Chapter Text
Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number 4, Privet Drive, considered themselves normal. They were not normal, as the storage of excrement in large containers was generally not something the average resident of Little Whinging, which had been renamed Dudley-burg on Dudley’s first birthday a few weeks ago, did (although their neighbours, the Bluegrasses, did collect their urine, which they bottled and sold as drinking water in the Congo and Gabon).
Mr Dursley (whose full and proper name, according to himself, was Sir Vernon Dursley, OBE DPhil Phd BSc MA MD FRS, Esq., although in truth, he had never gone to university, and Queen Elizabeth II, as well as most of the rest of the royal family, had taken out a restraining order against him) was the managing director of a drill company named Gruntings Drill Conglomerate Plc. It made various drills, including the iGruntings Galaxy P6X, marketed as a toy for children.
A year ago the government had almost banned it, after an incident where a teenager brought it into school, and drilled holes in several teacher’s heads. Blood spewed everywhere, and the teenager drank it, to the horror of the students around him. It later emerged that he was following a suggested activity from the Gruntings website, which the government forced to be removed. Mr Dursley made a controversial statement to the press, saying that the child had “Clowned on those teachers hard, and they should cope harder, and the government really should stop being such clowns, and make drill practice classes compulsory in nursery.” The teenager had been acquitted after the prosecution lawyer had a nasty accident falling on top of a Gruntings drill, that managed to cut him into four hundred pieces.
Mr Dursley was a big, beefy man, of medium stature, no neck, and large folds of fat all over his body, although he made up for this with an excellent moustache, in fact this was the reason that his company hadn’t been fined for the teacher drilling incident, and the 50 other drill related murders.
Mr Dursley, and his irrelevant pathetic wife Mrs Dursley had a son, named Dudley. They loved him dearly and would verbally abuse anyone who as much as gave an ugly glance towards him.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, for example Vernon had a nuclear power plant in the garage, as well as a Challenger 2 tank. But they had a dark secret, that they would swap out for literally anything. They would rather have committed mass genocide than their relation to the Potters getting out. Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursley’s sister, who had been better in every way, more intelligent, more attractive, more healthy, more wealthy, and most importantly, could do magic.
Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on another typical British Tuesday, the grey clouds stretched seemingly endlessly. Mr Dursley got out of bed first, and got dressed, putting on his clothes, wearing an odd mess of mismatching suit parts, as well as an ‘I love drills’ tie, which he forced all employees of Gruntings to wear, in an effort to build a community (although the truth was so that government investigators could be noticed due to not fitting in and end up in a terrible drill related accident, which always seemed to show just how well Gruntings’ drills worked). He got downstairs, and Petunia also got out of bed, and rushed to Dudley’s room, and grabbed him, and changed his nappy, which was very full, as usual; Dudley ate a lot, every day, and was putting on large amounts of weight, in fact, at his most recent check-up with a doctor, he had taken the unprecedented step of suggesting risky fat removal surgery for the barely over one-year-old boy, the situation had got so far out of hand. Petunia then took Dudley downstairs for breakfast, and found that Vernon had already prepared Dudley’s breakfast, five kilograms of melted chocolate, the finest chocolate, although Vernon always added extra sugar, as Dudley liked sweet stuff, and would throw tantrums (usually urinating everywhere) when this need was not provided for.
Petunia then prepared some pancakes for herself and Vernon, taking care to prepare far more than the two could eat, as Dudley often liked eating at least half of Vernon and Petunia’s food, often three quarters. They settled down to eat, and Vernon turned on the television, and as it was seven o’clock in the morning, the news was on. The newsreader waited a moment, before beginning to speak, “BBC News, this is Ben Dover. This morning, the prime minister has unveiled a new plan which would see about five percent of NHS funding diverted to funding a private yacht that she says would be used for diplomatic missions, and most certainly not holidays for her family and friends. Internationally, the president of Gabon has solved the issue of hunger in his country by collecting all the country’s poo and piss, and redistributing it around the country as food and drink, and to ensure its uptake, making it compulsory for each resident to consume at least one litre of urine, and one kilogram of faeces per day, posting videos of themselves doing so online as proof. Argentina has marked the anniversary of losing the Falklands War by organising a parade in its capital, Buenos Aires, where hundreds chant ‘Las Malvinas son Argentines’. Now I know I’m supposed to be impartial, but I just want to tell Argentina to cope harder. Also, I saw some guy wearing a cloak when I went to work in the morning, must be some druggy or something, so I spat at him, and kicked him hard in between his legs, and for some reason he didn’t seem to mind, he was so happy. That is the news, it is now 7:05am, and I’m Ben Dover.”
