On May 4th, 2012, Petunia Dursley found herself hanging.
She was hanging her head, to be precise (and also elaborated so as not to startle you or anybody who choose to read these lines about an evening in which Petunia Dursley nee Evans sat alone in the kitchen of Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey). The agapanthuses were flourishing outside in the garden; the walls were all spic and span; the Spaghetti Bolognese was done just right; the candles burnt upon expensive silver stands; the table was laid out, all in perfect order.
On May 4th, 2012, Petunia Dursley found herself alone.
She had completely forgotten to send out invitations! It was her birthday, and Marge wouldn’t know. The neighbours wouldn’t know. Glenda wouldn’t have come. Vernon was a photograph, and photographs don’t get invitations (or it would be abnormal), so she wouldn’t have thought of him in the first place. And now that she thought of it, it was better she hadn’t sent out invitations. It would frankly have been a waste of effort.
On May 4th, 2012, Petunia Dursley thought of her son.
She hadn’t remembered to send him an invitation card because she had imagined he wouldn’t need one.
On May 4th, 2012, Petunia Dursley raised her fork and knife and refused to wish herself a –Happy Birthday, Tuney!â€
She was halfway through the Spaghetti Bolognese when the bell rang; with a slight tremble that was quickly smothered, she stood up, back straight and head held high, and marched towards the door with shoes that preceded her with a cluck cluck cluck.
On May 4th, 2012, Petunia Dursley opened the front door and found a hefty young man standing outside, next to a bespectacled one. –I’d forgotten,†said the latter. –Ran into Dudley this morning at a gift shop, and he told me.â€
–Well then,†she said, hands clenched and lips shut in an effort to not shock the neighbourhood with a quake that would have tipped the Richter scale all right, –come on in.â€
On May 4th, 2012, after two young men walked into the very house they had grown up in, silent and with wrapped boxes in their hands, Petunia Dursley rubbed her eyes.
If anyone had asked her what was wrong, she would have said: I break my back cleaning this goddamn place every day and still the dust manages to find me.