A/N This is almost entirely my own creation. It concerns the Dursleys, yes, but the stories concerning them are mostly mine, except for a few I took out of the book, but they have my twist to them. For those of you who have not read the first book (or the series) don't read this unless you're not going to read the actual books. This contains MAJOR spoilers.
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The Mixed-up Stories of the Dursleys
Chapter One
House number 4, on Privet Drive held a family who were commonly referred to as radical normalists by every living thing around them, including their gardener (poor man, he worked there for a week until he had to go to the hospital because some high pressured water hit him hard when he was waging a war against the chipmunks). Actually they were so radical by some they could be considered part of the left wing party, by others they were considered just plain weird (they couldn't be radical weirdists unless they were trying to be radically weird). Anything that was strange or different from the usual they banned from the house, especially anything that had to do with withcraft, voodoo, wicca, tarot, palmistry, fantasy books, fantasy movies, Sir-Mix-A-Lot, Shakespeare, and Hot dogs ('Hot dogs' was an issue because at one time they wanted a dog but because the word 'dog' was in 'hot dog' they couldn't have one). All in all it was a big happy family consisting of three people: Mrs. Dursley, Mr. Dursley, and their lovable eating machine, Dudley.
Mr. Dursley made drills. Of course, not with his own two hands, by the time he had hit the age of forty he was much to ample to do that. The company that he worked for before he began to roll down the other side of the hill thought he was a very valuable person to the company, but things changed once his bulk got in the way. Eventually after a few job searches Mr. Dursley found that the directors position for another drill making firm Guntings was open, and with excellent reports to the company from his former employers he tied down the position. Today, of course, the firm's name is Grunnings. The change occurred because some highly radical (what a match) women groups said that it should be against the law to have a major company called something that is sexual. That was, luckily for Mr. Dursley, the only thing that wasn't normal during his days as director. As said before Mr. Dursley was very amply proportioned. At one time or another he must've had a neck but now it seemed that his head was directly applied to his chest. Mr. Dursley did take pride in his mustache though, it was a very large mustache with the ends curled up like the mustaches French chefs are supposed to have.
Mrs. Dursley, on the other hand, had a long history of commitment problems. She had been constantly unhappy with her previous engagement, who was the 435th down the line to inherit the throne if Queen Elizabeth II died. They had been engaged for three years and everyone thought they were going to get married so Mrs. Dursley was added to the long list of royalties (most of whom were clerks at small convenient stores). Being on that long list of Royalties meant you got a hundred dollars a week without doing anything, so Mrs. Dursley had no need for Mr. Dursley's money. As the story goes on the day that Mrs. Dursley was supposed to get married, Mr. Dursley asked her if she would marry him. And, well, as you can tell what happened. There is, after all, a reason why Mrs. Dursley has Mr. Dursley's name. But before the engagement to number 435th she had been engaged to a cousin of Tony Blair. Before that she was engaged to the cousin of the brother of the friend of the mother of the cousin of the coach of David Beckham. Mr. Dursley would've been just another name on a very long list if Mrs. Dursley hadn't realized that she had a thing going for amply proportioned men (Which wasn't true for Mr. Dursley). If she had gained a single pound divorce papers would have been signed. She had blonde hair, for those who liked that sort of thing, and she was a trifle thinner then most women, which wasn't much to say. Mrs. Dursley had enough neck to make up for the lack of her husband's neck, it was a neck she used frequently to look over the neighbors' fences (much to Mr. Dursley's chagrin, he hated hearing about the new furniture the neighbors' had gotten over dinner). The description is of an attractive woman but her face resembled a horse more closely than anything else.
There was very little to say about Dudley except that at a very early age he was the Dursleys' lovable little eating machine, and he was on the verge of being exactly like Mr. Dursley at a much earlier age. At the time Dudley was a year old.
