When one thinks of terribly average, the Dursleys would come to mind if one knew them.
Now, as Vernon Dursley would profess, the term should be 'wonderfully' average because there was certainly nothing more wonderful than the achievement of mediocrity.
Number Four Privet Drive was white and neat, in line with the rest of the street of manicured shrubs and picket fence. It has two front facing windows, for the parlor room and the dining room but neither were of great interest to the Dursleys. If one were to stop and look in from the street, which one is completely capable of doing, they would see an equally white and neat interior to match the outside. Mrs. Dursley was more interested in her kitchen window, which coincidentally gave a perfect view of her least favourite neighbours, the Watts'.
She would crane her abnormally long neck, each day nearly, to peer into their fence-facing parlour window, eyes beady with anticipation. Mr. Vernon Dursley would head out early in the morning to work, as director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. Which was very absolutely acceptable to an exceptionally mediocre man.
Where Mrs. Petunia Dursley was sharp and thin, Mr. Dursley made up for it. He was a solid man, beefy and with little neck. His bristly brown moustache was nearly comical, where Mrs. Dursley's hair was pin-straight, thin blonde. The Dursleys also had a young son, Dudley, and they doted on him as he was the best little boy in the world.
Normally, such clearly average people wouldn't warrant much interest outside the bubble of Privet Drive, but the Dursleys had a terrible, terrible secret that wasn't very average at all. The Dursleys simply wouldn't survive if anyone knew about the Potters. Petunia's sister, nameless for years in their household, was the bane of her existence. Which was likely why she completely pretended she did not exist, her or her horrible Potter husband. They were about as unDursleyish as one could be, and without even trying. Petunia did know they had a small son as well, all the better they stay separate. Wouldn't want Dudley mixed up with that sort of child, who knows what would befall her little angel.
On a damp, grey Tuesday the Dursleys became important to this story, unfortunately for their terribly average, mediocre souls. There was nothing to indicate so in the very ordinary English weather, or Vernon's too-milky tea. Mr. Dursley set about making a fresh cup, while Mrs. Dursley soothed a screeching Dudley with sweet nothings.
The large owl therefore went completely unnoticed outside their window.
Mr. Dursley kissed his wife goodbye, dodged poorly aimed mushy pea from Dudley, and backed out of number four's drive humming to himself. It was as he drove round the corner of the end of the street he noticed something peculiar, more peculiar than if he had saw an owl. A cat sat reading a map. Momentarily, Mr. Dursley didn't understand what he was seeing, and once he did he jerked his head back to see only an innocent looking tabby with no map in sight.
"Odd," he muttered to himself. But as any self-respecting average man would, he shakes it off. It must have been a trick of the light, or that tea this morning really was off. He stared at the cat, and it stares back. He drives off clenching the steering wheel just a tad tighter. Cats don't read maps. Mr. Dursley's thoughts are occupied with drill orders the rest of the drive.
But once again his mind is taken away from the humdrum of work, when in the usual traffic jam into town he was unwillingly exposed to a something like a parade of very oddly dressed people. They had on cloaks of some sort. God, the getup young people get into are truly atrocious. But what really ground Mr. Dursley's gears was that at closer look, many of these parade-goers were hardly young! The weirdos were clapping each other on the backs, whooping, and giving little dances in their odd little groups. Some silly stunt likely, maybe looking for donations of a sort... Yes, that's it. Money-grabbers, or another one of those fag demonstrations with less colour. He let them escape his mind as he parked, and made his way into the Grunnings lobby.
Mr. Dursley was enormously lucky his desk did not face the large window behind, otherwise he would have had a much more stressful morning. A phenomenon has no place in a Dursley life, and so he was lucky not to witness an event people rarely saw at night let alone in broad daylight.
Owls, of every breed and colour were swooping through the sky, not an absurd amount, but extremely notable. At least five or six at a time could be spotted in one's peripheral vision from the street, and people were flabbergasted, pointing and taking pictures. Mr. Dursley completed an oblivious and rather successful morning himself, having shouted at many incompetents and began craving buns. He thought there was no reason not to reward himself with a trip to the bakery across the street for lunchtime, a perfectly acceptable thing to do.
