THE BOY WHO LIVED
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 to his aunt and uncle. They’re the
only family he has 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 Potter come and live here!”
“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt
and uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s 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! He’ll be
famous — a legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known
as Harry Potter Day in the future — there will be books written
about Harry — every child in our world will know his 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 he can walk and talk! Famous for something
he won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off he’ll
be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind,
13