THE BOY WHO LIVED
“No problems, were there?”
“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all
right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as
we was flyin’ over Bristol.”
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the
bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep.
Under a tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a cu-
riously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor McGonagall.
“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”
“Couldn’t you do something about i t, Dumbledore?”
“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one
myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Un-
derground. Well — give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this
over with.”
Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the
Dursleys’ house.
“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He
bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must
have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid
let out a howl like a wounded dog.
“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Mug-
gles!”
“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handker-
chief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Lily an’
James dead — an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles —”
“Yes, yes, its all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or
we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid
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