Vernon Dursley pushed open the door of number four, Privet Drive and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
'I'm in here, Vernon,' his wife called from the kitchen.
He carefully put down his briefcase, neatly placed his coat over the banister and strode into the kitchen, humming happily to himself. Mrs. Dursley was looking out of the kitchen window as she washed the dishes, her eyes fixed suspiciously on a large, new Mercedes parked in the driveway opposite.
'Seen the notice across the road?' Mr. Dursley asked his wife. 'The Harpers want planning permission for a new conservatory.'
Mrs. Dursley's beady eyes narrowed.
'I always knew she was jealous, ever since we invited them round for Sunday lunch. I expect they're planning some ugly big thing, twice the size of ours.'
Mr. Dursley shook his head irritably.
'I'm writing to the council, straight away. I mean, we can't have everyone building huge great extensions all over the street, left right and centre, can we?'
'Quite right, Vernon,' agreed his wife. 'Yes, write them a good, stern letter.'
Mr. Dursley rubbed his hands together happily and strode over to his drinks cabinet.
'How's the head, today, Petunia dear?' he asked as he poured himself a large brandy. 'Still got that nasty bump?'
Mrs. Dursley paused in the middle of rinsing a large china plate, her eyes suddenly wide open. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then decided against it.
'It's much better, thank you. But I have been wanting to talk to you about - '
'Outrageous!' exclaimed Mr. Dursley suddenly, sitting down at the kitchen table and staring at the front page of the newspaper which lay there. 'Minimum wage, going up again? What's the point of me slaving away in the office all day, when at this rate every Tom, Dick and Harry's going to be earning the same as me soon?'
Mrs. Dursley sighed, and began to dry wine glasses with one of Dudley's primary school tea-towels, taking great care not to get her son's picture at all damp.
'Was there something you wanted, Petunia?' Mr. Dursley asked, looking up from the paper.
'No, Vernon. Nothing.'
'Good good,' he said, downing the rest of his brandy and standing up. 'I think I'll get cracking on that letter to the council, while it's still fresh in my mind.'
He kissed his wife on her bony cheek and strode upstairs, whistling cheerfully at the prospect of writing a good long letter of complaint. Mrs. Dursley sighed and sat down at the table. She'd been so close to telling him. But she couldn't, not when he was in such a good mood. She was well aware of how much it was going to upset him. She cautiously put a hand up to the back of her head and felt the small bump which was still there. It wasn't hurting at all anymore, but it didn't seem to be going away either. A month ago she had been in the supermarket, doing her weekly shopping, when she had slipped on a patch of oil from a broken jar of olives, hitting her head hard on the floor. Although she had suffered nothing from more than a bump on the head and a rather oily coat, she'd been feeling...strange, lately. And then, there were the dreams...
She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was too early to think of going to bed yet. She'd have a nice long bath - that was sure to calm her down. As she stood up, her elbow knocked Vernon's empty brandy glass and sent it rolling across the table. Petunia reached out to try and catch it, but she was too late, and it rolled straight off the table. But then, rather than falling to the floor and shattering, the glass suddenly flew upwards into her outstretched hand. She gasped, staring at her long bony fingers clasped around it.
'That's the fourth time this week,' she said aloud to herself. 'How am I ever going to tell him?'
* * * * *
Mrs. Dursley lay awake long after her husband had gone to sleep that night. When she finally drifted off, she had a very strange dream. It was a scene she could vaguely recognise as one from her childhood. She was about six years old, and dressed in a pointy black witch's hat and a long black cloak. Next to her was a smaller girl, also dressed in a witch's costume. They were laughing, and sitting in front of a small toy cauldron. Then there was a flash of green light, and the smaller girl melted away...
'Lily!'
Mrs. Dursley sat up, wide awake. Her husband woke with a start. He fumbled in the dark for a light switch.
'Petunia, what is it?' He switched on the light and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Mrs. Dursley was breathing rapidly, clutching at her heart.
'Nothing to worry about, Vernon. I just had a funny dream, that's all.' Mr. Dursley looked at his wife suspiciously.
'You said - you said "Lily",' he whispered.
Mrs. Dursley swallowed hard, and forced a smile.
'Did I, dear? How strange - I can't even remember what I was dreaming about. I - I just woke up suddenly, nothing to worry about. Let's go back to sleep.'
