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Afflicted
Dudley Dursley was not a fragile man by any means. He was not easily shocked, he hardly felt fear, and he certainly did not ever go wobbly in the knees, but that day changed everything.
He was alone when he found it, tossed forebodingly on the mat by the front door. Its waxy red seal seemed to glare up at him like a great, evil eye and he began to sweat profusely- a nervous, frantic sort of sweat that was usually reserved for a public speaking event or a company meeting. His heart started to thump loudly in his ears and Dudley took a step backwards as if worried the envelope may spring from the ground and attack- after all, he didn't know exactly what he was dealing with, did he?
Of course, it took only a few moments for the large man to regain his tenacious resolve and he thought to himself, 'how ridiculous, how stupid, how obvious.'
Hindsight shaped everything crystal clear, and now that letter had arrived, it seemed so plain to Dudley for he suddenly felt he had always known. At the end of the day, Marge's condition did run in the family...
Dudley first noticed signs of his daughter's affliction when the nurse handed him a baby wrapped tightly in pink. She was new and warm and soft and yet, she was looking straight up at him, her eyes piercing his very soul. He was transfixed by her gaze.
"Oh, just look at those eyes, Mr. Dursley! Babies don't usually open their eyes this early."
"Is there something the matter with her?"
"No, no of course not." She hurried to sooth the new father. "Your little girl's perfect, she's just very special. Congratulations."
And then, a few months later, he thought it a wicked twist of fate when those blue eyes the nurse had been so taken with turned a searing green. A green very reminiscent of a boy he once knew and an aunt he never met, nor would have even if given the chance.
His mother shrieked when she saw them, for they had seemingly changed overnight and the difference was shocking. His father, however, waved his bulky hand dismissively.
"Green eyes, bah! My great-great-grandmother had green eyes, Petunia, that's where she gets them from!"
Dudley's suspicions continued to escalate throughout the remainder of her infancy when she somehow managed to escape her well made crib, silently, during the nights. In the mornings he would find her crawling around the bedroom floor and on the occasion that she was still contained, there would be toys from high shelves, or that were placed across the room, in the crib with her.
His wife found it extremely obnoxious.
"Dudley, I told you not to put her to bed with toys! Not only will she never go to sleep, but it's dangerous for babies her age! How many times do I have to tell you?"
"I didn't leave them in there, I swear!"
She scoffed and held up their daughter's favorite doll. "How do you explain this then? How in the hell did this doll get all the way over here from all the way over there? Are you telling me we've got a ghost?"
"I wish we did."
Marge began to walk and talk much, much earlier than any of her peers at her daycare. So much earlier that the women who ran the place wanted to move her to an older class and the doctors Dudley and his wife took her to were baffled.
"It's certainly abnormal but there's nothing wrong with it, I suppose." One of them had said. "Perhaps, she's simply an early bloomer."
Despite all of this, he didn't really begin to suspect until she was a young girl when she fell from an impossibly high branch of a tree and escaped without a single scratch. Dudley shook her by the shoulders and felt something tingling underneath her skin, like it was itching to get out.
"Do you feel that, Marge?" He croaked, feeling angry, frightened, and confused all at the same time. "That- that buzzing?"
She dusted off her dress with a shrug. "I always feel it, Daddy, but I think it's just power."
Her primary school teacher called the Dursley's in once a week, complaining that Marge was the most fantastic troublemaker she had ever had in a class. It was incredible, mostly because the girl had never been caught- not once.
"How do you know it's her?" Dudley's wife asked after the third meeting. "There are plenty of children in this class to cause trouble."
"I just know it is."
"Well then, I hardly see how you can blame our Marge for it."
Dudley grew even more sure when his son was born. Marge didn't like him very much. The little girl had decided that if she had to have a sibling, she wanted a sister, and so her parents would find the baby boy in odd places- on the top of the stairs, under the sink cupboard, and once, outside near the postbox with a three perfectly aligned stamps on his forehead.
"Marge! What on earth were you thinking?"
"I was just thinking I wanted him to go away." She said offhandedly when confronted with the issue, "He put those stamps on his head and went by himself, though. I didn't make him do it."
Still, being the man that he was, Dudley held fast on to the hope that she would be a nice, normal little girl- even when the butterflies flew behind her, fluttered into her hair, and kissed her nose. Even if he had to turn a blind eye to the fireflies that danced so purposefully around her on summer nights. And even though he was frequently prompted to shoo away the wild rabbits that would swarm around her without fear.
Until one day it felt completely inevitable, at least, for a moment.
His revelation came and went so quickly that he thought he had imagined it- a subtle flash in his mother's eyes when Marge approached that gave away all. From then on he observed his mother with her granddaughter closely. He noticed how, whenever Marge was around, she would maintain a safe distance and throw nervous, sideways glances in that direction and though he never spoke to her about it, for some reason, he felt they had come to a silent agreement over Marge's affliction.
And as Dudley Dursley stood over that infamous letter, there was absolutely no shred of doubt left. The time had come. His child was afflicted.
Briefly, he thought about hiding it. He thought he could throw it into the rubbish bin or toss it into the flames and no one would ever know- but then he recalled a similar episode not long after that cousin's birthday and decided against it.
What would he tell his wife? What would he tell his daughter? What would he tell his parents?
Dudley licked his lips and bent over to pick up the thing which he thought had a heartbeat- for that was entirely possible, magic was a funny business after all- and read…
oooooooooo
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sourc.)
Dear Miss. Dursley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed list of all books and equipment necessary.
Term begins 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours Sincerely,
Neville Longbottom
Deputy Headmaster
oooooooooo
"Damn." Dudley whispered once the wind returned to his lungs. "Another witch in the family."
A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review!