As the news finished, Vernon finished eating his last pancake (of the ten pancakes he originally had, Dudley had taken seven, and had already finished them, and was about half-way through his 5 kilograms of chocolate with extra sugar). Vernon picked up his briefcase, and took out the pet cockatiel that the Dursley family had, and got it to peck Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and then tried to get it to peck Dudley on the cheek, but to his disappointment, Dudley ate it, chewing ferociously, before spitting out the bones all over the carpet. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr Dursley, “We’re not getting another one, that was our four hundred and twentieth bird that you ate whole, and they are rather expensive,” as he left the house.
Mr Dursley got into his car, which was a Range Rover, which he had bought on the money he had taken from the government inspectors that kept dying. He reversed out from the driveway, and drove onwards, and saw something very strange up ahead of him. It was a cat reading a map, or so it seemed. Momentarily, Mr Dursley didn’t realise what he had seen, and took a second look, there was a cat up ahead, but no map. Mr Dursley was angered, why was his mind playing tricks on him. He stared at the cat, and the cat stared back. Angered at what he considered so very rude of the cat, Mr Dursley accelerated and ran it over, the blood went everywhere, all over the road, but more importantly all over Mr Dursley’s car. The amount of blood was very large, too much for a cat, and if Mr Dursley had looked back, he would see not a cat’s body, but an old lady’s body, dressed in a cloak, as well as a pointy hat, or what would have been a pointy hat if Mr Dursley hadn’t absolutely flattened it.
Mr Dursley decided to take a small diversion to a car wash, to clean his car from the blood. As his car slowly went through the car wash, all he thought of was the large order of drills from Al-Qaeda that he hoped to receive that day, following a productive meeting with its leader Abu Musab al-Zarqawi a few weeks ago. He ignored all the people muttering about how his car was covered in blood, and the old man in robes who was looking very much displeased at this development. Vernon drove further, reaching the edge of the residential area of the town, and saw a small group of people, dressed weirdly, in cloaks. Mr Dursley hated people who wore cloaks, in fact anyone who dressed in funny clothes (so much so that once, when he himself was a child, he had very nearly fatally wounded a clown at a circus, having to be pulled away by two strongmen). Vernon could manage his emotions a lot better now, and so he simply watched. He observed that this group was not all the same age, in fact the age of this gaggle was very varied, from very young (the youngest being a toddler crawling around), to very old. Vernon arrived at the Gruntings car park, and got out, and after hitting the receptionist over the head with a wet floor sign for not bowing to him and saying ‘Heil Mein Manager’, he went upstairs to his office.
He sat down at his ornate desk after closing the curtains, which meant he didn’t notice the owls swooping around, although outside, particularly in the town centre, many people pointed and looked on in awe (a majority had not even seen an owl at nighttime). Vernon punched away at a typewriter, instituting several cost saving measures, including the cancellation of food orders for the company cafeteria; instead the toilet pipes would lead directly to the cafeteria, in order to promote recycling of bodily waste to reduce load on sewage plants. Already the food at the cafeteria was really bad, so he decided to give his legs a stretch, and headed off to a nearby bakery, which he frequented. As he walked there, he saw the strangely dressed folk were still present, whispering excitedly. He walked past them, and into the bakery, where he took a doughnut, and some garlic bread, as well as a slice of cake, and he walked back, clutching a bag which contained all the rather delicious goods he had just acquired. He passed by the group of weirdos again, and overheard them whispering, “The Potters, they are dead, finally”, “God those insufferable arseholes couldn’t keep it to themselves”, “Their son Harry will be brought up by normal people”, “Didn’t you-know-who die as well or something”, “The Potters probably did it in every single room in Hogwarts by the time they left, including in the teacher’s offices, I heard Dumbledore gave them some keys for rooms they couldn't break into”, all followed by the disapproving shaking of heads.
