Professor Minerva McGonagall stood in the middle of Magnolia Crescent under a Disillusionment Charm, her sharp eyes fixed on a perfectly ordinary house at number 4, Privet Drive. The sky above Little Whinging was overcast, the late afternoon light fading into grey. A sharp wind carried the bite of frost.
It had been a long time since she'd last come here.
Too long.
When Dumbledore first told her they'd placed Lily Potter's daughter with the Dursleys, she'd argued—hard. But Albus had insisted. Blood wards. Protection. Family.
And when she'd visited that first day, she had stayed only long enough to see a plump, frowning woman snatch the baby off the doorstep and slam the door shut.
Now, standing here ten years later, McGonagall's expression was tight.
Following up after young Doyle—Hadrian Potter—she renewed her interest into the other Potter. She'd assumed Iris Potter had lived a quiet, protected life.
But something gnawed at her.
A small figure exited the side of the house. Barefoot. Wearing only a threadbare, oversized shirt. She moved stiffly, a battered gardening spade in one hand, dragging a burlap sack in the other. Her hair—wild, untamed, unmistakably familiar—was tied in a loose knot.
McGonagall's heart froze.
No cloak. No jacket. No shoes.
The girl knelt in the hardened cold mud, her fingers red and raw. She began digging into the stubborn earth, lips pressed in a hard line.
McGonagall's wand appeared in her hand.
The wards were old, but not particularly strong, especially to those meaning well. She slipped through them without trouble, her feet crunching softly on the frostbitten grass.
Iris didn't look up until a warmth settled around her—an invisible ripple of magic. McGonagall had wordlessly cast a Heating Charm.
The girl flinched. Looked up.
Wide green eyes.
Haunted. Guarded.
"…Who's there?"
McGonagall slowly pulled off her Disillusionment, letting herself be seen.
"My name is Professor McGonagall. I'm from Hogwarts."
Iris looked her up and down suspiciously. "What's a Hogwarts?"
The response stung. She should have known. She should have been told.
"It's a school. For people like you."
"…Weirdos?"
"No. For witches."
Iris blinked.
McGonagall took a gentle step forward. "Where are your shoes, Miss Potter?"
The girl stared at her. "I'm not a Potter. My name's Iris Evans. Aunt Petunia said Potter was my freak mother's name and it died with her."
McGonagall's jaw tightened.
"Your true name is Iris Potter," she said softly, firmly. "Your mother was Lily. And your father was James Potter. And they loved you very much."
Silence.
The wind blew, rustling the leaves of a bare shrub. Iris looked down again.
"…Are you gonna take me away?"
McGonagall knelt beside her, heedless of the dirt. She placed a hand lightly on the girl's cold and thin shoulder.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I am."
A few minutes later
McGonagall stood outside the Dursley home with Iris in tow—wrapped now in a conjured cloak and charmed boots. The child clutched a warm biscuit in one hand and a reluctant hope in the other.
McGonagall rang the doorbell.
Petunia Dursley answered. Went pale. Her mouth opened.
McGonagall didn't let her speak.
"You were trusted with a child, Petunia. Not a servant. Not a shameful burden."
"She's a—"
"She's ten. And I am removing her from your care."
She turned before Petunia could answer. The door slammed behind them.
Iris looked up. "Are you sure they won't come after me?"
McGonagall gave her a rare, fierce smile.
"They are welcome to try."