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 sort of people who considered normality not merely desirable, but a moral virtue.
Proper hedges, proper neighbors, proper schedules, proper opinions.
The Dursleys liked things predictable, respectable, and preferably approved by the people living nearby.
Anything strange, mysterious, or unusual belonged firmly in the category of Things That Happened To Other People.
Preferably very far away.
Vernon Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills.
He was a large man with a broad mustache, a booming voice, and the unfortunate tendency to resemble an angry walrus whenever particularly offended, which, admittedly, happened often.
Petunia Dursley was thin, blonde, and possessed nearly twice the amount of neck nature usually intended, a feature that proved useful considering how much time she spent observing the neighborhood through curtains and over garden fences.
Their son, Dudley, was what they considered perfection: big, healthy, and normal.
Everything a boy ought to be.
Unfortunately, the Dursleys also possessed a secret.
A terrible, shameful secret living beneath their perfectly respectable roof.
Harry James Potter.
Their nephew was as profoundly unDursleyish as a person could possibly become.
Thin where Dudley was broad, quiet where Vernon shouted, strange where they desperately wished for ordinary.
Worst of all, he was magical: a wizard.
Even after years, Petunia still hated the word.
Despite every effort to crush that unnaturalness out of him, the boy stubbornly remained abnormal.
Worse, each year he disappeared for ten months to that dreadful school full of freaks and lunatics where people treated all that nonsense like something wonderful instead of deeply concerning.
Still, at least Hogwarts kept him away from Dudley for most of the year, meaning he could no longer influence their perfect little boy with his strangeness.
Last summer the boy nearly ruined Vernon’s business dinner, and Vernon had absolutely no intention of allowing similar disasters this year, which was precisely why, the moment they brought the boy home from King’s Cross Station, all his unnatural belongings went directly into the cupboard beneath the stairs.
Afterward, the Dursleys departed for dinner to celebrate Dudley’s successful completion of another school year.
Granted, his grades remained somewhat disappointing, but Vernon firmly believed modern teachers simply lacked proper appreciation for Dudley’s talents, while Petunia insisted the poor boy became distracted by badly behaved students from less respectable families.
Naturally, none of this reflected on Dudley himself.
They returned late that evening and immediately noticed something wrong: the entire street ahead lay in darkness.
Vernon frowned heavily while slowing the car.
Several neighbors stood gathered outside their homes beneath the dim orange glow of distant streetlights from neighboring roads.
People talked loudly in clusters while others carried flashlights or candles, expressions ranging from irritated to outright offended.
Vernon pulled the car aside.
“What’s happened?” Petunia asked one of the nearby neighbors after rolling down the window.
Mrs.
Polkiss turned immediately, looking scandalized.
“Everything exploded!”
“What exploded?”
“The lights!” she said dramatically.
“All of them at once!
Streetlights, house lights, everything.
There was a horrible sound and then darkness everywhere.”
Other neighbors quickly joined the conversation.
“Must be some electrical failure.”
“Probably overloaded the system.”
“Absolutely ridiculous this sort of thing still happens nowadays.”
“Someone said a transformer exploded.”
The theories continued, but Vernon and Petunia barely listened because, unlike the neighbors, they knew exactly what caused unnatural things to happen around Privet Drive.
Magic.
Their eyes met briefly.
Petunia’s expression tightened instantly while Vernon’s face darkened into an alarming shade of purple-red.
“That boy,” Vernon growled.
Of course.
He could not even last a single afternoon without causing problems.
The Dursleys left the conversation immediately and drove the remaining distance home in furious silence.
By the time Vernon parked outside number four, his anger had reached dangerous levels.
The moment he stepped from the car, he marched directly toward the front door like a man preparing for war.
The boy would pay for this.
Vernon had tolerated enough abnormality for one lifetime.
He shoved open the front door violently—
—and nothing.
The house was silent, dark except for scattered candles flickering across the hallway and living room.
They searched the ground floor first.
No Harry, no sign of him whatsoever.
Vernon stormed toward the cupboard beneath the stairs and violently yanked the door open.
