When Petunia Dursley awoke on November the second, she was trembling. She stared at her shaking hands for a moment, and then it came rushing back at her: Vernon had brought up that topic the night before. As she lay in bed, Petunia was jittery, and when Dudley’s cries pierced the morning air, she jumped horribly. You’re being foolish, she told herself. You’re being completely nonsensical. She gave herself a little shake. If there was one thing Petunia Dursley prided herself on, it was being sensible.


So that morning, Petunia fussed over Dudley and gossiped about the Mr. and Mrs. Watson’s marital problems and debated whether “frosted peach” was the right shade to paint the downstairs bathroom. She did this all very loudly, and even in her own ears, she could tell that the voice coming out of her mouth was not hers.


Vernon Dursley watched his wife concernedly and wondered when would be a good time to inquire after milk for his cup of tea. He watched anxiously as Dudley’s sippy-cup slipped from Petunia’s hands and crashed to the floor. The lid must not have been on properly, because apple juice spread across the gleaming tile floor. He listened anxiously as Petunia said the same thing three times and then looked around in confusion.


“I just said that, didn’t I?” Petunia said, trying and failing to laugh lightheartedly. “Silly me! Well, anyway, um, as I was saying, she thinks John’s been seeing the -” Petunia looked around as though the Watsons might be hiding in a cupboard - “secretary.”


“Is that so?” Vernon raised his tufty eyebrows. “Er - Petunia, darling?”


“Yes, Vernon?” Petunia froze, and looked at her husband as though she’d been caught in a wrongdoing.


“The milk, dear? Has it been delivered yet? Layabout delivery boy’s been coming later and later every day . . .”


“The milk! Oh! Um! The milk, silly me to have forgotten! Um, you just wait one moment, Vernon, darling! The milk! Just one moment! And Diddydums, Mummy’ll be right back with a nice new cup of apple juice . . .” Petunia said all of this very fast. Color was creeping up her cheeks as she dashed around the kitchen, trying to remember where the empty milk bottles were.


She was grateful to escape to the front hallway. She tried to pull herself together. So Vernon mentioned L-Lily. Nothing to get in a dither over. Pull yourself together! But Petunia caught sight of the telephone hanging on its receiver and was overcome with the strangest desire to pick it up and call her sister.


It was ridiculous, of course. She hadn’t contacted Lily in years, if you didn’t count the yearly Christmas card. Her sister probably didn’t even have a telephone. Her kind probably used - well - owls, and that type of thing. Even if her sister did have a telephone, she, Petunia, would not know the number.


It was a ridiculous thought. Of course it was.


Petunia opened the door and saw to her relief that it wasn’t too late to put out the empty bottles - the milkman hadn’t come yet.


The milk wasn’t there yet. But something else was there, on the doorstep. Something wrapped in blue blankets. Petunia’s mind was moving very slowly. She couldn’t process what she was seeing. She wasn’t quite sure that she was seeing it at all. It couldn’t be -


The something’s tiny, chubby hand closed around a crisp white envelope. Then the something opened its tiny little eyes.


And Petunia screamed. Up and down Privet Drive, curtains were pulled back as neighbors eagerly spied on the spy and eavesdropped on the eavesdropper.


Vernon skidded into the front hall. “Petunia! What’s wrong - what’s happened - shall I call the police -” Vernon’s eyes fell on the little bundle. “What - who -?” He looked at his wife, desperate for an explanation. A logical explanation.


Petunia’s eyes were glazed. “We need to get in the house,” she said, as though she were in a trance. “We need to get in the house. The neighbors might see, and the neighbors might talk. . .” she trailed off, and she swayed on her feet.


