(A/N) Apparently FanFiction won't accept a title of Agent 47 & 3/4, sigh. Anyway I don't own Harry Potter or the Hitman Series.
My Harry in this story will be a grey and powerful, but not super powered Harry. Something along the lines of magic is like a muscle and Harry will be receiving early training and exercise. In this story Harry will kill both as a contract assassin and a warfighter, but he will not kill anybody and everybody at the slightest insult (as much as I would personally enjoy seeing Malfoy bite it his second day at Hogwarts).
In the idyllic town of Little Whinging, Surrey murder was about to be committed. The contract assassin sometimes known as Agent 47 crouched by the window of the empty house he had borrowed for this kill. 47 was currently inside number 10 Privet Drive watching his target's house across the street. Susan Wesley was an engineer for the Grunnings Drill Manufacturing Company who had caused severe problems for her boss because of her complaints and suspicions about her boss's actions. This was a problem and she had to be eliminated. Susan's boss had heard rumors of the International Contract Agency from his old friends at Smelting's Academy and after some digging had promptly contacted them to eliminate his problem.
47 watched thorough his high power spotting scope as his target poured herself a drink and prepared for her night bath. He watched as Susan climbed into the bath and took a sip of her bourbon. For the next 5 minutes he watched as she relaxed and waited for the powerful barbiturate he had slipped into her bourbon bottle earlier today took ahold as Susan slowly passed out and slipped beneath the surface of the water never to rise again. To the police it would look like she made the fatal mistake of missing alcohol with sleeping pills and accidentally drowned in her tub. After 47 sterilized the house he was in of all traces of his presence he would swap out the poisoned bottle of bourbon for a clean one he had bought earlier this week.
47 had his hand on the door knob to leave Susan's former home when he heard a muted pop and quickly ducked behind cover and drew his suppressed custom Silverballer pistols. He peaked out of a crack in the window shades and watched as an old man with a long silver beard wearing what appeared to be robes drew out what appeared to 47 as a silver cigarette lighter from his robes and clicked it. Agent 47 was stunned when one by one all the lights in the immediate vicinity flew into the old man's sliver lighter. With his vision reduced to indistinct blurs 47 drew from a pocket a night vision monocle and a listening device. He was curious who this man was and how he eliminated the light sources on this street.
47 then watched and listened as the old man turned to a tabby cat across the street and said "Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." 47 was stunned as the tabby cat quick morphed into an aged severe looking woman who was also wearing an emerald cloak over her robes. 47 continued to listen in to their conversations as he was double checking that the devices were recording the exchange.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
47 saw the figure he had identified as Professor McGonagall sniff angrily. "Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no - even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," said the old man gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."
She threw a sharp, sideways glance at the old man, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, when he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said the man 47 now knows to be Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of"
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone -"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You- Know-Who' nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.
"I know you haven 't, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too - well - noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are - are - that they're - dead. "
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.
"Lily and James... I can't believe it... I didn't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..." Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But - he couldn't. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone. "
Dumbledore nodded glumly.
"It's - it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know." Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have 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 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, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.
"Hagrid's bringing him."
"You think it - wise - to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"
I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to - what was that?"
A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky - and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.
If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.
47 was astounded by the size of this man. He had seen and even fought a fair few large men in his time but they were all dwarfed by this one.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit," said the giant, climbing off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."
"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. Because of his viewing angle 47 couldn't get a view of what was in the bundle but he guesses it was a baby.
"Is that where -?" whispered Professor McGonagall.
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, 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 Underground. 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 Muggles!"
"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief 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, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.
"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."
"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night, Professor McGonagall - Professor Dumbledore, sir."
Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and off into the night.
"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.
Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver lighter. He clicked it once and balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.
"Good luck, Harry," he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.
47 sat for a minute and tried to process what he had seen and heard. Unfortunately he was missing most of the background information and could only make the most rudimentary of guess as to what he had witnessed. What he knew for sure was that this Dumbledore character had dumped a baby onto the steps of a house, like a bottle of milk, in the middle of a cold November British morning.
47 quickly made a decision and ghosted down the street to the baby. Standing above the bundle of blankets her could clearly see a baby boy about a year old with unruly black wisps of hair and a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. He reached down and opened the letter. 47 read the letter's news of one Lily and James Potter's death and the magical protecti-Magic? Dumbfounded 47 quickly reread that portion of the letter and, under the assumption for the moment that magic was real and this was not a cruel prank, quickly began to piece together the clues he had derived from overhearing Dumbledore and McGonagall's conversation. Magic was the only answer that would seem to fit Agent 47's observations of this morning's events. 47's training would not allow him to immediately discount the possibility of magic and as Sherlock Holmes said 'Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth'. In the back of 47's mind he quietly wondered if Dr. Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer used magic to help enhance and stabilize 47's cloned body.
Thinking back to the asylum he grew up in 47 knew them and there that he had to help this child. 47 quickly scooped up the child and the letter and swiftly began to walk back to where he had stashed his car. As he walked 47 began to think about a plain for the future to keep himself and the child safe. 47 knew he would have to retire again but this time he would continue to do the occasional job for the company to keep them happy and to have access to the vast intelligence resources the company had. 47 knew he would need this intelligence to both find out more about magic and keep himself and the child safe from external threats.
(A/N) Yes I know most of this chapter was taken from HP & The Sorcerer's Stone. I apologize but it was necessary for Agent 47 to witness the conversation between Dumbledore and McGonagall the context of my plot. I felt it was best to keep this interaction as close to cannon as possible.