He rushed back to his office, and sat down, gobbling down his pastries like a monkey, crumbs falling onto his keyboard and desk. Once he had finished ingesting his sustenance, he proceeded to eat the crumbs (every last one) as well, and after a moment’s pause for thought, began to start dialling the home number on his gold-plated telephone, when he suddenly changed his mind. Potter was a very common surname, Harry was an even more common name (at least he thought it was), but the third aspect was really worrying him, as not that many people were so strongly attached together at the lips and at the hips, and so obnoxious about it too. He stifled the worries by lowering the wages of everyone who worked at his company by 10%, as well as increasing mandatory overtime to five hours a day. Through the afternoon, he answered many business phone calls, however, his mind was drifting.
As he left the office, he wasn’t really looking around him, and he walked right into a short slimy man, who immediately fell over from the force at which he had been walked into with. The man got up, and smiled widely, showing two rows of the greenest teeth possible, and squeaked “Don’t apologise, there is no need, nothing can upset me today, not even that my wife died, for the Potter’s are dead at last, the bushes in my garden are safe! Oh, and the you-know-who kid is dead as well, but who really cares about him.” The man hugged Mr Dursley, who grabbed him by the collar and threw him down a nearby flight of stairs, and made a dash for his car, getting in as he heard a horrific crack from the bottom of the stairs, and driving way at speed, making a note to himself to have a shower immediately on returning home.
On his drive home, Mr Dursley got about seven speeding tickets, and almost ran down a whole group of schoolchildren as he took a shortcut through a school field (also causing substantial properly damage, as he broke the fence on both sides of the field), although he probably hospitalised several of them, as when the hundreds of children saw a car driving right at them, the scattered, running over each other, injuring each other in the process, and many also, in their surprise, leapt into a stingy nettle bush to dodge the car. Vernon slowed down as he drove onto Privet Drive, driving carefully around the spot where the body was still laying, seemingly unnoticed by anyone else. Vernon was slightly surprised to see it was the body of a woman, also in a cloak, who was holding a blood-soaked envelope reading “Secret assignment for Minerva McGonagall”, rather than the cat he had ran over, but decided he must have just got lucky and got two kills in one stroke.
Instead, he ran into the house, and quickly showering thoroughly, and binned all his current clothes, which included a designer blazer that had cost him over £1000 at Harrods (he had however managed to threaten the shop assistant into selling it to him for just £30). He then returned downstairs to a perplexed Mrs Dursley, who told him over dinner about how the next door neighbour’s teenage daughter was upset about not being allowed to start an OnlyFans account, and how Dudley had learned three new words, these being “Go”, “Kill”, and “Yourself”. Soon after that, Dudley had been put to bed, and Mr and Mrs Dursley turned the TV on again, to hear the evening news. “BBC News, this is Moe Lester. Today there is a lot of news to talk about. Our first story comes from Brussels, where the European Parliament has ruled that France is worse than Germany, and really shouldn’t resist when we invade you the next time. Our Europe Correspondent has more.”
