Ossa Amābilia

By Pharetra

“Albus, we’ve received replies from everyone except a few of the muggle-borns and Harry Potter. The charm didn’t even register it having been opened, nor the extras I sent. Should we pay him a visit? His relatives are muggles after all,” greeted the Deputy Headmistress as she entered Dumbledore’s office.

“Hmm. I was planning to send Hagrid along to take him to Diagon Alley next week, but maybe someone should drop in,” conceded the aged Headmaster. “It wouldn’t do for him to have missed his letter. It’s possible the wards on the house have confused the Hogwarts owls.”

“I’ll pop by this evening after visiting the last few muggle-borns on my list, then. The book of enrolments listed the address as 4 Privet Drive, Surrey.”

Albus nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Very well. I’ll come and see you afterwards. Good afternoon, Albus.” The stern woman turned and descended the staircase from the office.

Minerva McGonagall arrived at an unremarkable house in an unremarkable street, wearing an unremarkable (and thoroughly unfashionable, to her mind) blouse, skirt and jacket. She followed the path through the well-tended but dull garden, and reached the door somewhat perplexed that she hadn’t felt the telltale crackle of magic that the wards on the house should have caused. She shrugged off the anomaly, and knocked sharply three times.

The door opened a minute later to reveal a dirty-blond-haired man in a pressed shirt and trousers, with a suspicious look on his face.

“Good evening, my name is Minerva McGonagall. I’m here to deliver Harry’s letter, as the ones we’ve sent don’t seem to have arrived,” the woman introduced.

“Cecil Patterson. I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are, and there is no Harry living here. Are you certain this is the right address?” came the reply.

McGonagall’s eyebrows lifted. Patterson was not the surname of Potter’s relatives as she remembered from that fateful night. “Oh. This is number four, Privet Drive, yes? I expected a Mr and Mrs Dursley.”

“Yes, that’s the address, but the Dursleys don’t live here anymore. Matter of fact, I bought the house from Mr Dursley, I forget his name, back six years ago now. He wanted a quick sale, and me and the wife scooped it up for a bargain. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the fellow since, nor his wife and kid.”

“Hmm, how unusual that our, er, ‘system’, didn’t notice the change of address. I apologise for interrupting your evening, Mr Patterson. Good night.”

The Professor left the house and returned to Hogwarts, mystified. The book of enrolment was a powerful magical artefact, and it hadn’t made a mistake before in her memory, but there was no sign of the boy at the house. Frowning, she made for the Headmaster’s office to relay what she had learned.

A week later, Dumbledore finally heard back from Kingsley Shacklebolt, who he had asked to investigate the Dursley’s disappearance.

“I had to pull a few strings in the muggle Ministry of Immigration, but I found the records. You’re not going to like it. Vernon and Petunia Dursley and their son Dudley emigrated to Australia on the 29th of November, 1984. There was no mention of any other child with them.” The patronus finished its report and vanished, leaving a consternated Headmaster and a suspicious Potions Master, whose meeting with the former the patronus had interrupted.

“Dursley? Wasn’t that the man Lily’s tart of a sister married? Is that who you left the Potter brat with? Don’t tell me you’ve lost him,” the dour man spat.

“Yes, Petunia and Vernon Dursley are Harry’s guardians. As to whether we’ve lost the boy, I am unsure. The Dursleys left the country years ago, and the current residents of their house have no knowledge of Harry, according to Minerva’s visit. And yet,” the man paused, eyes twinkling, “the book of enrolments still lists him as residing at 4 Privet Drive.”

“How on Earth did you not notice them leaving? Anyway, clearly Minerva’s Gryffindorish inclination to trust anybody she meets was once again misplaced,” quipped the Professor.

“You may be right,” Dumbledore conceded. “That is why I intend to visit myself late tonight. Perhaps you would accompany me?”

Severus rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll come with you on your domestic visit, you crazy old man. Wake me up when we need to leave.” With a swish of his robes, the spy was gone.

“Merlin, what a dreary suburb,” sneered Severus as the pair crept up the driveway. Wasting no time, Severus unlocked the side door with a spell, and followed his companion inside. Taking a moment to listen for disturbances, Dumbledore wordlessly cast a spell which revealed three glowing shapes over the men’s heads, two together and one off to the side.

“Hmm. No sign of another person in the house,” the old man pondered.

“Could the child be Potter in disguise?” suggested the spy.

Dumbledore shook his head. “There’s no trace of magic in them. All three are definitely Muggles.”

“Do you have one of the letters?” asked Severus. Albus modded and pulled one from his cloak, passing it over.

Only seconds had passed when Severus choked in surprise. “Albus! This letter is addressed to ‘the Cupboard Under the Stairs’! Don’t tell me you didn’t even read it?” Not waiting for an answer, the black-haired man swept through the room to the hallway, and knelt down, casting a silencing charm before he flung open the cupboard door. The Headmaster followed and peered down to see the inside of the cupboard while his companion stood and moved down the hallway. Seeing nothing but a vacuum machine and a dusty shelf of cleaning products, he cast a complex spell to reveal any traces of magic in the small space.

“Look, Severus, there are traces of magic in here, but very faint. They would match the time period of the Dursleys leaving. Clearly they took the boy with them; the book must be incorrect. I haven’t the faintest idea what the boy would have been doing in a cupboard though.” He turned to ask his companion’s opinion, but the sallow-faced man was paying no attention.

“They don’t match,” muttered Snape. “Why wouldn’t they match, unless… Albus! When was the last time you came to visit Potter?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with this,” began the bearded man, but the other interrupted.

“Just tell me!” he snapped, casting a strong Muffliato over the hallway.

Albus did his best to appear non-threatening to his employee, uncertain as to the reason for his outburst. “I haven’t ‘visited’, as you say. I placed him with his aunt and uncle with a letter impressing the delicacy of the situation, and set up very strong wards, that would feed from his mother’s sacrifice to protect him through her sister.”

“You mean to tell me,” Snape growled, “that you gave an infant to people you had never met just because they were related by blood, and then trusted him to be safe?”

“He was safe! The wards protected him,” argued Albus.

“Oh yes, just as safe as I was from my father, except I at least had my mother,” the professor bit out. “The wards only protected him from those trying to harm him from the outside.”

“Are you trying to suggest…”

“OSSA REVELIO” Snape yelled. An eerie green light, like that of the killing curse, lit up inside both men’s limbs, as well as faintly on the wood panelling next to the cupboard. It lit up Snape’s unreadable expression hauntingly.

“Petunia,” he whispered tonelessly, “hated magic. She was deeply jealous of Lily ever since her sister received this same letter.” He dropped the crumpled envelope at his feet. “It drove them apart until they ceased speaking completely, and she married a crass man just as narrow-minded as she. Then Lily died, and the Almighty Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, decided the best place for a strongly magical infant, subject of prophecy, and reminder of exactly what made her sister different, was in Petunia’s home. And then you abandoned him.”

Snape’s wand snapped out towards the fading green glow, and let out an underpowered blasting curse, knocking through the paneling, even he continued staring blankly into Albus’ eyes. Through the jagged hole and debris, in the revealed cavity, lay a large metal box, sealed with a padlock.

“I present to you, Harry Potter’s ‘residence’, or more accurately, final resting place. The sealed box, in the hidden cavity in the cupboard under the stairs. Congratulations, O great Defender of the Light, on being the one to kill the Boy-Who-Lived.”

The old man said nothing, but he sagged as decades appeared to catch up with him.

Snape’s face held no pity. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some murders to arrange in Australia. See you in Hell, Albus Dumbledore.”