The dress up people had completely escaped his mind- until he saw yet another group huddled up in front of his bakery. Irrational anger filled him once again, and he eyeballed them with all the disapproval a suburban man can muster. On his way out of the shop, doughnuts bagged and clutched in his meaty fist, he quite accidentally managed to catch a bit of what the weirdos were saying.
"The Potters, that's what I heard. Steven Cornfoot-"
"-yes, absurd. Their son, Harry-"
Cold dread filled Vernon Dursley and he went completely still. His greatest fear, worst secret- but no. It couldn't be. What was the possibility that those Potters are their Potters? Surely not, it's a common enough name for such unusual people. And Harry was even more common, and when he really thought about it, was that even the child's name? He couldn't be sure, it could've been Henry. Or Harold, maybe Hamish. He'd never even actually seen the boy. And he certainly didn't intend to. He didn't want to upset Mrs. Dursley over her nasty sister without due cause, and so he let the matter lie. He didn't blame his wife, if he'd had a sister like that...
But the uncomfortable brush with the anti-thesis of Dursleyness left Vernon rather worried the rest of the day, so when he pulled onto Privet Drive, he was in a very no-nonsense mood. A mood not too unsimiliar from his day-to-day mood but all the same a disturbance. So when he spotted that same wretched tabby from the street corner that morning he was understandably unfriendly. Pulling into his driveway, it sat on his garden wall, looking straight at his car it almost seemed. He was certain it was the same one. It had the same dark markings about the eyes.
"Shoo!" He said loudly, stepping out of the car. "Off with you!" The cat looked down at him, with very apparent disinterest. Feeling miffed he took a small stone from the walkway. He looked about discreetly for watching neighbours before chucking it at the damn cat. It missed by a good foot and the cat hadn't even moved, though now it seemed a bit more alert. Was that normal cat behaviour? Mr. Dursley wondered. He went inside.
His wife had a pleasant day at the very least. At dinner he heard all about Mrs. Next Door's problematic daughter, and how Dudley learned a new word ("Won't!"). After Dudley had been put down for bed, he went into the living room to catch the last of the evening news.
"And finally, bird watchers everywhere should have had a very eventful day. We've got reports from all across the country that the nation's owl population has been behaving extremely erratically. Although owls are normally hunting at night and hardly even seen in daylight, there have been hundreds-"
"-if not thousands, Jim-"
"-if not thousands, Carol, of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise today. Experts have already begun weighing in, and have yet to provide an answer for this change of sleeping pattern." The newscaster, Jim, grinned charmingly. "Most mysterious. Now over to Ted on weather. Ted , what do you have for me? Any more showers of owls for me tonight?"
"Well, Jim," the weatherman said. "I don't know about that, but it's not just the owls that have been acting odd lately. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in about shooting stars yesterday, instead of the rain I promised! Perhaps some folk were celebrating Bonfire Night early, it's not until next week folks! But I can promise a dry night tonight, with wind chills requiring a nice, thick pullover for anyone planning on heading out."
Mr. Dursley was glued to his armchair with horror. Shooting stars and owls flying about all of Britain? Cloak people converging in the streets mysteriously? And a word, a word about the Potters...
It simply wouldn't do. He'd have to tell her.
Petunia came into the living room with two cups of tea on a little tray his sister Marge had gifted as part of a set for last Easter. "Petunia- er, dear- you haven't spoken with, that is, heard from your sister have you?"
As expected, her normally pinched expression became tighter and anger reached those beady black eyes. Petunia Dursley did not look very normal in that moment. Because of course, normally they pretended she did not have a sister.
"No," she bit out. "Why?"
"Well, the news, shooting stars, owls, odd folk dressed up in town today..." he trailed off weakly.
"And?" She snapped.
"I thought, well, that maybe it had something to do with... you know. Her lot." She sipped at her tea, still looking rather upset. Mr. Dursley wisely decided not to mention he had heard the name 'Potter' tossed around. But, for good measure... "Their son, would be about Dudley's age, no?" Mention of Dudley did soften her a bit.
