A/N: Just for those who didn’t know already, this is a parody of the SS/PS.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters or anything related to them. I also do not own Lemony Snicket, nor am I him. I am not trying to make any money off of this story. This is purely fanfiction.

If you are looking for a story about happiness, you might as well push the back button right now and find another story, for this story is not very happy, though it might seem that way at times. In fact, this part of the story starts with a very happy family. But don’t be deceived, for misfortune is right around the corner.

The occupants of number four, Privet Drive were happy to say that they were perfectly habitual. The word “habitual” here means “not in any way related to abnormal things.” They lived in a normal town, on a normal street, in a normal house.

They were the Dursley’s, and wanted nothing to do with anything unusual.

Vernon Dursley, the head of the family, was a big, beefy man. And like most people that are big and beefy, he had almost no neck at all. He also had a very large mustache.

As you and I well know, being proud of something means that you take pride in the thing that you are proud of. When you were a little boy or girl, for instance, you might have been proud of a painting you had done at school, or that you could finally write your own name. Those things are perfectly normal thing to be proud of. Being proud of a mustache, as Mr. Dursley was, is not a normal thing to be proud of. But no one said anything about this irrational pride; Mr. Dursley had a towering temper.

Petunia Dursley, Vernon Dursley’s wife, liked to examine things. More specifically, she liked to examine her next door neighbors. She would use her unusually long neck to peer over her fence. And like most people with unusually long necks, she was also very thin and pale.

Dudley Dursley was very large like his father, Mr. Dursley. Now, you might picture a large person to be very tall or very fat. Dudley was the latter �“ a word which here means, “the very fat version of large.” He ate almost anything that he could get his hands on since the day the he was born. He, according to his parents, was the most adorable thing to ever set foot on this earth.

The Dursley family had everything thing that they wanted and were very happy. Now as you know, this family is very habitual and wanted nothing to do with anything or anyone that was abnormal. In this particular case, it is a person that the Dursley’s did not want to be involved with. These people were the Potters, and they were as abnormal as can be. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s “good-for-nothing” sister. She had married and had a son named Harry. They shuddered to think about what would happen if the Potters came strolling up the driveway of Privet Drive.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley wanted nothing to do with this family and wanted nobody to find out that they were related to such people; it was the only imperfect part in their picture perfect lives.

“Little tyke,” Mr. Dursley was saying as he picked up his briefcase and tried to give his son a small hug, but this proved to be very difficult. Dudley was having a terrible tantrum and pelting the walls, his mother, and his father with Cheerios. And as you know, Cheerios is a breakfast cereal that is shaped in a circle and can hurt very much if thrown at someone.

Wincing slightly, Mr. Dursley said, “Little tyke,” again and headed out the door.

Mr. Dursley got into his automobile �“ which is a fancy word for “car” - and backed out of the driveway.

At this point in the story, I am pleased to inform you that the misfortune and discomfort of the Dursley family starts in the next paragraph. Now you may wonder why I am pleased to say this. You might ask the question, “Why is Semony Lnicket pleased, when he is so unhappy when it comes to misfortune and discomfort?” The answer to this question is this: The Dursley family, as you will see as the story progresses, is not a nice family. At least they are not nice to abnormal people. And very soon, a person that is as abnormal as can be, comes into their previously pleasant lives. But that specific part comes a little later.

If you look at the side of a car, you might see a mirror on each side, right outside the driver and passenger seats. These mirrors are called the “side-view mirrors.” This name is absolutely absurd because if you wanted to see what was on the left or right side of you while driving, you could just turn your head to the left, or turn your head to the right. Side-view mirrors should actually be called “mirrors that show you what is behind you” because that is what they do. Mirrors that show you what is behind you let you see many things on the road. They are normally used for spotting danger, but can serve other purposes also. For example, I was driving my automobile through Africa one day, and I happened to glance out my mirror that shows you what is behind you. To my surprise, I saw a seagull flying right behind me. In this case, however, it was Mr. Dursley that saw something unusual: he saw a tabby cat reading a map.

