Mr. Dursley's mornings were a well choreographed event. He arrived down to the breakfast table well suited up with his brief case in hand, kissed his wife grabbed his toast and coffee to go and hit the road. He didn't say much to anyone as he hurried to his car and rushed off to the bottleneck freeway system that awaited him. He spent every weekday morning tapping his fingers on the steering wheel of his car as he impatiently waited to proceed to his office. When he finally made it to his desk the morning messages as well as the daily paper were anxiously waiting for him. Every message that was dire enough to reach his desk were all labeled as urgent but had to be put on hold as he spent his first paid hour of the day reading yesterdays news. Once he was satisfied with his newspaper the messages were attended to.
The first thing anyone saw when they entered Mr. Dursley's office was his Bachelors Degree. He wanted everyone who walked in there to know that he was an important person and deserved to work in better conditions. No one liked working for him.
Mr. Dursley's decent back to home was as manufactured as his arrival. He lived for a higher social status, a ladder of which he had reached its top. His ignorance towards this fact left him with a sour attitude. An attitude that Harry fell victim to.
Harry was a convenient scapegoat for Mr. Dursley. Harry was a black sheep that nobody gave the time of day to. He was quickly forced into the role of slave around the household and rarely ventured beyond the discomforts of the Dursley house. The only world he experienced outside of the Dursley's house was that of his school which quickly became a second layer of hell. Mr. Dursley's only son, Dudley increased his bullying tactics in ten fold during school sessions. Harry quickly grew eyes on the back of his head and also developed white knuckles.
But the hate filled rituals towards Harry at the Dursley home would come to a crashing halt one fateful evening. Harry walked into the Dursley's home late and a letter awaited him on the table. As soon as he entered into the house he could hear the painful cries of Dudley as his mother desperately tried to tend to her sons burned fingertips. The smell of the burnt flesh left a stale stench in the house which almost prevented Harry from enjoying the suffering Dudley was experiencing.
Harry was curious as to what provoked Dudley's reaction. He entered into the kitchen half expecting a roaring oven or some other appliance led assault but Harry found none. That's when he spotted the letter addressed to him lying nonchalantly on the table. Harry had never had anything mailed to him before nor did he know anyone outside of the Dursley house. As Harry stood before the letter he noticed the stale stench reached its peak. 'Dudley must have burnt himself at the table,' Harry thought to himself. As Harry picked up the letter Mr. Dursley burst into the house demanding an explanation for all of the ruckus. Harry quickly hid the letter in his jacket pocket and headed to the bathroom where Dudley's wailing continued at full course.
"His hands, Vernon. They've… just look at them!" Mrs. Dursley burst out as she feebly tried to pour cold water over Dudley's hands.
"My God Petunia. Why haven't you taken him to a hospital?" Vernon barked at her as he grabbed Dudley by the arm and dragged him to his car. The three of them wisped away.
Harry sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out the letter.