Empty.
The trunk was gone.
Every trace of the boy’s magical belongings had vanished.
For several long moments, silence filled the hallway.
Then Dudley spoke uncertainly from behind them.
“Where’s Harry?”
Vernon opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The boy had vanished, probably run off to those abnormal people like he always did whenever consequences approached.
Last summer he disappeared to that wretched magical family with all the red-haired lunatics.
Typical.
Cause trouble, destroy things, then flee before facing punishment.
Vernon snorted angrily while slamming the cupboard shut.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Petunia said nothing.
Her eyes lingered on the empty cupboard for several seconds longer before she quietly turned away.
And none of them realized that, for the first time, Harry James Potter was not coming back.
The lonely boy forced into that house twelve years ago would never return to it again.
That day, Privet Drive had just seen Harry Potter for the very last time.
***
Albus Dumbledore was having a very normal summer.
Or at least, what passed for normal in the life of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, defeater of Gellert Grindelwald, and unofficial pillar holding together approximately half of magical Britain through sheer force of will, reputation, and pure exhaustion.
Which meant paperwork.
So much paperwork.
The old wizard sat behind his desk inside Hogwarts while several enchanted quills scratched endlessly across parchment stacks surrounding him like towers.
Fawkes rested nearby upon his perch, occasionally watching the Headmaster with what looked too much like pity.
Outside the office windows, summer sunlight illuminated the castle grounds peacefully.
Inside, Albus Dumbledore was losing a battle against bureaucracy
Still, compared to previous years, things could certainly be worse.
The Chamber of Secrets incident had ended with remarkably little public attention, all things considered.
The truth behind the attacks remained mostly concealed, known fully only by himself and the children involved.
Harry Potter.
Ron Weasley.
Hermione Granger.
Three second-years who somehow repeatedly stumbled into situations capable of traumatizing trained aurors.
Albus sighed softly while setting aside another Ministry report.
At least the children possessed enough discretion not to spread stories about giant serpents beneath the school.
They had remained equally silent after the Philosopher’s Stone affair during their first year, despite the frankly absurd danger involved there as well.
No seeking attention, and most impressively so, no bragging.
Sometimes Harry worried him more precisely because of that.
Many adults would have broken beneath the things that child accepted as normal.
Albus leaned back slightly in his chair, tired blue eyes drifting toward the office windows.
The truth remained unpleasant no matter how carefully he examined it.
Harry kept finding danger.
Or perhaps danger kept finding Harry.
The Headmaster would have preferred the boy enjoyed an ordinary childhood filled with harmless schoolyard worries and minor magical accidents rather than murderous dark artifacts and ancient monsters hidden beneath castles.
Unfortunately, fate rarely cared about preferences.
Tom Riddle was not gone.
Not truly.
Whatever he currently was, it certainly wasn’t dead.
And one day, he would return.
Albus knew that with terrible certainty.
And when that day came… Harry would be the one forced to face him.
The old wizard closed his eyes briefly.
There it was again.
That familiar, bitter weight of inevitability pressing against his thoughts.
He hated it.
Merlin, how he hated it.
But denying reality would help no one.
Albus Dumbledore was old.
Still powerful, certainly.
Few living wizards could rival him even now, but time remained undefeated.
A decade earlier, during Voldemort’s first rise, Tom had already proven himself a terrifying opponent: brilliant, ruthless, exceptionally gifted.
Now, as the years continued passing, Albus felt age more with each winter.
His reflexes slowed.
His body tired faster.
And if Tom returned fully restored… No.
Albus was no fool.
He no longer believed he could defeat Voldemort.
Harry, however… Harry possessed potential.
Greatness, even.
The boy carried James Potter’s courage, Lily Evans’s compassion, and an alarming tendency toward self-sacrifice inherited equally from both parents.
He was a great wizard in the making.
More importantly, a genuinely good person.
Albus considered that infinitely more valuable.
Unfortunately, goodness alone would not save him from Tom. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Harry needed strength, experience, and resilience.