Vernon caught his wife by her bony elbow. “Petunia! Yes, yes, of course. Inside you go. A cup of tea? Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked, despite the fact that he had no idea how to make a cup of tea. “And who the blazes is that?” he muttered under his breath. But Petunia heard. She met his gaze, and her eyes were huge and frightened. “That’s not - it’s not - that’s never -” Vernon stammered, looking from the bundle to his wife. He was desperate for reassurance. Reassurance that it wasn’t -


Inside the house, Petunia stumbled to the sitting room couch and collapsed. She was still holding the little bundle, and she looked down into the almond shaped green eyes. The perfect, neat, orderly sitting room swam in front of her . . .


In that instant, Petunia knew. She knew who this thing, this baby, was. But why - But that must mean - Lily couldn’t be -


With trembling hands, Petunia reached for the envelope.


She was in for another nasty shock, like a punch to the stomach. She recognized the loopy, slanted handwriting on the address. Slowly, shakily, terrified of what she would find inside, Petunia opened the envelope.


Vernon Dursley had finally succeeded in making a cup of (very watery) tea. As he walked through the doorway, he hoped very much that the baby had disappeared, that it had been a figment of his imagination. And that was saying something, because Vernon Dursley did not believe in disappearing or imagination.


When he saw his wife, he almost dropped the teacup in his hands. She was sitting still, rigid and pale. A single tear was sliding down her face, splattering on a piece of - was that parchment? There was a baby on her lap, who was looking around with wide eyes.


Vernon Dursley knew those eyes. He had seen them, once, in a photograph, and he had not forgotten them. They were memorable eyes.




He had walked into the bedroom one day to find Petunia slamming a photograph album closed and guiltily pushing it beneath a pile of laundry. Later, Vernon had unearthed the album and opened it to a dogeared page upon which there was a single photograph - a photograph of two girls, one about twelve and one around ten, smiling hugely and embracing as only sisters can. One of those girls, the younger one, had had the same eyes as the little baby on Petunia’s knee.


“That’s not -” Vernon cried. Petunia looked up at him with watery eyes. “Harold - I mean Harry -?”


“It is, Vernon,” she whispered. “It is.”


“But what the bloody hell is he doing here?” Vernon asked, and he couldn’t keep a quaver out of his gruff voice.


Petunia pointed down at the letter. “They’re dead, Vernon. M-my s-sister - Lily - and her husband. They’re dead and - and their son has to stay with us, there’s m-m-magic - I mean they’ve done something to the house so he has to stay here. And she’s dead! She was killed -” Petunia slumped against her husband.


Vernon was terrified. His wife was always so in control. She had her coupons catalogued, and she’d never so much as lost a sock in the wash. Watching her trembling and afraid, was like his world rocked from under him. He had to take control. He had to do something. “Why does he have to stay with us? There are orphanages. And some of their lot, you know, could . . .”


“No, Vernon,” Petunia replied. “The letter says he has to stay with us.”


“But he’s not a - he’s not a -” Vernon was truly afraid now. He looked around furtively. “He’s not a - you know - a wizard, is he?”


“He is,” Petunia wailed. “It says so - in the letter, it says so!”


“Well then we’ll just have to stomp it out of him!” Vernon insisted. “Not to worry, Petunia. We’ll get rid of this nonsense. We’ll say his parents died in a - a car crash! - and we’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone. We’ll stomp the mag - I mean, we’ll stomp the nonsense right out of him.”


“Vernon, I don’t think that will w-” Petunia stopped herself. A memory had come at her forcefully, a memory Petunia liked to keep hidden. It was a memory of Lily - a memory of Lily doing magic. It had been as natural a part of Lily as breathing. It wasn’t something that could be stomped out.


But Vernon didn’t have to know that.


Petunia seemed to come back to herself. “Of course we will, Vernon, dear. Not a word, not a single word . . . We’ll never tell him, we’ll never tell anyone. And we won’t tell Dudley, either. We’ll keep him nice and protected from - from such things.” With that, she began to rip the letter, first into halves, then into quarters . . .


Petunia threw the pieces of paper beneath her feet, and crunched them beneath her sensible shoes. “Not a single word,” she whispered through her teeth . . .


“Never.”