She turned over and closed her eyes. Mr. Dursley looked at her for a moment, then switched out the light again.
* * * * *
Mrs. Dursley knocked on the door of Mrs. Harper's house. It was the next day, and she had just been in the hairdressers to have her roots bleached. She was feeling much better now. It had just been a dream, after all. And as for the glass, well, maybe she just had exceptionally good reflexes. She was probably just overtired, imagining things.
Mrs. Harper opened the door, wearing a pink apron.
'Petunia!' she exclaimed, in an overly enthusiastic voice. Mrs. Dursley forced her thin mouth into a smile. 'What can I do for you, dear?'
'I see you're planning on building a conservatory,' she replied, indicating the yellow notice pinning to the lamppost outside.
'Indeed we are,' replied Mrs. Harper, her smile fading a little. 'Is there a problem?'
Mrs. Dursley sniffed, looking up at the house.
'Wouldn't have thought you had much room in that garden of yours. How long is it, again?'
'Eighty feet,' Mrs. Harper retorted quickly. 'Yours is seventy-five, I believe?'
Mrs. Dursley made no reply, but instead cast her eyes around to avoid Mrs. Harper's triumphant stare. They fell upon the large Mercedes in the driveway. Mrs. Harper followed her gaze.
'Gordon's new company car,' she said swiftly, her smile rapidly returning. 'Brand new. Rather similar to yours, isn't it? Though of course, it is the latest model. Remind me again, what registration plate does yours have?'
Mrs. Dursley's eyes narrowed. There was a sudden crash, and a piercing shriek. Both women turned to look at the gleaming new car. The front windscreen had shattered, and the burglar alarm had started to wail, lights flashing frantically. Mrs. Dursley gasped, turned and ran across the street. She fumbled in her handbag for her keys and unlocked the door, slamming it shut behind her. She ran into the kitchen, gasping for breath, and sat down quickly at the table.
But as she lifted her head, she screamed and jumped up, pressing herself against the wall.
Sitting there on the table in front of her, a yellow envelope tied to its leg, was a large, snowy-white owl.
A/N I don't own Mr. or Mrs. Dursley, they both belong to J.K Rowling (or alternatively, Warner Brothers). No infringement intended.
'I'm in here, Vernon,' his wife called from the kitchen.
He carefully put down his briefcase, neatly placed his coat over the banister and strode into the kitchen, humming happily to himself. Mrs. Dursley was looking out of the kitchen window as she washed the dishes, her eyes fixed suspiciously on a large, new Mercedes parked in the driveway opposite.
'Seen the notice across the road?' Mr. Dursley asked his wife. 'The Harpers want planning permission for a new conservatory.'
Mrs. Dursley's beady eyes narrowed.
'I always knew she was jealous, ever since we invited them round for Sunday lunch. I expect they're planning some ugly big thing, twice the size of ours.'
Mr. Dursley shook his head irritably.
'I'm writing to the council, straight away. I mean, we can't have everyone building huge great extensions all over the street, left right and centre, can we?'
'Quite right, Vernon,' agreed his wife. 'Yes, write them a good, stern letter.'
Mr. Dursley rubbed his hands together happily and strode over to his drinks cabinet.
'How's the head, today, Petunia dear?' he asked as he poured himself a large brandy. 'Still got that nasty bump?'
Mrs. Dursley paused in the middle of rinsing a large china plate, her eyes suddenly wide open. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then decided against it.
'It's much better, thank you. But I have been wanting to talk to you about - '
'Outrageous!' exclaimed Mr. Dursley suddenly, sitting down at the kitchen table and staring at the front page of the newspaper which lay there. 'Minimum wage, going up again? What's the point of me slaving away in the office all day, when at this rate every Tom, Dick and Harry's going to be earning the same as me soon?'
Mrs. Dursley sighed, and began to dry wine glasses with one of Dudley's primary school tea-towels, taking great care not to get her son's picture at all damp.
'Was there something you wanted, Petunia?' Mr. Dursley asked, looking up from the paper.
'No, Vernon. Nothing.'
'Good good,' he said, downing the rest of his brandy and standing up. 'I think I'll get cracking on that letter to the council, while it's still fresh in my mind.'
