Mr. Wind rider and Mrs. Wind rider, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last ponies you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Wind rider was the director of the Wonder bolts called Grunnings, which made flying equipment. He was a big, muscly Stallion with hardly muscles around his neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Wind rider was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Wind riders had a tall athletic daughter called Lightning Dust and in their opinion there was no finer mare anywhere.

The Wind riders had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somepony would discover it. They didn’t think they could bear it if anypony found out about the Dragos. Mrs. Drago was Mrs. Wind rider’s stepsister, but they hadn’t met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Wind rider pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Wind riders shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Dragos arrived in the street. The Wind riders knew that the Dragos had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This dragon was another good reason for keeping the Dragos away; they didn’t want the Lightning Dust mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wind rider woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Wind rider hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Wind rider gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Lightning Dust into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Wind rider picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Wind rider on the cheek, and tried to kiss Lightning Dust good-bye but missed, because Lightning Dust was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Wind rider as he left the house. He got out of his front yard and flew off.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Wind rider didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Wind rider blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Wind riderder flew around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Wind rider gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he and flew toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of flying equipment he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, flying equipment were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed creatures about. Creatures in cloaks. Mr. Wind rider couldn’t bear creatures who dressed in funny clothes — the getups you saw on young creatures! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Wind rider was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that creatures had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Wind rider that this was probably some silly stunt — these creatures were obviously collecting for something . . . yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Wind rider arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on flying equipment.

Mr. Wind rider always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on flying equipment that morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though ponies down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Wind rider, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different ponies. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and fly across the sky to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He’d forgotten all about the creatures in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

“The Dragos, that’s right, that’s what I heard —” “— yes, their son, Spike—”

Mr. Wind rider stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it. He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking . . . no, he was being stupid. Dragos wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of creatures called Dragos who had a son called Spike. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Spike. He’d never even seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Wind rider; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that . . . but all the same, those creatures in cloaks ...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on the flying equipment that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door. “Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old stallion stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Wind rider realized that the stallion was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!”

And the old stallion hugged Mr. Wind rider around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Wind rider stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to fly off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of imagination.

As he flew into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Wind rider loudly.

The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Wind rider wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Wind rider had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Lightning Dust had learned a new word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Wind rider tried to act normally. When Lightning Dust had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Dixie McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Dixie?”

“Well, Time Turner,” said the weather stallion, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps ponies have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Wind rider sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious creatures in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Dragos . . . Mrs. Wind rider came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

As he had expected, Mrs. Wind rider looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Wind rider mumbled. “Owls . . . shooting stars . . . and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today . . .” “So?” snapped Mrs. Wind rider.

“Well, I just thought . . . maybe . . . it was something to do with . . . you know . . . her crowd.” Mrs. Wind rider sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Wind rider wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Drago.” He decided he didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son — he’d be about Lightning Dust’s age now, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Wind stiffly. “What’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?” “Spike. Nasty, common name, if you ask me.” “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wind rider, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Wind rider was in the bathroom, Mr. Wind rider crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Dragos? If it did . . . if it got out that they were related to a pair of — well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

The Wind riders got into bed. Mrs. Wind rider fell asleep quickly but Mr. Wind rider lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Dragos were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Wind rider. The Dragos knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind. . . . He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over — it couldn’t affect them. . . .

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Wind rider might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. On the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all. A Stallion appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this Stallion had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a blue cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This Stallion’s name was Star swirl the bearded.

Star swirl the bearded didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Wind rider, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Star swirl slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor Granny Smith.” He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking mare who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her white hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

“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 Granny Smith.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor Granny Smith sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently. “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 Wind riders’ 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 Lightning Dust. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Star swirl gently. “We’ve had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.” “I know that,” said Professor Granny Smith irritably. “But that’s no reason to lose our heads. Creatures 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 Star swirl , as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but 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, Star swirl?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Star swirl. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a fire spitter?”

“A what?”

