on the matter of the twins?" she asked, hoping to find out more about this sudden turn of events.
"I'm afraid so -- just theories..." he said, calmly, "we really may never know."
"Lily..." she whispered into the cold night, taking her handkerchief out and dabbing the tears that had now began to openly flow from her once stern looking eyes.
Dumbledore sniffed too, taking out a peculiar watch that looked nothing like a watch for it had twelve hands and no time at all. "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"
Minerva gave him a stern look before softening again, "Yes, and I suppose you're not going to tell me why you're here of all places?"
"I've come to bring Erynn and Harry to their new home, this is their aunt and uncle's house. There the only family they has left."
Minerva gasped, looking at him as if he had declared fortune-telling a truthful practice. "B-but Albus! You c-can't possibly mean these people! You can't! I've watched them all day. You couldn't find people who are less like us in a million years," she gasped, frantically searching and hoping for some punchline to this cruel joke, "What would Lily say! She'd come back and kill us all!"
"It's the best place for them," Dumbledore started, "their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they grow older. I've composed them a letter."
"A letter?" she repeated, faintly, "Really, Albus, you think you can explain our world in a letter... all of this in a letter... These people will never understand them -- shun them! Why -- why," she started again, searching for words, "they'll be famous! I wouldn't be surprised if yesterday was declared a European Holiday! Children will grow up with their names..." she finished in a whisper.
"Exactly," said Dumbledore, giving Minerva a stern look, "it'd be enough to turn anyone's head. Famous twins before they could even walk, or talk. Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how better off they would be, growing up away from all of this until they're ready to take it?"
Minerva McGonagall opened her mouth, thought better of it, swallowed, and then said, "I suppose you're right. But how will Erynn and Harry arrive, Albus?" she eyed Dumbledore's robes and cloak suspiciously, as if he were hiding them underneath. I've seen stranger things from good ol' Albus, she smirked.
Dumbledore chuckled, "I'm not hiding them underneath my hat or robes Minerva-," she glared, "Hagrid's bringing them." She paled.
"You think it was -- well -- wise? To trust him to carry out such an important task..." she whispered.
"I trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
Before McGonagall could question him more on the issue, a low grumbling noise was heard from above, growing steadily louder with each passing moment, causing the old man and woman to look up. It swelled to a roar as a huge motorcycle landed on the road right next to them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing compared to the shaggy-haired, tall, and well-rounded man who sat upon it. He had huge hands that were as big as saucer pans, and his mane seemed to cover all of his face, save for his two tear-glistened eyes. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, relieved at the site of his colleague, "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir" said the giant, handling the bundles well, and carefully getting off the motorcycle, "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them sir."
"Any problems, Hagrid?," asked Dumbledore, gazing into the giant's eyes.
"No sir, the house was almost destroyed, sir. I got them out all right before the Muggles started showing up. They fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."
Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall bent over the bundles of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy and girl. The boy had, under his tuft of jet-black hair, on his forhead, a curiously shaped scar in the form of a bolt of lightning.
"Is that.." started Minerva.
"Yes, as I said..." Dumbledore spoke, quietly.
"Oh, can't you do anything for them, hide them?," Minerva whimpered, thinking of the recognition in their world it would get him. Atleast hers isn't visible, she reasoned.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. They come in quite handy. Why, I have a scar on my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well -- give him here, Hagrid -- we'd better get this over with," he said in a somber tone.
Dumbledore took both Erynn Lily Potter and Harry James Potter in his arms and turned towards the Dursley Residence.
"Could I -- Could I say good-bye to him, sir?" asked Hagrid. He bent his great, shaggy head over both their sleeping bodies, gave each a very whiskery, wet kiss. Then suddenly, he sobbed out a cry that sounded like the howl of a shot hound.
"Hush!" whispered Minerva, frantically, "You'll wake the Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," whispered Hagrid, taking out his handkerchief, and dabbing his swollen eyes with it, "b-but I can't stand it. L-lily, oh Lily an' J-james dead -- an' poor little Harry and Erynn off ter live with Muggles -"
"Yes, I perfectly understand Hagrid, but get a grip on yourself or we'll be found," Minerva whispered, gently, a tear rolling down her cheek as she patted Hagrid, gingerly on his back. "I'll miss you, Lily... James..." she whispered in what she thought was too quiet of a voice to be heard, but Dumbledore heard it and he too felt suddenly ill as reality once again was slapped in his face.
Dumbledore walked towards the door, a few tears coming down his cheek, something so odd for a man like him; regarded as simply the strongest and most powerful of his kind around. He laid both Erynn and Harry gently down on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, placed it between the two, in plain view, and came back to the other two. They stood there for a full ten minutes, reflecting on the memories of Lily and James, on what was to come, each knowing this life would not be easy for young Erynn and Harry. Hagrid's shoulder's shuddered and shook, Minerva blinked back the many tears, and Dumbledore's almost always twinkling eyes looked deeply depressed and sad.
"Well," Dumbledore finally said, "that is all we can do. There is no point in staying here, we might as well try and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night Professor McGonagall, mam -- Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the massive motorcycle once again, kicking the engine to life and with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, my dear lady Minerva," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Minerva blew her nose into her handkerchief in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street from the way he came. On the corner he stopped, turned around and waved his hand again, the street lights blaring into life again. He could just see a tabby cat slinking in the shadows near Number Four and the top of the bundle of blankets that contained the two heroes of his world.
"I am sorry Lily -- James, for failing you," he whispered, a final tear rolling down his cheek, "Good luck Erynn -- Harry, lean on each other," and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
A cold breeze ruffled the hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky-sky, the very last place you would expect extraordinary things to happen. Both Harry James Potter and Erynn Lily Potter rolled towards each other, waking up, and laying a hand on each other. They did not know they were special, nor did they know they were famous. They did not know that in a very few hours they would be taken in by Petunia Dursley, their mother's sister, as she screamed at the surprise while trying to place her empty milk bottles outside. All they would come to know for a very long time is that the two of them would only have each other to love.
All across England and most parts of Europe, people were raising their glasses in toast to Erynn and Harry Potter, as four very afraid, emerald-colored eyes shined in the darkness from a bundle of blankets on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive in Little Whining, Surrey.