They were radical normalists, but had a secret that nowhere near normal. It was a secret that had to do with why they banned anything that had to do with magic from their house. Several people might've thought that Mrs. Dursley practicing voodoo after a boyfriend dumped her for a even skinnier brunette who had a rich daddy (she was caught poking a doll, with her ex-boyfriend's hair, with needles). Voodoo was a sour topic to discuss in front of Mrs. Dursley, now that she was a radical normalist her history was supposed to be normal too. In order for her history to be normal about half of it would have to be completely erased, the first 18 years of her life. That was because her sister, Lily Evans, was as strange as could be. Mrs. Dursley held no affection for her sister and hadn't seen her for seven years (although Mrs. Dursley called Lily so she could learn how to do voodoo). The most information that Mrs. Dursley had acquired about her sister was that she had married another oddity of her type and had a son about the same age as Dudley. The Dursleys shuddered at the thought of Dudley meeting the Potters' son, Dudley was much to good to be mixing with the Potters. Mrs. Dursley's past was not something that was discussed in front of guests, or ever, for that matter.
It was a gray Tuesday morning when Mr. Dursley finally came awake enough to hit the 'snooze' button on his alarm clock. Mrs. Dursley was always very careful not to wake Mr. Dursley when she got up. This was because of his tendency to let out his morning surprise fart, a thing that Mr. Dursley never admitted to doing, which smelled like dead fish. Fortunately these farts came only when Mr. Dursley wasn't ready to be woken up. This was a morning which he was ready; it was easy to tell because his mustache began twitching violently. If his mustache had been a blade Mr. Dursley would've been on a morgue table before the age of twenty.
This was the way the morning always started, unless, of course, he farted. In that case Mr. Dursley would be awakened by the stench and he would plod into the bathroom to get the air freshener spray can, which he spent a good half and hour using before the bedroom began to smell like a house again (as opposed to before, when it would smell like a fish market). Since he didn't fart that day he simply rolled himself out of bed and dressed himself in a smartly starched business suit. Then proceeded to hum his favorite Chaka Khan song, which by chance happened to be 'I'm Every Woman', while sorting through his wide assortment of ties (most of which featured stripes, stripes, or stripes in blue, blue, or blue. All of his ties were exactly the same but he liked to have the illusion of making difficult choices.). Before Chaka Khan he had gone through his Abba stage, and before that he had been through his easy listening stage (Chaka Khan and Abba were a considerable improvement to easy listening, but his humming was so out of tune that it would've been more appropriate for him to hum easy listening). This was the only time of day Mr. Dursley got to hum Chaka Khan (because he couldn't be an extreme normalist being seen in public humming Chaka Khan, especially since he was a man), so he spent a very long time picking a tie. This caused some worry on Mrs. Dursley's part because she was convinced that her husband must be having some stool problems (the master bathroom was only accessible through the master bedroom).
Mrs. Dursley had gotten up much earlier (as I said before) and was already gossiping over the phone with one of her friends from 'The Guardian' (her friend was supposed to be writing the advice column but it seemed more like a gossip column, which is probably why they were friends). Already she had a begun making breakfast for Mr. Dursley and Dudley, and had long since eaten her breakfast (which was half a grapefruit; she would kill herself if she gained a single pound). Dudley was screaming like a lunatic (a very young lunatic) as Mrs. Dursley fought with him to get him into his high chair, which was for the safety of everyone around him more than anything else.
Conversation on Mrs. Dursley's side of the phone stopped as Mr. Dursley came into the kitchen; she smiled into the phone at him. The high pitched chatter at the other side of the line was still yapping away but Mrs. Dursley turned away and said something inaudible before placing the phone beside its cradle on the countertop. She took a porcelain plate and began shoveling scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon on it before she took it to Mr. Dursley, who was drinking the glass of orange juice that had been placed on the table earlier.
"Good morning, darling." She planted a kiss on his cheek as she put the plate on the table in front of him. "Do you need me to stop by the store today and get some more spray?"
"Not today-"
Mrs. Dursley didn't really want to hear it; she was too caught up in her own strain of thought to listen to anybody else's. As she was pouring the milk into Dudley's cereal bowl she continued talking. "Do you remember that man I was engaged to?"