Mr. Dursley immediately swung his head around to look at the cat again, but the map was gone. There was just a tabby cat sitting on the corner of Privet Drive. Mr. Dursley stared at the cat. The cat stared right back at him.

“Must have been a trick of the light,” he told himself, “cats don’t read maps.” He put the cat out of his mind as he drove Grunnings, the company that made drill that Mr. Dursley worked at.

As he sat in the morning traffic jam, Mr. Dursley couldn’t help noticing a lot of people with odd clothes on. He immediately thought that the clothes �“ well, they were more like robes �“ were some new fashion among young people. But then he spotted something that made him very uncomfortable indeed.

As he sat thinking about how young people should wear normal clothes, he noticed that an old man was wearing the same type of robe. Mr. Dursley’s anger rose as he thought of the abnormality of the people on the street.

Another thing about cars is that the windows can be rolled down. Usually, you roll the window down when it is hot out. Or you might roll down the window if you need some air. Or, as some people would do, they would roll down the window to throw something out of it and onto the ground (throwing things onto the ground �“ otherwise known as littering �“ is not a good thing to do, as it makes the ground look dirty). In this case, Mr. Dursley rolled down the window because he needed some air.

As he took in his first breath, he also took in parts of people’s whispered conversations.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard �“ “

“ �“ yes, their son, Harry �“ “

Mr. Dursley froze. Harry was the son of the Potters. Questions flooded his mind. Did they know about the Dursleys’ secret? How did they find out? Did they know that they were related to the Potters?

No…he was just being stupid. There were plenty of people with the last name Potter and the first name Harry. In fact, Mr. Dursley wasn’t even sure he was named Harry. But he still was worrying as he walked up the steps top Privet Drive. (We know, of course, that the Potters’ son is indeed Harry, but he didn’t know that. Not yet.)

As Mr. Dursley walked up the steps, he noticed something that had been on the corner of Privet Drive since morning. It was the tabby cat.

“Go away!” Mr. Dursley said rather loudly to the cat. The cat remained stationary. The word “stationary” here means “ignoring Mr. Dursley and staying on the corner of Privet Drive.”

The rest of Mr. Dursley’s day was a worried one. He was worried that people knew about his relations to the Potters. He was worried that the Potters were nearby. He was worried that the Potters were going to get mixed up in their lives. And he was worried that the Potters’ son was actually named Harry.

Finally, night came and all the Dursley’s got into bed. Mrs. Dursley and Dudley fell asleep immediately, but Mr. Dursley tossed and turned in his bed. He was thinking about the Potters and all the bad signs he had seen all day. During his lunch break an old man had hugged him and saying “You-Know-Who has been defeated!” And on the evening news, a reporter had reported many owl sightings during the day and shooting stars. But eventually, Mr. Dursley came to a conclusion: the Potters knew very well not to get mixed up with Petunia and himself. They wouldn’t even suggest getting involved with him and his family. He yawned, and fell asleep thinking “They couldn’t affect us…” And again, I will say that I am pleased to tell you how very wrong he was.

*

What would you think if you were walking down to the store, and all around you there were normal people dressed in normal clothes? You would probably think, “I wonder what I’ll buy at the store?” and not give any thought to anybody walking by you. But let me ask you this: What if you were walking down Privet Drive at the middle of the night, and all the sudden and man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere? You would probably think, “How did that man come to be there?” Well, that is what happened in the middle of the night on Privet Drive.

A man appeared at the corner of Privet Drive and started to walk towards number four. He was tall, thin, and had a very long, silvery beard which went all the way down to his waist, as did his hair. He was wearing long robes and a purple cloak and had high-heeled, buckled boots. His eyes were bright blue that were sparkling behind half-moon spectacles. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore, and if anybody on Privet Drive had seen him, they would have called the police.

He started to rummage - a word which here means “look in his purple cloak pocket” �“ for something when he noticed the tabby cat sitting on the corner.

