Yawning, I turn my head to check on Vernon. He’s still asleep, as always. His snores waft his moustache as he mumbles. Rolling back over, I can’t get back to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about those people he described yesterday, in their funny hats and long dresses, even the men. And the mania, the celebration. I can’t sleep on this. I can’t even think on it without a cup of tea.
Putting on my dressing gown and slippers, I traipse downstairs to see if any post has arrived yet. The hall clock reads 7:15. As expected, there is no post. The postal service has been getting later and later for years now.
As I walk past, I pick up the dish of sweets from the sideboard. By the looks of it, Vernon has already been at them. No-one came trick-or-treating on Privet Drive this year. No-one ever does. I don’t think I’ll bother next year. It’s a shame really. It would be nice to see some children around once in a while, but Vernon despises Halloween. I have to agree that trick-or-treating is a new-fangled American ‘tradition’. It’s amusing to see the children dress up as witches though, despite the fact that I disapprove of stupid costumes and fancy dress as a concept. It’s just peculiar to think that my sister is a real life witch and that she looks nothing like the hags that the children impersonate. I wonder if their lot do Halloween. I wonder if they go trick-or-treating and eat sweets. But their sweets are revolting: everything jelly beans and jumping frogs and god knows what else. Still, I’m sure little Dudley can have our leftovers. Or Vernon will finish them off like last year.
Walking into my kitchen, I head straight for the kettle. Putting it on to boil, I grab a teabag. My eyelids droop as I pour out my tea, but no matter. I could find my way around my kitchen in pitch black with my eyes closed.
Turning on the news, I sit down at the kitchen table to drink my tea. As usual, I expect to hear the newsreader banging on about British weather and British politics and how bad Britain is and how poor Britain is. But she doesn’t. Instead, there’re shooting stars and gas explosions. It’s all so unusual for a seemingly mundane time of year. Still, I suppose that it’s just young people getting a bit over-excited about Bonfire Night.
And then that image appears on the screen. It is an image of a crowded street, in all respects ordinary, but for the clump of people who are wearing unwelcomingly familiar clothes. Robes. Hats. They’re wizards and witches. I can tell straight away. These are the people Vernon had been talking about yesterday. He said they were celebrating. I wonder if my freak sister was celebrating with them but put the thought out of my mind. She’s a freak. She’s no longer part of my life; I have nothing to do with her.
But I can’t stop seeing those people everywhere. That picture plasters itself on the inside of my brain, and the words roll around, repeating, inside my head: shooting stars, flocks of owls, gas explosions. I can’t avoid them; they’re everywhere. And then my thoughts are punctuated by a wail.
–Thank God for Dudley,†I think, sauntering back upstairs to hush little Dudley back to sleep before he wakes Vernon. He’s been so much better since he stopped teething, but he’s only got two teeth at the moment, and I know full well that I still have many sleepless nights to come. I begin to wonder if Lily’s son is as bad, but stop. My sister is no longer part of my life.
Crooning Dudley back to sleep, I hear Vernon’s heavy footfalls on the staircase. I guess I was too late to stop little Dudley waking him up. When Dudley is finally snoring softly again, I go back downstairs. Vernon is sitting in the very same chair as I had been, watching the newsreader repeat herself, just as she does every breakfast time.
–It’s them!†says Vernon, exasperated at the sight of them. ‘Them’, of course, meaning the wizards on the street. There are more of them now, all in black and purple and green, and all in the same style of robes, hats and cloaks, the same as Lily used to wear. When she was at the freak school. When she left. When she left with that boy from Spinner’s End and came back with frogspawn in her pockets, and then that boyfriend of hers.
But I stop thinking about Lily as Vernon grumbles a bit. The newsreader has moved on; she’s now talking to the Home Secretary about these gas explosions. I move away from the table to put the kettle back on and make Vernon a coffee and some toast. Still yawning, I slump against the kitchen work table until the toast pops up.
Grabbing the milk from the fridge, I stir a little into Vernon’s coffee and put it down on the table next to his plate. As I empty the rest of the bottle into a jug, I can hear him slurping the coffee down contentedly, just like he does every day. I put the jug in the microwave, ready to go into Dudley’s bottle. I wash out the glass milk bottle, then, collecting the rest of the week’s empty bottles, I go to put them out for the milkman.
Opening the door, I nearly trip over a small bundle. Putting the milk bottles down, I inspect it closer, expecting it to be a joke or perhaps a parcel for Vernon, delivered early. But I jump as I see what it is: a green-eyed, black-haired, baby boy, clasping a letter and breathing softly, although not asleep. He looks familiar, but I can’t pinpoint where I recognise him from. I pick up the letter and it all comes back. The emerald green ink holds hateful, sorrowful memories. The boy’s green eyes are so like my sister’s; the jet black hair like that idiotic boyfriend -- no, husband -- of hers. And suddenly I can almost physically feel emotion flood me as I wonder why on earth their son is on our doorstep.
I tremble as I break the familiar, red, wax seal of that beastly school. I have no idea what the letter is going to say, but I don’t think it can be good news.
‘Dear Mrs Dursley,
I am very sorry to tell you that your sister, Lily, along with her husband, is dead. They were killed on Halloween night by a most evil wizard: Lord Voldemort.
Harry, however, miraculously survived. I have brought him to his only remaining family. James Potter was an only child, and his parents died several years ago from a Wizarding disease. I hope that I leave him in good hands and that you will treat him as a second son. He is destined to be a gifted wizard. You will surely see your sister in him. Your sister died trying to save her only son, taking a curse that would’ve killed him. In doing so, she released a powerful ancient magic. She created a blood bond which means that her son is protected as long as he can call your house his home, as you are his family. Therefore I need you and your husband to welcome Harry into your family, as your own.
I ask you, please, not to show your husband this letter. Please treat your nephew well, for your house will now also be his home until he comes of age.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore,
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc. Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards.’
The green ink leaves another wound. I feel silent tears crawl down my face as I reread the letter.
‘Lily is dead.’ ‘Lily is dead.’ ‘Lily is dead.’ The words won’t leave my eyes and ears. I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. She has magic. She can’t be dead. She’s only 21. She isn’t dead. She can’t be.
–Vernon…†I call feebly, shaking violently as I attempt to fold up the letter.
I feel Vernon’s presence behind me. When I feel his strong, reassuring arms around me, I know that he’s seen the bundle too.
–Vernon,†I sob. –Vernon, this is Harry, my sister’s child. She and her husband were killed, and he has been given into our care.â€
–It’s alright, Petunia. We’ll work something out,†he says. I know he’s trying to comfort me, but I can hear a slightly disgruntled tone under the sympathy. I can tell that he’s not keen on having anyone else’s child foisted upon us, much less my freak sister’s child. Especially a child destined to be a freak extraordinaire…
And the boy’s green eyes do nothing to soften the pain. While I have to look into those eyes every day, I’ll have to remember that with Lily, we never worked anything out.
Early November Morning by BrokenPromise
Chapter Endnotes: Reviews are always appreciated and I know I don't just speak for myself.