Harry Potter spent his eleventh birthday in a cabin on a tiny rock in the middle of the sea, listening to his cousin snore on the couch.
When a knock sounded on the wind-swept, rain-drenched door, it was not a giant fist (or a half-giant’s fist). It was a short sharp rap that sounded once, twice, three times before Minerva McGonagall simply charmed the lock open and stepped inside.
“Apologies,” Minerva said crisply, as Vernon raced out brandishing his rifle and Petunia pulled Dudley up off the couch and behind her. “I wasn’t sure you could hear me over the weather.” The rain fell down behind the professor in a roar. She was perfectly dry.
Minerva fished in her pocket without looking, because the only things allowed in her pockets were only ever exactly what she needed. “I’ve come to deliver this,” she said, pulling out a letter and handing it to Harry, who was cross-legged on the floor, “because our owl post seems to have been unable to get through.”
“And I’ve come to deliver this,” she added, pulling out a second letter, “because Hogwarts by-laws require a professor to hand-deliver acceptance letters to Muggleborn families for their explanation and comfort.”
The Dursleys did not look comforted, nor did they sound it once they opened their mouths. Dudley rubbed sleep from his eyes while Harry retreated to a corner out of everyone’s reach to open his letter (finally) and read through it. When he looked up again, Uncle Vernon’s rifle had turned into a rubber chicken and the professor was almost yelling.
“Your son has magic,” Minerva snapped. She had just come from a little family of Muggle dentists, who had taken notes on everything she told them, and their bushy-haired daughter, who had stared up at her with big hungry eyes and asked questions at breakneck speed. After that, this was not just exhausting but almost insulting. "Whether or not you want him to be, Dudley is magic. If we do not teach him to handle it, it will still happen.“
“I want to go,” said Harry, very softly.
Minerva couldn’t decide whether to go softer or more fierce. “Of course you will, Mr. Potter, if I have to escort you myself.”
“We won’t– we won’t allow–” Vernon began to bluster, but Dudley was watching Harry’s set face. His little eyes squinted.
“If Harry gets to go,” said Dudley at the top of his sizeable lungs.
“Dudley,” Vernon snapped, so Dudley raised his voice even higher to announce, “Then I do, too.”
Dudley’s face was going red. Harry moved quietly out of his radius and Minerva watched him go. “It’s not fair, you can’t stop me, I’m not gonna sit and learn dumb maths while he does magic–”
“Neither of you is going–”
Dudley bellowed, no words, just sound, drowning out his parents. Harry watched the rain out the window. Minerva had known James Potter. She had known him well, in war and in peace, from behind a teacher’s desk and beside him in the trenches. This eleven year old looked very little like the grinning boy she’d so often scolded– but he looked a bit like the young man she’d later had the privilege of fighting alongside.
McGonagall drew close to Petunia as Vernon tried to muffle Dudley’s hollers with big hands and wheedling promises. “Mrs. Dursley, you may not be aware, but every letter to the Hogwarts admissions office goes through me, and has for decades.” Petunia’s bony face snapped up to meet Minerva’s eyes. “Including those sent with stamps.”
Petunia was pale, her fists claws at her sides. “Childish– those were childish, absurd wishes–”
“He is a child,” said Minerva. “He’s magical. Let him have this.”
Dudley took a breath and let out another bellow, kicking at his father’s shin.
Minerva tried not to wince. She tried to mean it. “Let him have the chances you didn’t.” Petunia’s gaze shifted away to the ground. Minerva reached out for the other woman’s elbow, her bony fingers as gentle as she could force them to be, which wasn’t very. “Don’t hate him for it, Ms. Dursley.”
“I would never,” Petunia snapped, raising her eyes in a swift, angry jerk, but Minerva had known Lily Evans, too.