“Thank you very much Moe, I’m Vera Tractive, as they say, it’s all in the name, you can subscribe to my monthly exotic photography mail-list by sending £80 monthly to 8 Saxon Way…”
“Get on with the news,” the newsreader interrupted, to which the female correspondent replied, “Fine, Mr D. Jon, the chair of the European Parliament, who also happens to be German, said that while it is tragic that all the French representatives died after their train fell into a ditch that happened to have an unexploded world war two bomb in it, resulting in a massive explosion that killed every single one of them, the results of the vote must be upheld, as not doing so would be disrespectful to the political ideology of fascism, sorry I mean democracy. I am quoting him directly there.” The perspective returned to the newsreader, who continued, “After public backlash to the yacht plan from earlier today, the prime minister has decided to instead give the NHS more money to perform organ harvesting on aborted foetuses in order to create youthfulness potions for the global elite to drink at freemason gatherings, which has returned her standing in the polls to previous levels of 70% disapproval, down from 80% disapproval earlier today. In more peculiar news, birdwatchers across the country, from as far apart as Newcastle Upon Tyne, Newcastle Under Lyme, and Newcastle (Northern Ireland) have reported strange trends where owls have seemingly ditched their normal sleep schedule in order to fly around carrying pieces of paper. This is very strange, and we will have a more in depth look into this after the weather, so over to you Jim Dingleberry.” The weatherman continued confidently, “Instead of rain today, there seems to have been shooting stars falling from the sky, although this seems to be isolated to Kent and East Sussex, with viewers from Rochester, Canterbury, and Hastings phoning in to tell us this. I can promise light showers overnight, which should clear up by six in the morning, and tomorrow will be a cold day, with lows of negative sixty nine, wait that’s wrong, who swapped my notes, oi, I’m talking to you!” The newsreader calmly returned to frame “That’s the weather, and now for more on the change in owl behaviour, starting with an interview with a birdwatcher, Mr Dung Pile-Fletcher, who has captured two such owls, and will read to us what is written on the paper shortly”.
Mr Dursley turned the TV off, and cautiously muttered to Mrs Dursley, “I saw a strange cat, and some weirdos, do you consider the possibility that this could have been started, or caused, by your sister’s kind?”
“Shut up, I never want to hear about her!” Mrs Dursley shrieked hysterically, waking Dudley up, who immediately began crying with a ferocity that caused the whole house to shake, as if an earthquake had hit it. This certainly took Mr Dursley by surprise, and he decided not to mention this to his wife again, as he had not got a prenuptial agreement, and the alligator he kept in the shed was very expensive to feed, since it refused to eat anything except newborn Indian or Pakistani babies (for some reason it also refused to eat any other babies), meaning Vernon had to buy at least a dozen babies a week from the dark web to feed his pet alligator.
“They call their son Harry, nasty common name, fit only for a rat, so I guess it’s appropriate for him, compared to Dudley, they are of course comparable in age, but Dudley is so much better, firstly in appetite, and also in intelligence.” Mrs Dursley ranted relentlessly, growing more and more angry, her arms starting to shake.
They got to bed eventually, with Vernon having to sedate Petunia with industrial strength weedkiller, and after she fell into a particularly deep sleep, which curiously included foaming at the mouth, Mr Dursley peered out the window, and saw the dead body of the old woman still laying there, and he allowed himself a laugh.
Unfortunately, Mr Dursley couldn’t bring himself to sleep, his mind was stuck; the Potters knew how much they were hated by the Dursleys, and he didn’t want to get mixed up with any of this, he couldn't get mixed up with any of this, how could he, there was absolutely no way. Mr Dursley slowly managed to drift off to sleep, dreaming about creating more drill-use demonstration guides, one particular one that he dreamed about included several cats and schoolchildren, as well as four drills and some petroleum.
Outside, the dead body of the woman continued laying on the ground, flies beginning to circle it, while the world continued on around it as normal, a man returned from a late night shift at work, slamming his car door and entering his house grumpily. Two owls flew by, hunting. A group of drunk people left a pub a few streets away, loudly ranting about how they really hated that particularly nasty slag Sheila (and her friend Stella, with whom she went out), their obnoxiously loud chatter audible from Privet Drive, nearly half a mile away.
