[Enter VERNON and PETUNIA.]
Nocturnal birds and shooting stars by day,
Set free from their shadowed natural bounds,
And emerald-cloaked nomads in the town.
Fie! I’ll warrant ‘tis no natural cause
That sets these dev’lish apparitions loose.
What is the purpose of this dreadful speech?
These omens diabolical I dread,
Aye, dread the place from which they laughing spring.
What say’st thou?
I say’st I fear the Potters’ name,
A name I heard not seven hours ago;
‘Twas spoken by a man in stranger’s garb.
Their son, their only son, is Dudley’s age:
I believe his name is Harry Potter.
I’ll warrant it, a nasty common name.
A common name, but cats are common too,
And yet I’ll swear I saw a cat today
With human aspect, in a map engrossed
As if it planned some hellish feline flight.
What, have you lost your wits?
Nay, ‘tis God’s truth.
Pray, lock the door and speak no more,
Our sleep can many hellish dreams becalm.
Aye, yet sleep can conjure visions too,
Our daily memories distil into
Phantasms abstract, which torment the mind
And cause the soul a wretched ceaseless grief.
Lock the door, I pray, and go to sleep.
Lock the door! A wand against a door!
The Potters are dead.
Dead, but others live.
You know that evil wizards I abhor,
Yet still I urge thee Vernon, lock the door!
I will do it.
Now let us welcome sleep.
[Exeunt VERNON and PETUNIA.]
[Enter DUMBLEDORE and MCGONAGALL]
I should have known. Pray let me dim these lights
With this instrument of magic. Then may
You secretly undaub your body and
Reclaim your authentic natural garb.
Ah, ‘tis like a pleasing morning dew
To shun disfeature in my human form.
How did you know ‘twas me from purely sight?
Your stiff-backed posture was an easy clue.
To be stiff is to sit on walls all day.
Wilt thou then the celebrations spurn at?
A celebration is a silly thing,
Shooting stars and owls, fie! ‘Tis shameful.
I full dislike this saucy frippery.
Do not blame them. Eleven years of hell,
And now a heavenly release.
But too I say they lose their heads in joy,
A fine thing if the day when all turns well
Becomes the day when heaven turns to hell.
Tell me, prithee, is he now gone for good?
It seems so. We have reason to rejoice.
Here, taste a sherbet lemon.
A sherbet lemon?
‘Tis a kind of Muggle sweet.
I do not wish for it.
I’ll say no more,
And leave thee to thy usual marchpanes.
If You-Know-Who has gone for good—
—Do speak his authentic name, I pray you!
A name, a name, what harm’s in but a name?
‘Tis an easy thing for you to utter;
Of only you was Voldemort afraid.
Thou smooth’st me. He had powers all his own.
His own through malice, not ability,
Blood-boltered incantations of ill mind,
Unused by you from sense of noble kind.
Gramercies to the night, which dost conceal
The reddish umbered colour of my face.
I do not seek to holy-water court.
I heard today a new report, which hath
Flown around the land on careless winds,
Resounding like a sacring-bell at mass,
Perhaps a falsing rumour, which dost state
The reason for Lord Voldemort’s demise.
They say—they say the Potters now are dead.
Alas, the words are true.
‘Ods pittikins! Lily and James deceased!
And murdered by a mighty villain’s hand!
They say he tried to kill the Potters’ son,
Yet met a baffling obstacle and died
In place of the victim. Can it be so?
We can but aim, yet I would say it is.
Look to the present time: Hagrid is late.
One mystery remains. Why are you here?
To his aunt and uncle will I bring the boy.
Bring him! To these Muggle candle-wasters?
You have lost your sense! The people here!
They are the only family he has.
Family, I’ll grant you—family—foh!
Not men of quality, but lewd and large,
Of metaphysics they are unaware!
A letter I have wrote, which satisfies
His family on every needed point.
A letter! A world in but a letter!
Motley-minded missive—pray forgive me—
This gentle peat to wax amidst such fools
While every other child doth know his name.
Zounds! Famous before he can speak or walk!
Thou are right, of course, but whence comes the boy?
My just and loyal Hagrid brings the child.
Dost thou think it wise to trust the man with
Such a moment task? Trust him not o’erparted?
I trust Hagrid with my life. Hark, a sound!
Look to the West—from thither doth he come.
Whence came that hurtling motorcycle?
It is not mine. ‘Tis borrowed from a friend,
One Sirius Black, and now I do hold
The baby ‘gainst my skin: he fell asleep
As we were high-soaring over Bristol.
Dumbledore, you mark that scar?
I mark it.
Forever shall that mark remain, perhaps for
Some greater future use or purpose strange.
I pray you, let me bid the child farewell.
Be at peace.
Goodbye, pure child! Here, let me kiss your cheek.
A sad result! Poor James and Lily dead!
‘Tis true, but we still must leave ere daybreak.
Now take courage, for fear we shall be found.
Let me have the child. Into his blanket
I’ll place the letter missive and exeunt,
Come, we have no further business here.
Thou hast spoken well. Now I must leave you,
God bye to you, I bid you both good night.
Adieu, my friends, and I shall see thee soon.
[Exeunt MCGONAGALL and HAGRID.]
And now I must return these captured lights,
Let them illumine this most collied night.
Good luck, dear boy! I fancy that I hear
Hushed voices, and thankful glasses raised
To Harry Potter praise, the boy who lived!