And that led Albus toward the particular guilt that had haunted him with increasing frequency over the past few years.
No matter how accidental the circumstances appeared… Harry kept being shaped by danger, by loss and death.
The boy continued facing horrors no child should ever have to endure.
And yet… Albus could not fully bring himself to stop it.
That realization shamed him more than he cared to admit, even privately.
Not because he wanted Harry harmed.
Never.
But because some part of him understood those experiences mattered: each challenge hardened Harry a little further, prepared him, forced him to grow faster than any child deserved.
“Cruel necessity disguised as unfortunate circumstance.” He sighs.
Albus hated himself for sometimes accepting that logic.
His gaze drifted toward the silver instruments spinning softly across the office shelves.
If only there had been another way.
If only Tom had never discovered Horcruxes.
The Headmaster’s expression darkened.
That investigation remained painfully stagnant despite years of effort.
He knew of two Horcruxes.
Only two: the diary destroyed beneath Hogwarts, and Harry himself.
“That poor child…”
Albus removed his half-moon spectacles slowly while exhaustion pressed heavily against his shoulders.
Fate truly possessed a cruel sense of irony.
Once, Albus himself had been forced to destroy the person he loved most in order to save the world.
Now Harry faced an even crueler destiny.
One day, if matters proceeded as Albus feared… The boy would need to die so Voldemort could finally be destroyed.
The thought hollowed something inside him every single time it surfaced.
Albus had never wanted such a fate for Harry, or for anyone else, especially not an innocent child, but wanting rarely changed reality.
A soft tapping interrupted his thoughts.
Fawkes chirped quietly while a Ministry owl landed near the office window carrying official correspondence marked with deep purple wax.
Albus sighed.
More work.
Wonderful.
The old wizard accepted the letter with resignation while mentally preparing himself for whatever fresh bureaucratic catastrophe awaited him that morning.
Budget disputes.
Educational decrees.
International correspondence.
Perhaps another scandal involving experimental broom regulations.
Maybe another mad wizard had tried breeding a XXXXX creature in his bathtub.
At this point, very little surprised him anymore.
He broke the seal absently and froze.
For several long seconds, the office remained completely silent; even Fawkes looked up curiously.
Albus reread the first paragraph carefully.
Then a second time.
His expression shifted from mild exhaustion into genuine disbelief.
The letter concerned a new Wizengamot case.
Petitioner:
Harry James Potter.
Subject:
Legal emancipation proceedings.
***
p*treon.com/EdenHawthorne
***
Author’s Note: I know some people wanted me to portray Dumbledore as some manipulative mastermind playing three-dimensional chess behind everyone’s backs, but that’s never really been how I saw him, nor how I write him.
I prefer characters that feel human: flawed, contradictory, tired.
Not cartoon villains or perfect saints.
To me, Dumbledore is ultimately a good man, but also an old one carrying far too many responsibilities for far too long.
He’s trying to manage a school, a government that barely functions, a magical war no one else truly acknowledges, and the lingering consequences of mistakes he still blames himself for decades later.
And because so many people rely on him to solve everything, he’s stretched impossibly thin.
That does not mean he is always right.
One of Dumbledore’s greatest flaws, in my opinion, is that he genuinely believes he knows best.
Not out of arrogance alone, but because he has spent most of his life being the smartest and most experienced person in the room.
He has knowledge no one else has, especially regarding Voldemort, and there is no one he truly sees as an equal in that regard.
So he makes decisions based on incomplete information, intuition, educated guesses, and what he believes serves the greater good.
Sometimes those decisions help people.
Sometimes they hurt people.
I also think there’s a great deal of guilt and shame in him.
Shame over Grindelwald.
Shame over Ariana.
Shame over not recognizing Tom Riddle’s descent sooner, not stopping him before he became Voldemort, not preventing the war before it began.
Dumbledore carries all of that with him, and it influences the way he acts far more than simple manipulation ever could.
So no, this version of Dumbledore is not evil.
But he is absolutely capable of making mistakes, overlooking things, misjudging situations, and hurting people despite genuinely trying to do what he thinks is right.