Then suddenly, a man appeared at the corner of the street, in an alleyway lined with fences, which lead out to several house’s gardens, as well as where the bins where stored. This man was not someone who would usually be seen in such an area. He was quite tall (at a respectable 5 foot 12 inches), thin, and looked very old, with his hair and beard long enough that both were trailing on the ground behind him, picking up dirt, so the ends were completely filthy and matted. From previous walks, the ends were already covered in a large amount of dirt, giving a less than positive impression, he looked like a tramp. He had an enormous nose, which had clearly been broken many years ago, and wore a stained purple robe, a yellow cloak, and a one metre tall green pointy hat, which concealed goat horns, and also high heels for some reason, although he couldn’t walk very well in them, constantly tripping over, staggering around, swaying, and frequently falling over, resulting in him soon being incredibly bloodied and bruised. His movements were however not what one might expect from such an old man. He moved with agility, picking himself up with relative ease when he tripped over, and not seeming to mind the dirt and blood that had accumulated on his calloused hands from all of the falling. He saw the body, and shook his head with a bleat, “I guess I might have to hire a new Transfiguration teacher now, if this doesn’t work...”
This man didn’t seem to notice that the street he was currently on was not exactly fitting for his sort, and so stumbled onward, taking about thirty minutes to walk the hundred yards or so to number four, in the process of which he broke 4 vertebrae, and nearly severed his spinal cord. Once there he pulled out a wand, and after tapping his spine, repairing the damage, he raised it and gave it a flick, quietly blowing up all the lampposts on the street via spawning silenced grenades next to them. He then flicked his wand at the body, which made it start bleeding again.
“Damn it, that’s the wrong spell,” he muttered, fumbling inexpertly with his wand.
He flicked his wand again, and the body was set alight, and after a minute or two, it was completely gone, with only a single speck of blood remaining.
Dumbledore had been to numerous parties on the way to Privet Drive, so was certainly feeling very light-headed, and so decided to try something rather risky (however necessary) so began waving his wand, slowly sculpting a new human. After only a minute or two of waving it around, he pronounced loudly “Welcome back, Professor McGooglean”.
“MY NAME IS PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL!!” bellowed the woman, spitting all over the ground. Even though Dumbledore had had to bring her back to life after being hit by Vernon’s car, the magic recreation somehow worked flawlessly, although she was now an Inferni, that being a dead corpse reanimated by dark magic. “THAT GUY HIT ME WITH A CAR, THE NERVE!!” She swore loudly and repeatedly, spitting even more on the pavement, creating a considerable puddle.
“The muggles know everything, it’s all over their news, everything, just because Voldemort died, doesn’t mean they can expose us to yet another threat,” she continued frantically, hyperventilating.
“They are celebrating because the Potters died,” Dumbledore carefully noted with a loud bleat, barely hiding his own hatred for the Potter family, but not knowing what reaction to expect from Professor McGonagall, who clearly already had a lot to be angry about.
Fortunately for Dumbledore, he didn’t have to talk any more, as a loud farting sound erupted in the distance, and a motorbike, if you could call it that, swooped down, losing control, and crashed through the roof of number three, which was opposite the Dursley house, and screams could be heard as the residents were engulfed in a fiery explosion. This somehow snapped McGonagall back to reality, and she and Dumbledore rushed over to the house, and Dumbledore snapped his fingers, opening the front door, and they rushed in, and scrambled upstairs along the charred steps, to the bedroom, which looked like a bomb had gone of in it, and where two dead bodies lay, of a poor innocent young newlywed couple, although Dumbledore totally ignored them, and turned his attention immediately to a motorbike with a large man that was riding it, somehow unharmed. He was tall, likely twice the height of a normal man, and twice the depth as well. He was carrying a bundle that seemed to be gasping for air. Dumbledore scurried over, and snatched the bundle from the giant.
“Hagrid, that’s no way to treat the second most important person here.” he snapped pompously.
Hagrid got off the motorbike, and said “I don’t know yer really Dumb Door mate, I was at the pub with Harry, and we both had a couple too many drinks innit. Everyone was egging us on, little Harry here got two pints in before he passed out, not bad going for an infant.”
“Oh well, who cares,” Dumbledore interceded, “Just leave him by that door with this letter, and then we can get back to the pub ourselves. I was chatting up this Grindelwald lookalike who I think I am definitely on with. He’s even the same religion as me!”
Hagrid shrugged, and, tucking the letter into Harry’s blanket, lobbed him at the door, “Alright then Dumby, let’s go!”