"I suppose so," she said.
"What's his name again? Howard, Henry?"
"Harry. Horrid, common name if you ask me." And that was that for talk of the Potters. And Vernon Dursley ignored the sinking feeling in his gut. He drank his tea dutifully before they made off to bed. Upon nasty chance he glanced outside the bathroom window after a good Listerine gurgle. That damn cat was still there, sitting in virtually the same spot on the garden wall. That did not make Mr. Dursley feel any better at all.
His last thought before falling asleep was his only comfort. Even if the Potters were involved in all the oddness, there was no reason for them to come anywhere near Petunia and Dudley. They fully knew what the Dursleys thought of their kind, and he couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in whatever in hell was going on. He yawned, and slept.
But how very wrong he was.
That cat on the garden wall wasn't sleepy in the slightest, and it was nearly midnight before it moved at all. A man appeared and the cat's attention snapped to the street corner on which he stood. He wasn't there, and then he was. So suddenly and silently, it was like he had always been there to begin with. The cat's tail twitched.
It may be safe to say nothing like this man had been seen on Privet Drive before. He was tall, thin, and quite old judging by the lengthy silvery beard and hair which were both long enough to reach his waist. He was wearing purple robes draped by a darker shade purple cloak and just the peak of his boots could be seen. His light blue eyes seemed to sparkle behind half moon spectacles, and his nose was crooked and broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
Albus Dumbledore was either unaware or uncaring that he was on a street where everything from his name to his buckled boots was unwelcome. He was too busy digging in his pockets for something. He seemed suddenly aware of being watched and looked up to meet a tabby cat's gaze. He laughed softly to himself. "I should have known."
He found what he was looking for inside his pocket. It was a little cigarette lighter. He flicked it- and quite suddenly the light from the nearest lamppost was gone. Over twelve clicks, the entire street was plunged into darkness, and it's inhabitants (besides a tabby cat and an Albus Dumbledore) remained blissfully unaware. A little side effect was that even if the beady eyed Mrs. Dursley decided to glance outside the window, she wouldn't see a thing. Sliding the innocuous cigarette lighter look alike into his pocket again, he set off towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall." He turned to smile at the tabby, but it was gone. In it's place was a stern-looking woman with a severe bun, wearing square glasses that coincidentally formed the same markings around the tabby cat's eyes. She too was wearing a cloak, a deep green one, nearly black but her hair was blacker. It would be hard to tell if you did not know this stern lady, whether or not she was upset or this was her normal demeanour.
"I doubt you are surprised," she said stiffly.
"Professor, I don't think I've ever seen a less convincing cat."
"I was otherwise focused. I doubt the muggles would be stricken by anything I've done today. And you'd be tense if you'd been waiting on a brick wall all day." Professor McGonagall answered.
"Dear me, all day? Whatever for, when you could've been celebrating? I must've received missive from over a dozen parties just this afternoon."
Professor McGonagall looked distinctly unimpressed.
"Oh, yes, the celebrations," she said irritably. "You'd think they'd be more careful, have a smidgen more common sense- but no. Even the Muggles have noticed something's up. It's been on their news." She jerked her head towards the dark, empty living room of the Dursleys. "I heard it all. Flocks of owls disillusioned.. shooting stars down in Kent- if I were the betting sort I would place money on Dedalus Diggle for that stunt. Never had much rational thinking, did he."
"Well," Dumbledore said gently. "It's not to come as a shock. We've had precious little to celebrate over the last twelve years."
"Yes, I know that," she was still irritated. " Be a fine thing if the day we free ourselves of You-Know-Who, the Statute's broken and the Muggles have us out. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?" She throws a sharp, sideways glance at him.
"It certainly seems so," he says. "We have much to be thankful for. Lemon drop?"
"What?"
"Lemon drop. Muggle sweet I'm terribly fond of."
"What- no. What are you saying, Albus? It's true then? He's really- gone?"
