Privet drive consisted of what my mother would, only slightly disparagingly, call postage stamp houses. Each the same as its neighbor, the sheer Peyton Place conformity of it all was enough to drive any person possessed of even a moderate level of imagination descending into a murderous, or at the very least pyromanic, rampage. It was along this line of perfectly normal, thank you very much, houses that a man walked as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. Dressed as though out of the fifties with brown jacket, hat and trousers, equally dull tie and briefcase, he none the less seemed to blend into the scenery. The more observant, meaning someone actually taking notice instead of just keeping a hawkish look out for anything worth gossiping over as the housewives of privet drive are wont to do, would perhaps wonder why he would wear such stifling attire in the middle of such a hot day. Being closer, one might wonder at the odd sound his shoes make with every step, perhaps the fact that despite moving normally enough his clothes didn't seem to crease at the joints, instead remaining perfectly straight no matter how he walked. The strangely ordinary man seemed to know where he was going as he made a right turn at number four, precisely ninety degrees if anyone would care to measure the turn, and headed down the walkway to the front door. The door was opened a few moments after he rang the bell, bringing him face to horse with one Petunia Dursley.
"Query: Greetings madam! Am I correct in believing that you are one Petunia Dursley?" he asked. Petunia frowned at the man's odd turn of phrase, but taking in his well-dressed appearance and lack of briefcase he did not appear to be a salesman or witness or other unwelcome entity so she decided it might be to her benefit to be polite for the moment, "I am, how may I be of assistance?" The man didn't respond, he merely reached into his jacket to pull out what petunia expected to be a business card. It wasn't. With barely a whisper, a red hole appeared in petunia's forehead, her face locked in an expression of surprise as she fell to the carpet in the entry hall with a thud. Unlike the movies, there was no expanding pool of blood beneath her body. The man was a professional after all, at this short range his rounds barely had any powder in them as they only had to penetrate the skull once. His contract did state, after all, that he wasn't to make a mess. And really, who likes cleaning? Returning the pistol to its modified holster under his arm he proceeded to the back yard where a scrawny young Harry Potter was busy working in the garden, digging compost into the rose garden. Taking an odd ball about the size and shape of a cricket ball from another holder under his jacket he pressed the lone button on it, causing it to start emitting a low whine that steadily increased in pitch. This drew young harry's attention, but before he could do much more than turn around and look at the man confusedly the ball was moving through the air and landing at his feet. With surprisingly little noise the ball emitted a flash and a puff of smoke, followed by the thud of young harry potter hitting the ground.
Some time later…
Vernon and Dudley Dursley walked up to the front door, talking animatedly about the boxing match they had been to see. It had been a long day of touring Vernon's old boxing gym and Smeltings, showing the boy what he had to look forward to in a few years. There were, of course, numerous snack and meal breaks in between. They never made it to the door, another grenade took them out the same way it had Harry. When the police arrived, responding to reports that the Dursleys had fired of a flare of all things, they found an unconscious harry potter locked in the cupboard under the stairs, an unconscious Dudley in his room surrounded by sweets wrappers in his room and Vernon and Petunia neatly laid out in the living room with single gunshot wounds to both their foreheads. The condition of the children made it clear what sort of people they were, and the detectives made sure they did as little as they could get away with. Not that there was much, what with no forensic evidence whatsoever and no witnesses either. The boys were put into foster care when it proved obvious that their only living relative, one Marge Dursley, had been dead for a week already, killed the same way. All her dogs mysteriously showed up in animal shelters across the british isles, though one of them had apparently been killed the same way and left with his mistress. Said dog provided what would amount to the only clue in the entire case, a tiny chip of dull orange paint in his teeth. It didn't lead to anything, however, because no one made paint exactly like that and the materials that made it up were all rather expensive. With no further leads, the case was relegated to the 'mysteries' box and forgotten about.