Disclaimer: The Wizarding World of Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money from this story, merely playing in her playground.

The Muggles' Son

Chapter 1: Baby on the Doorstep

The November night was frigid. Patrick rubbed his arms as he hurried up the walk to 4 Privet Drive. This was his last delivery before he could return home to the warm arms of Diana. It was five a.m. and still dark. Frost coated the grass and bushes lining the walk and house. A whimper caught his attention and he looked toward the sound. Ahead of him on the right side of the stoop was a basket with a small form huddled inside. Carefully setting down the bottles of milk for fear of waking the Dursley shrew, he approached the small figure with caution.

"Mama?" The plea in the voice was heart wrenching. A tiny boy, not more than a year and a half old was sitting in the basket, shivering, his lips blue with cold. As Patrick approached, he watched the green eyes grow wide and fearful. The small form began to shake his head violently.

"Mama? Dada? Mu-Mu? Pa-Pa?" The little boy burst into wailing tears.

Not knowing what to do and fearful of waking Mrs. Dursley or, heaven forbid, her son, Patrick scooped up the small boy and began humming an old Irish lullaby to him. His mind was trying to process the idea that anyone would leave a small child on a doorstep in frigid conditions. He knew this wasn't Mrs. Dursley's little 'Dudders' as her son more properly resembled a beach ball than a baby. Why would anyone leave a baby on that horrid woman's doorstep? He remembered the time a cat had startled him and he'd dropped a bottle of milk on her porch. She'd come out, screaming shrilly at the top of her lungs, demanding to know why he was disturbing her precious baby. Her husband was worse. He'd come storming out of the house, fists swinging, and it was only Patrick's speed that had gotten him back to his truck before the man had scored a hit on him.

The boy looked up at him through wet green eyes. "Mama?"

It was then that he noticed the blood-crusted scar on the boy's forehead shaped like a lightning bolt. Someone had left the poor child on the doorstep still injured from something. He didn't know what would cause an injury of that sort, only that he'd never seen its like before.

A light flicked on upstairs at number 4, and Patrick made a split second decision. He scooped up the basket and sprinted for his truck, placing Harry in the basket which he then secured on the passenger floorboard. He gunned the engine and sped away just as the front door opened.


When Petunia opened the front door, the only thing she saw was the milk-crate. She stepped out, wrapped only in her bathrobe and peered up the street. Puzzled, she stepped back inside and closed the door.

"Who was it?" her husband asked, his massive form lumbering into the hall, bouncing a squalling Dudley.

"No one, it must have been those horrid cats of Mrs. Figg's yowling again," Petunia griped, scooping her Dudders out of her husband's arms and heading to the kitchen to heat a bottle. Vernon stooped, picked up the milk crate and followed his wife back inside.