"My dear Professor, surely one as sensible as yourself can call him by name? Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself. All this "You-Know-Who" nonsense," he said, unsticking two lemon drops that had materialised from one of his many pockets it seemed, "it gets terribly confusing. I have seen no reason not to call him as he is, Voldemort."
"I know you haven't," McGonagall says both exasperated and admiring, "But you're different. You were the only one he ever feared."
"Oh, you flatter me." Dumbledore said calmly. 'Voldemort went places I have never dreamt of, knows of magic I have never thought of, has powers I will never have."
"Simply a matter of noble choice. Even so, you remain his greatest- if not adversary, then his greatest fear."
"I'm glad it's so dark, I haven't blushed so much since Poppy complimented my new earmuffs."
McGonagall pinned his profile again with a sharp look. "The owls are nothing compared to the rumours flying around. About how he's gone. About what finally stopped him. Do you know what they're saying? About the Potters? About their- son?"
"Yes," Dumbledore bowed his head. McGonagall gasped.
"No- James and- Lily oh, Merlin no. I don"t want to believe it- and the boy- their son? Oh Albus..." Albus reached out and patted her shoulder. "It's- it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all- all the bloodshed, all the carnage, the terror he's inflicted and one little boy... he couldn't kill one little boy? It's just.. astounding. How on Earth did little Harry survive?"
"We can only wonder," Dumbledore answered. "We may never know."
McGonagall discreetly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief while Albus became curiously fixated on the dull, cookie cutter home across the street.
"Well, Hagrid is late. I suppose it was he that told you I'd be here, by the way?"
"Yes, and I don't suppose you could tell me why here of all places?"
Dumbledore smiled. "I've come to leave Harry with his only known family, his aunt and uncle. Safe from the weight of the Wizarding World, for now at least."
"Oh you can't mean the people that live here!" Professor McGonagall cried out. "I've watched them the whole day- Albus they're the most horrid sort of muggles. I couldn't find two people less like us. And the son- kicking and screaming every hour- a right monster raised by two of the same! Merlin- Harry Potter, come and live here!"
"This is the best place for him." Dumbledore said firmly. "Away from the fame that would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! For something he cannot even remember! His aunt and uncle can explain it all to him when he's a little older. I've written a letter."
"A letter, Albus," McGonagall said faintly. "I really don't know how one would explain this in a letter." She seemed rather overwhelmed.
"You must see the importance of the separation of- Harry Potter- and Harry Potter the boy, my dear Professor," and he looked over his half moon glasses quite severely. "Growing up away from all this, until he can take it."
"Yes I- yes, of course." She sat back down on the wall. "How in Merlin's name is the boy getting here?"
"Hagrid," came the peaceful answer.
"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with-"
A low rumbling sound broke the silence around them. It grew steadily louder and their attention was drawn to a light that was growing steadily brighter and larger and with a dull roar a huge motorcycle fell from the sky above and none too gently onto the street before them. And if the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man astride it.
"Hagrid," said Dumbledore. "At last. Where did you acquire that bike?" McGonagall glared at Dumbledore from his side.
"Borrowed off of young Sirius Black, sir. I've got him, sir."
"No problems?"
No sir, the house was almost destroyed. Got him before the muggles swarmed post-ward collapse, and he fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol." In the giant man's arms was a bundle of blankets and the Professor leaned over to glimpse a small tuft of black hair and a gentle sleeping face. Unfortunately the soft face was marred with a curious looking scar, shaped like a crudely drawn lightning bolt.
"Is that where-" McGonagall whispered.
"Mmm. He'll have that scar forever. Curse scars, of such potency," Dumbledore said. "Nothing much to be done." He took the small bundle from the comically large man and walked little Potter over to the front step, gently placing him down. The three of them stood in silence and looked at that little swathe of blanket that had no idea it had just changed the world.
In fact, he would sleep peacefully until the next morning when Petunia went to put out the milk bottles.
She screamed and he woke up, and began to cry. "Vernon! Vernon, oh by God!" She screamed. "Vernooon! An urchin!"