This was not a topic most married couples talked about but Mr. Dursley was used to hearing it from Mrs. Dursley, even though he didn't really like it. "Ah, you mean Charles Limbinee." He reached towards the daily newspaper that was folded up so neatly on the table. Reading the paper was not his favorite thing to do, but it was a great deal better than listening to Mrs. Dursley go on and on about her fiancées. In fact the paper was good enough to drown Mrs. Dursley's talking, so he began reading fully expecting himself not to be addressed again. The headlines for that day mostly had to do with shoot outs but there were a couple articles about sex changes in babies whose mothers had been on drugs of a sort. It was scary but surprisingly upbeat by the end of the article.
"No, the other one, silly." She closed the milk carton and put it into the fridge.
"Not Francis Abignail?" Mr. Dursley said incredulously while wracking his brain for others she might possibly be talking about.
"I'm talking about John DuPionte. Wendy is seeing him now and she wants me to come with her to one of his book signings. Poor girl, it's a good thing she doesn't know how to read…….." She brought the cereal bowl up to Dudley's high chair and began cooing to him. The screechy wails stopped abruptly and he began to make bubbles in his mouth as Mrs. Dursley cooed.
Mr. Dursley on the other had completely forgotten that his wife was talking to him, so he surprised when she asked him another question.
"Darling would you mind terribly if I went to the book signing tonight? Poor Wendy's got to have her support."
Mr. Dursley grunted, a sound that Mrs. Dursley took for a yes. The chatter started up a second time as Mrs. Dursley picked up the phone and began gossiping again. This was also a normal routine for the morning, there was very little in this house that changed. Even the conversation they had that morning was a slight variation to the one they usually had. Nothing about the day so far hinted that something extraordinary was going to happen that day, or that something already had.
At a quarter after eight Mr. Dursley neatly folded his news paper and took out his shoe shine. The shoe shine wasn't only for his shoes but for his briefcase and mustache as well. By eight thirty his shoes, which were always in ship shape condition, were shiny enough to use as a mirror. The same could be said about his brief case. As for his mustache, its French curls were smartly stiffened so as they would not go out of shape. Mr. Dursley picked up his expensive leather briefcase and went over to give Mrs. Dursley a peck on the cheek. Giving Mrs. Dursley a peck on the cheek was actually more difficult then giving most other people pecks on the cheek. That was because Mrs. Dursley hated it when his mustache touched her cheek, and that was because the shoe shine always seemed to get on her face. In order to give her a kiss Mr. Dursley had to tilt his head back as far as it would go. He tilted his head back and pecked her quickly. There was no shoeshine on her face but Mrs. Dursley inspected herself thoroughly before she let him go. Then he went over to give Dudley a kiss, but he thought better of it seeing that Dudley was in tantrum mode.
Mr. Dursley wobbled out the front door and out onto the walkway. His car gave a mighty jerk backwards as if it was going to roll down the drive into the street but the brakes held. He jammed the key into the ignition and the car door made a loud whack! as it closed. The new silver jaguar rolled into the street without a single bump, and then Mr. Dursley switched the gear out of reverse and drove forward.
As he was nearing the edge of Forest Village, the neighborhood he lived in, the most unusual thing happened. Something flew straight into his windshield with a hard enough impact to shatter the glass. Mr. Dursley hit his brakes, hard. The thing that hit his windshield slid off of the new silver Jaguar and onto the roadway. Mr. Dursley cursed as he got out of the car to inspect what he had hit; being the cause of road kill was not exactly his idea of a good start to the day. It was an owl, a small thing that, at the moment, seemed quite dead. Mr. Dursley picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it as far away from him a possible and then dropping it back on the ground. There was no sign of life coming from the thing, but there was one thing that Mr. Dursley noted about it; it had beautiful black feathers that had a sheen of blue to it. The black feathers sparked a memory in Mr. Dursley's head. His wife had always said that she used to have a collection of black feathers; she didn't know where it had gone. Mr. Dursley looked around for a moment before placing his foot firmly on the bird and yanking hard on the feathers.
There was a sharp squawk, and the owl began attacking Mr. Dursley, who immediately dove into his car. For a few seconds the thing rammed his car desperately before he pushed on the accelerator. If a police officer had been around he would've gotten a speeding ticket for sure. But, as it was, there was no police car around, and Mr. Dursley drove away from the owl as fast as he could. Two seconds later it was as if nothing had happened. If he had looked up he would've seen dozens of owls flying about, but he had already forgotten about it and was thinking about drills.