“I should have known you’d be here,” Dumbledore said with a smile, and continued to rummage in his pocket until he found what he was looking for, something that looked like a silver cigarette lighter, here called the “Put-Outer”. He opened it, clicked it and the nearest street lamp went out with a pop. He did this eleven more times until Privet Drive was so dark that if anyone had looked out their window at that moment, they wouldn’t have seen a thing.

He walked down to number four and said with a chuckle, “Hello, Professor McGonagall.”

He smiled at the tabby, but it was gone. In its place stood a stern looking woman wearing an emerald green cloak.

“How did you know it was me?”

“My dear, I have never seen a cat sitting so stiffly,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.

Now, once again, I have to interrupt the story. The reason is that the real misfortune starts in a very short time and I want you to be prepared for it. For this is not the type of misfortune that Mr. Dursley encountered, the one that we do not care about, but misfortune that goes on for a majority of this story.

Now, I’m not going to bore you with the two professors’ whole conversation, but I will tell you that it involved shooting stars, You-Know-Who’s real name, earmuffs, and lemon drops.

“Have you heard the rumors, Dumbledore? Have you heard what people are saying? They’re saying You-Know came to Godric’s Hollow to find Lily and James Potter. The rumor is that Lily and James are �“ are �“ that they’re - dead.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. The word “bowed” here means “sadly nodded.” Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Oh…Albus…I did not want to believe it…,” she said. “…but that’s not all. They are saying that Voldemort tried to kill Harry, the Potters’ son, but he couldn’t, and his power broke. They’re saying Voldemort is gone.”

Dumbledore bowed his head again.

“But �“ but, how did Harry survive?” Professor McGonagall faltered.

“We can only guess,” replied Dumbledore, and pulled out a golden pocket watch with twelve hands and no numbers and said, “Hagrid’s late. Did he tell you I was going to be here?”

“Yes, he did,” the professor replied, “but he didn’t mention why you were going to be here.” She looked sternly at Dumbledore.

“I’m a bringing Harry to live with his aunt and uncle.” Dumbledore pointed to number four.

McGonagall opened her mouth in protest, but a roaring sound drowned out her words so Dumbledore couldn’t hear what she said. The roaring was coming from a motorcycle.

When you think of the height of a motorcycle, you would probably say that you are taller than it. I am taller than a motorcycle. My beloved Beatrice was taller than a motorcycle. And you, my reader, are probably taller than a motorcycle. But this motorcycle was taller than me, you, or even Dumbledore, who was tall to begin with.

But the motorcycle was nothing compared to the man riding it. He was twice as tall as the normal man and five times as wide. He had a large quantity of bushy black hair and a black beard which covered up most of his face.

“Hagrid,” Dumbledore said, relieved, “do you have him?”

“Yes, Professor Dumbledore, sir, “Hagrid said gruffly, “he fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.” With that, he handed Dumbledore a bundle of blankets and the two professors peered into them.

There slept a baby boy with jet black hair, and under the bangs was a scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

“He’ll have that scar forever,” Dumbledore whispered and then turned and put Harry on number four’s doorstep, along with a letter addressed to the Dursley’s . Suddenly, Hagrid gave a very loud sob.

“Shhh!” hissed Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake up all the Muggles!”

“But I c-c-can’t stand it,” Hagrid sobbed, “Lily an’ James dead �“ and Harry livin’ with Muggles �“ “

“Yes, it’s unfortunate, but please, get a grip on yourself, Hagrid,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting his arm.

“Well, that’s that,” Dumbledore said, “we might as go and join all the celebrations going on.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, “G’night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

And with that, all three left Privet Drive one by one, until only Dumbledore was left. He clicked the Put-Outer and at once, twelve balls of light flew back to the street lamps, illuminating the street once more.
“Good luck, Harry,” he murmured. He turned, and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

“Good luck” is an odd expression. Usually, when someone says “good luck,” they want you do be happy, or to do well in something. But usually, you end up nowhere near happy or a job’s well done. This holds true for Harry Potter, also. Though Dumbledore had said, “good luck,” Harry was in for the worst eleven years of his life.