"I'm not the one who's obsessed with normality."

"And in spite of it all you're still—that," she spits.

"Enough!"

Dorea flinches and drops her eyes.

He turns to Dorea and says, in a low voice, "I never expected this. I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know." He bites his lip. "Ah, Dorea, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh—but someone's gotta—yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin' about yer parents an', an' ev'rything—"

"--Yeah. You said I was famous, why am I famous?"

He throws a dirty look at the Dursleys. "Well, it's best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh—mind, I can't tell yeh everythin', it’s a great myst'ry, parts of it..." He stares into the fire for a few seconds, and then says, "It begins, I suppose, with—with a person called—but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows—"

"I only recently found out your world existed!"

"Aye, I know. Jus'—I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Dorea, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." He stops.

She waits.

Eventually: "Alright—Voldemort." Hagrid shudders. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this—this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too—some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Dorea. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him—an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

"--Oh."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before ...probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'—an'—"

Hagrid suddenly pulls out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blows his nose with a sound like a foghorn. 

"...I wish I could remember them."

He nods. "Sorry," he says. "But it's that sad—I knew 'em, yeh'd be proud o' bein' their kid, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find—anyway...

"You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then—an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing—he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh—took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even—but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Dorea. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age—the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts—an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

She reaches up to rub at the scar. "That's amazing," she says softly.

"Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," says Uncle Vernon. He's glaring at Hagrid and his fists are clenched. 

"Why are you still participating in this conversation?"

He glares at her, now. "Now, you listen here, girl," he snarls, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured—and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world's better off without them in my opinion—asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types—just what I expected, always knew they'd come to a sticky end—"

Hagrid leaps from the sofa and draws a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he says, "I'm warning you, Dursley—I'm warning you—one more word..."

"Do you have any sense of self-preservation?"

Seems like he does—he falls silent and flattens himself against a wall.