I've had this idea in my head for ages...
"Are you sure we got the address right?" Petunia fretted for what felt like the thousandth time.
Vernon merely grunted as he stepped up to the front door of their house, key raised. Several days ago they had been delighted to receive a letter in the post, declaring them short-listed for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. So tonight they had driven the forty-five minutes it took to get to the location of the prize-giving ceremony, dressed in their finest Sunday Best. They had stopped for ice-cream along the way in order to appease Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the Game Boy he had left behind.
The location, as it turned out, had been an abandoned warehouse, and though they drove around the building for several long minutes, it was clearly the wrong place.
Vernon had stopped the car, pulled himself from the drivers seat, and stood in front of the bright headlights, hands on his hips.
"I checked the ruddy address fifteen times before we left, it can't have been wrong, Pet!' he pleaded now, switching on the hallway light. Dudley brushed past them both and plonked himself in front of the telly.
Petunia let out a sigh, fanning herself in the Summer heat with a limp hand. She marched her way into the kitchen and hung her bag from a hook on the wall, and she busied herself with making some simple dinner.
Her husband grumbled to himself before vacating her domain, happy to let her cook as he relaxed with Dudley.
She missed the days when The Boy would help her in the kitchen. True, she was sure he'd poison them all with his freaky ways, but her task had always been simpler when the vegetables were already chopped and lined up neatly for her to use.
She wondered briefly about sticking some food in the boy's room, through the cat-flap, but quickly decided against it. If the boy wanted food, he'd let them know, she was certain. She set some pasta to boil and went about making an easy tomato sauce.
Petunia glanced regretfully at the empty dinner table, places unset, and brought the three bowls of food to the lounge. She firmly reminded her husband and son not to spill anything, as it would be a chore to scrub the couches or floor clean. Not that she would do it; the boy could - he spent far too much time in his room (probably doing freaky things), and he needed to be reminded that it was they who were allowing him to stay in their house, and not the other way around.
Four days ago, her brave Dudley had fought dementors. She shuddered involuntarily. She remembered the stories that boy would tell her freaky sister, with her listening at the door, bitter and desperate for the knowledge.
She'd always known the boy was more trouble than he was worth, always getting into situations at primary school where she would be forced to scoff at the teacher with blue hair, or assure the headmaster that he really was just a disruptive brat; he got it from his parents, and that she and her husband were at their wit's end.
She remembered that chilly November morning, and she regretted instinctively bringing the sleeping child inside their home, before opening the sealed letter. If she had only read the letter first, none of this would have happened, her Dudders would never have had to fight for his life. Petunia mentally cursed that... that... talking letter, or she might have allowed Vernon to kick the freak out of their house once and for all. Her family could have been completely normal, finally.
Well, they were completely normal. It was easy enough to pretend the boy wasn't here in the (sometimes less than) two months he wasn't at that school. In fact, the only reminder that he was actually still in the house was when he woke them up at all hours of the night, screaming. Irritable brat.
He'd never had nightmares like this before, always such a quiet child, and it annoyed her to no end that he couldn't pretend to be normal, even for a night.
She took the empty dinner bowls and tottered back to the kitchen, smiling fondly at her two handsome men. It was just like them to be so focused on what was in front of them - the telly - that they didn't notice her movement.
Petunia went through the practiced action of washing the dishes, leaving the clean, glistening dinner-ware stacked by the sink. The boy could put them away in the morning. She decided she'd rather read a good book in bed than watch whatever reality show her family was currently enthralled by. She kissed them both goodnight and made her way upstairs.
The next morning, Petunia set about with her usual daily chores. The day was bright and hot, and too much effort caused a sheen of shiny sweat to break out on her arms.
By midday, she had decided it was the boy's turn to pull his weight. The lawn needed mowing and the garden needed weeding. Grumbling to herself, she trekked up the stairs. She detoured to her own bedroom briefly to get the keys Vernon always left beside his side of the bed.
To her consternation, Vernon had locked all five of the locks. "Boy!" she called sharply, banging her flattened palm on the door.
She received no response and pursed her lips, inserting a key into the first lock.
Despite the noise she made, scraping at the locks and the jangling of the keys, she never heard a peep from within, and it caused her ire to grow.
She finally threw the door open and it bounced against the wall inside, but she'd hardly raised her foot to enter before she froze.
"Vernon." Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, the shock and a sudden clutch of fear contstricting her throat.
"Vernon!" she all but shrieked, the sound ripping through her dry lips.
The room was empty! As Vernon made his way to the sound of her voice, she reluctantly entered the room, staring about with growing dismay. The bird cage was gone, the trunk was gone, the floor cleared of books and clothes. The bookshelf and desk were void of the usual clutter of photos and papers and books. The bed was messy, unmade, but clearly looked like it hadn't been slept in recently.
"What is it, Pet?' asked Vernon, coming to a stop beyond the door frame.
"He's gone!' She muttered.
"Good," Vernon grunted, and turned back to the stairs.
"But..." Petunia floundered. She couldn't understand what she was seeing. Or, more accurately, what she wasn't. She felt the first (tiny!) stirrings of guilt, more than she'd felt in fourteen years.
How long had the boy been gone?
So yeah, has anyone else ever wondered about this?