Dinner at the Dursleys’ house was always a quiet affair and this Friday was no different. Harry Potter was used to eating his dinner in silence; after all, his Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and cousin Dudley were no more anxious to be in his presence than he in theirs. But the reason for the complete silence at the Dursley dinner table this Friday was something new.
“… and another six were pronounced dead at the scene,” the breathless television announcer finished. “This marks the worst day for murders in London history.”
The anchorman paused, blinked twice, took a deep breath, and resumed. “We now go live to the scene of a second shocking series of unexplained homicides.”
The news report cut away to a reporter standing in front of a small country cottage.
“I’m Dan Shane, reporting from Godric’s Hollow,” intoned the lanky, young reporter. “Police are at a loss for words today, and, frankly, I am too. The death toll in this small, rural village is simply shocking, and the authorities can’t explain who “ or what “ is behind these killings.”
Four members of the Dursley household sat at the table in their home at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, watching the report, and all four responded in ways that would have told a visitor “ had there been one, which on this occasion there was not “ a lot about each of them.
Dudley Dursley set his meaty elbows on the table, hunkered his broad shoulders over his plate, aimed his snout downward, and shoveled food forkful after forkful into his greedy mouth, apparently unaware of the TV report, the television, his mother, his father, and Harry.
Vernon Dursley was nearly comic in his reaction. A bite of pork chop, dripping applesauce, hovered in mid-air. He stared, open-mouthed, at the television, equally unaware of his dinner companions.
Petunia Dursley seemed to shrink into herself as she alternated horrified glances between the television set and her nephew, Harry.
And as Harry Potter absently rubbed the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, he also stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t even listening to Dan Shane. He already knew what had happened, and he knew that Dan Shane would never report the true events of that morning.
At a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, Harry had picked up the copy of The Daily Prophet that his pet owl, Hedwig, had delivered earlier that morning, and he casually opened it. There, cowering beside a bed and trembling with fear, were his parents in full color. Seeing that would have been bad enough for Harry; what made it worse was the fact that his parents were dead and had been for sixteen years.
The headline blazed itself into Harry’s consciousness: “More Murders At Godric’s Hollow,” and Harry, though by now an accomplished wizard who had faced Lord Voldemort on four separate occasions, felt sick to his stomach and dropped the paper. When he could marshal his senses, he read the caption and understood that war had come to the wizarding world: “Eighteen Muggles, including three children, were killed in Godric’s Hollow last night. The attack comes nearly sixteen years after James and Lily Potter (shown in an artist’s rendition) were killed by Lord Voldemort. Sources in the Ministry of Magic confirm that Voldemort was behind yesterday’s attacks as well.”
The date on the newspaper, August 1, reminded Harry of another important event: his birthday. Yesterday, Harry Potter had turned seventeen. Yesterday, Harry Potter had received his official Apparition License from the Ministry. Yesterday, Harry Potter had received three birthday cards, two birthday cakes, and three packages of birthday gifts. Yesterday, James and Lily Potter were a memory and a motivation to Harry. Yesterday, war was distant.
All of that changed once Harry Potter opened The Daily Prophet. Now, Harry Potter realized that war was here and that he was needed.
So, when Harry Potter sat at dinner on the evening of August 1, his thoughts were not about the events in number four, Privet Drive. His thoughts were about his friends: Ron and Hermione; his girlfriend, Ginny; his friend, Hagrid; and those relatives and mentors of his who had died in fighting Voldemort’s forces: his mother and father; Sirius Black, his godfather; and, most recently, Professor Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He thought back to Dumbledore’s funeral, to Hagrid’s echoing sobs, to the broad assortment of mourners, to the long lament of Dumbledore’s phoenix, Fawkes. His reverie was interrupted by the news report.
“… with no leads to go on and the bizarre manners of death,” intoned Shane, “some residents are saying that the attacks seemed caused by magic.”
That last word triggered a chain reaction in Uncle Vernon. First, his face turned an unappealing shade of purple. Then, he dropped his fork, spattering applesauce on the tablecloth. Next, he swung around to face Harry and began to sputter and cough as if his words had to fight their way to the surface. Finally, he roared at Harry, “You!”
Harry’s words shot out rapid-fire. “You have no idea what’s happening, Uncle! You have no idea what kind of trouble we are all in. You talk about how heroic Britain was in World War II. This is going to make World War II look like a schoolyard tussle.” As he shouted at his uncle, Harry left the table and marched out of the room.
Before he reached the stairs, Harry turned, unconsciously gripping his wand, and resumed the offensive: “It’s not magic that’s bad, Uncle Vernon; it’s dark magic that’s bad. Evil, wicked wizards are killing good people because most of us are too scared or too blinded or too stupid to do anything about it. Well, I’m not. My mum and dad were killed because they were willing to stand up against the dark forces. Because they were good!”
Harry turned and climbed the stairs to his room, leaving behind his only relatives in this world.