He kissed his wife on her bony cheek and strode upstairs, whistling cheerfully at the prospect of writing a good long letter of complaint. Mrs. Dursley sighed and sat down at the table. She'd been so close to telling him. But she couldn't, not when he was in such a good mood. She was well aware of how much it was going to upset him. She cautiously put a hand up to the back of her head and felt the small bump which was still there. It wasn't hurting at all anymore, but it didn't seem to be going away either. A month ago she had been in the supermarket, doing her weekly shopping, when she had slipped on a patch of oil from a broken jar of olives, hitting her head hard on the floor. Although she had suffered nothing from more than a bump on the head and a rather oily coat, she'd been feeling...strange, lately. And then, there were the dreams...
She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was too early to think of going to bed yet. She'd have a nice long bath - that was sure to calm her down. As she stood up, her elbow knocked Vernon's empty brandy glass and sent it rolling across the table. Petunia reached out to try and catch it, but she was too late, and it rolled straight off the table. But then, rather than falling to the floor and shattering, the glass suddenly flew upwards into her outstretched hand. She gasped, staring at her long bony fingers clasped around it.
'That's the fourth time this week,' she said aloud to herself. 'How am I ever going to tell him?'
* * * * *
Mrs. Dursley lay awake long after her husband had gone to sleep that night. When she finally drifted off, she had a very strange dream. It was a scene she could vaguely recognise as one from her childhood. She was about six years old, and dressed in a pointy black witch's hat and a long black cloak. Next to her was a smaller girl, also dressed in a witch's costume. They were laughing, and sitting in front of a small toy cauldron. Then there was a flash of green light, and the smaller girl melted away...
'Lily!'
Mrs. Dursley sat up, wide awake. Her husband woke with a start. He fumbled in the dark for a light switch.
'Petunia, what is it?' He switched on the light and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Mrs. Dursley was breathing rapidly, clutching at her heart.
'Nothing to worry about, Vernon. I just had a funny dream, that's all.' Mr. Dursley looked at his wife suspiciously.
'You said - you said "Lily",' he whispered.
Mrs. Dursley swallowed hard, and forced a smile.
'Did I, dear? How strange - I can't even remember what I was dreaming about. I - I just woke up suddenly, nothing to worry about. Let's go back to sleep.'
She turned over and closed her eyes. Mr. Dursley looked at her for a moment, then switched out the light again.
* * * * *
Mrs. Dursley knocked on the door of Mrs. Harper's house. It was the next day, and she had just been in the hairdressers to have her roots bleached. She was feeling much better now. It had just been a dream, after all. And as for the glass, well, maybe she just had exceptionally good reflexes. She was probably just overtired, imagining things.
Mrs. Harper opened the door, wearing a pink apron.
'Petunia!' she exclaimed, in an overly enthusiastic voice. Mrs. Dursley forced her thin mouth into a smile. 'What can I do for you, dear?'
'I see you're planning on building a conservatory,' she replied, indicating the yellow notice pinning to the lamppost outside.
'Indeed we are,' replied Mrs. Harper, her smile fading a little. 'Is there a problem?'
Mrs. Dursley sniffed, looking up at the house.
'Wouldn't have thought you had much room in that garden of yours. How long is it, again?'
'Eighty feet,' Mrs. Harper retorted quickly. 'Yours is seventy-five, I believe?'
Mrs. Dursley made no reply, but instead cast her eyes around to avoid Mrs. Harper's triumphant stare. They fell upon the large Mercedes in the driveway. Mrs. Harper followed her gaze.
'Gordon's new company car,' she said swiftly, her smile rapidly returning. 'Brand new. Rather similar to yours, isn't it? Though of course, it is the latest model. Remind me again, what registration plate does yours have?'
Mrs. Dursley's eyes narrowed. There was a sudden crash, and a piercing shriek. Both women turned to look at the gleaming new car. The front windscreen had shattered, and the burglar alarm had started to wail, lights flashing frantically. Mrs. Dursley gasped, turned and ran across the street. She fumbled in her handbag for her keys and unlocked the door, slamming it shut behind her. She ran into the kitchen, gasping for breath, and sat down quickly at the table.
But as she lifted her head, she screamed and jumped up, pressing herself against the wall.
Sitting there on the table in front of her, a yellow envelope tied to its leg, was a large, snowy-white owl.
A/N I don't own Mr. or Mrs. Dursley, they both belong to J.K Rowling (or alternatively, Warner Brothers). No infringement intended.