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Another thing that could be said for Mr. Dursley was that he loved yelling at people, not the high pitched sort, the sort that resembled a bellow. It was deep, it produced lots of spit, and it was very, very scary. When Mr. Dursley yelled at you it wasn't because he was especially angry, it was because it made him feel powerful. Or sometimes it just was a way of releasing stress when he was feeling very, very angry at something (Mrs. Dursley was always telling him not to repress his anger, it could give him a heart attack). Mr. Dursley also had a knack for somehow not noticing things, like blocking Mrs. Dursley's gossip out, like not noticing all the owls flying around that day. Although, that was partially because he didn't want to be observant, and he certainly didn't like to admire nature. That was Mrs. Dursley's job. This dislike of nature made it seem like all the furnishing in his office was turned away from the window (which was covered 24/7 with thick blinds).
Mr. Dursley also had a peculiar dislike of birds, which is why he had had a plastic owl placed in front of his window to scare the pigeons away. There was also a variety of mouse traps and rat traps. No one was quite sure why, considering there had been no complaints of vermin recently. Even with all the pleading with him to remove the traps after an employee had stepped on one accidentally they still remained. It seemed as if they would stay until Mr. Dursley left, unless he forgot to remove them. In that case people would have to look very carefully where they stepped. Mr. Dursley had hidden them very well.
By lunch time Mr. Dursley had yelled at a dozen people at least, one of which made the janitors clean the bathroom once again (the employee had a suspicious wet spot on his pants). Half of that dozen Mr. Dursley had almost fired. A quarter of that dozen were convinced that Mr. Dursley was dead serious, or dead crazy. It really depended how often you got called into his office. On top of that he had received a call from Mrs. Dursley saying that Dudley had just reached the heavy set weight of 20 kilos (44 pounds) that very morning. Mr. Dursley had cried at that news, his baby Dudders was going to be just like his dad, the size and weight of a young whale. Of course, he wasn't there quite yet, but it made Mr. Dursley extremely proud. All in all, the morning had been wonderful and Mr. Dursley felt he deserved a break to get a big ham sandwich from the local café.
A very strange phenomenon was happening, there were a good few hundred people wearing strange cloaks with the occasional light saber protruding from beneath them. Mr. Dursley was not the least perplexed by the situation; it was obvious that there was an early showing of Star Wars on at the viewing room. That was what he wanted to believe at least, his explanation seemed far less silly then it actually was. He was feeling so sure of himself that he actually went up to a few groups of the cloak-wearing light saber carrying people and asked them when the showing was going to start. This earned him a few baffled looks but they soon forgot about him and started up their chit chat again. As he started to go up to his 9th group he heard something he dreaded to hear.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard-"
"-yes, their son, Harry-"
Mr. Dursley was so outraged to hear the Potters in a conversation but not him self that he quite literally froze and held his breath as he began to think of what to say. At first, there was red, then there was purple, then there was-
Mr. Dursley released his breath and turned away quickly only to come back a few minutes later with a business card. The group looked up at him as he stood there and stared at them…..and stared at them……and stared at them. Finally, without saying anything he handed one of them his business card. That was when he exploded.
"HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT THE POTTERS WHEN I'M AROUND! MY FAMILY IS MUCH MORE IMPORTANT! IF YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT ANYONE TALK ABOUT ME!" He paused breathless, his face was turning a plum shade of purple. Quickly he ruffled through his wallet and produced a 100 pound bill. He waved it under their noses. "SEE? I'LL EVEN PAY YOU TO TALK ABOUT ME!"
They all looked at each other and walked away, leaving Mr. Dursley standing there with the 100 pounds. A little boy with brown curls ran up to him and snatched the bill, sticking a bit of tongue out at him before he ran off. Mr. Dursley was stunned. How could they've refused money? Everybody wanted money.
He was in such a state of shock he got into his car and drove around aimlessly until 5 o'clock when he turned to go home. At the end of the day he was less of a man, his value had just gone down 100.
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A/N It's a little different I know, and it doesn't cover the complete first chapter but that's okay because I'm getting into that more next chapter. Review Please!!!