“A fire spitter. They’re a kind of Muggle sweet I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor Granny Smith coldly, as though she didn’t think this was the moment for fire spitters. “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 creatures to call him by his proper name: Lord tirek . ” Professor Granny Smith flinched, but Star swirl, who was unsticking two fire spitters, 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 Tirek’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor Granny Smith, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Tirek, was frightened of.” “You flatter me,” said Star swirl calmly. “Tirek 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 cookie crumbles told me she liked my new earmuffs.” Professor Granny Smith shot a sharp look at Star swirl 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 Granny Smith 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 mare had she fixed Star swirl 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 Star swirl told her it was true. Star swirl, however, was choosing another fire spitter and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night “What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Tirek turned up in dragon’s Hollow. He went to find the Dragos. The rumor is that Firestone and Lava Drago are — are — that they’re — dead.”

Star swirl bowed his head. Professor Granny Smith gasped.

“Firestone and Lava . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh, Star . . .”

Star swirl reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know . . . I know . . .” he said heavily.

Professor Granny Smith’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Dragos’ son, Spike. 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 Spike Drago, Tirek’s power somehow broke — and that’s why he’s gone.”

Star swirl nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor Granny Smith. “After all he’s done . . . all the creatures 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 Spike survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Star swirl. “We may never know.”

Professor Granny Smith pulled out a lace hoovfkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Star swirl 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 hooves but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Star swirl, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, “prince rutherford’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor Granny Smith. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?” “I’ve come to bring Spike to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family he has left now.”

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the ponies who live here?” cried Professor Granny Smith, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. “Star swirl — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t find two ponies 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. Spike Drago come and live here!” “It’s the best place for him,” said Star swirl 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 Granny faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Star swirl, 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 Spike Drago Day in the future — there will be books written about Spike — every creature child in our world will know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Star swirl, 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’t you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away from all that until he’s ready to take it?” Professor Granny Smith opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy getting here, Star swirl?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Spike underneath it.

“prince rutherford's bringing him.”

“You think it — wise — to trust prince rutherford with something as important as this?”

“I would trust prince rutherford with my life,” said Star swirl. “I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor Granny Smith 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 clouds for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and a huge chariot fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the chariot was huge, it was nothing to the yack sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal Stallion and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild — long tangles of bushy Brown and orange furr and beard hid most of his face, he had hooves the size of trash can lids, and his feet. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Prince rutherford,” said Star swirl, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that chariot?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Star swirl, sir,” said the giant, climbing carefully off the chariot as he spoke. “Young dragon lord torch 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 Griffin Stone.”

Star swirl and Professor Granny Smith bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. On some purple scales right on his cheek they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a x.

“Is that where — ?” whispered Professor Granny Smith.

“Yes,” said Star swirl. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Star swirl?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in hoovfy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the equestrian Underground. Well — give him here, Prince rutherford — we’d better get this over with.”

Star swirl took Spike in his arms and turned toward the Wind riders’ house.

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Prince rutherford. He bent his great, shaggy head over Spike and gave him what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Prince rutherford let out a howl like a wounded diamond dog.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor Granny Smith, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Prince rutherford, taking out a large, spotted hoofkerchief and burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Firestone an’ Lava dead — an’ poor little Spike off ter live with Muggles —” “Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Prince rutherford, or we’ll be found,” Professor Granny Smith whispered, patting Prince rutherford gingerly on the arm as Star swirl stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Spike gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Spike’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; Prince rutherford’s shoulders shook, Professor Granny Smith blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from star swirl’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Star swirl finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Prince rutherford in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this chariot away. G’night, Professor Granny— Professor Star swirl, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Prince rutherford swung himself onto the chariot 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 Granny Smith,” said Star swirl, nodding to her. Professor Granny Smith blew her nose in reply.

Star swirl turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took his horn. He thought of it once, and twelve 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, Spike,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone. A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Spike Drago rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hoovf closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Wind Rider scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Lightning Dust. . . . He couldn’t know that at this very moment, creatures meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Spike Drago — the boy who lived!”