The Trouble with Cupboards
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive were happy to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They had a nice, normal house on a nice, normal street where they lived their nice, normal lives with their nice, normal son. Never ones to appreciate change, the Dursleys had followed the exact same morning routine for nearly two years, altered only slightly by the birth of their son, Dudley.
So it was that at six a.m. on the morning of November 1st, 1981 that Petunia Dursley stepped outside, still wrapped in her bathrobe, to retrieve the milk jugs from the front stoop. But unlike every other morning, on that fateful day, there was more than just milk on her front steps.
Sleeping peacefully, cuddled up together, were a little girl and boy – the little girl with auburn hair, the little boy with black hair and a mysterious, lightning-bolt shaped cut on his forehead – and a letter wedged between them where they slept, wrapped in a bundle of yellow blankets.
Being a perfectly normal woman with strange children on her doorsteps, Petunia reacted in what she felt was a perfectly normal way.
She screamed, the jug of milk falling from her hands and shattering on the steps. And when it hit the ground, the two infants jerked awake and began to cry.
"Petunia!" Vernon Dursley called from inside the house. "Petunia, what's the–" The man stopped short behind his wife, staring at the children with a look of undisguised horror. "What in the bloody–?"
Petunia trembled, staring at the children. "We'd – we'd best get them inside, Vernon," she murmured, and silently, she reached down to pick up the little girl and the letter, stepping back inside the house. Her husband gazed after her for a moment before picking up the little boy and carrying him inside, grimacing all the while as he held the child out at arm's length.
Three hours later, they had finally come to an agreement about the children. Though Vernon very much wanted to leave them at an orphanage, Petunia had managed to convince him to keep the children.
"Think of what the neighbors would say if we just abandoned them," she said fearfully, wringing her hands, "and their parents' friends–" Here, the pair glanced nervously at the letter which remained open on the kitchen table. "We can make them do all the housework, Vernon, when they're old enough. We can make them useful. They could sleep in the cupboard, so Dudley wouldn't have to lose his second bedroom. And the protection…"
Her husband was silent for so long, Petunia was afraid he was going to explode. She stood silently, unblinkingly in the kitchen, the grandfather clock chiming from the living room, and ignored the cries of her niece and nephew, placed haphazardly on the floor.
"Fine," Vernon finally said gruffly. "Fine. We'll keep them. But start packing."
"Packing?" Petunia blinked, staring at her husband. "Whatever for?"
"We need a bigger house," Vernon replied immediately. "After all, we can't expect them to sleep in the same cupboard, can we? Maybe if they were both boys, but – besides, someday they'll be too big to share a cupboard."
"And how will moving solve this?" Petunia asked nervously, eyeing her husband. Distantly, she wondered if she could get to the bathroom and sneak his medicine into his cereal at breakfast…
"Why, we need a house with two sets of stairs, of course!" Vernon said brightly, flinging his hands up in the air. "Honestly, Petunia, I don't know where your mind is sometimes… If we have a house with two sets of stairs, we'll have two cupboards under the stairs. One for each freak."
Petunia stared at her husband before reaching behind herself and feeling for a chair. When she touched the back of her kitchen chair, she lowered herself slowly into it, a hand pressed over her eyes. "Of course, Vernon," she said quietly, "whatever you say…"
Vernon Dursley smiled brightly at his wife before turning and jogging merrily up the stairs, and absently wondering if there might be a house with a decent enough wine cellar – the farther those freaks were from his Dudders, the better.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number eleven, Parkington Lane were happy to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They had a large, two story house set on four acres of land in a prestigious London suburb. They had a butler named Lupin – odd chap, but quite effective – and a wonderful son named Dudley, who was the most popular boy in the neighborhood.
Then there were those other children. Harry and Adrienne Potter. The freaks.
Oh, they never got in the Dursleys way – they didn't dare, the no-good little brats – but just their presence was enough to destroy the atmosphere of he place. Vernon had often found Lupin escorting the two children off to his cottage at the edge of the grounds and had been quite happy with that knowledge – he had even cheerfully lent the man his belt.
Ten years had passed and Dudley had already turned eleven, with Harry and Adrienne's birthday just a few days away. The Dursley family happily lived the high life, cheerfully pretending to adore their niece and nephew whenever company came over, but secretly, they were revolted by how many of the neighbors liked the little abominations. Over the years, the couple had lessened their discipline of the two children. They needed the magic stamped out of them, but not at the expense of the Dursleys own freedom! And when their next-door neighbors, the Grangers – very nice people, they were, though their daughter was a bit odd – noticed bruises on Harry and Adrienne's arms – why, they had had the gall to suggest that someone was hitting the children!
Mysteriously, the Grangers never noted any bruises on the twins again.
It was July 31st, the day that Harry and Adrienne had secretly been looking forward to for months. Slipping out of their cupboards early, they tiptoed in to the extravagant kitchen and grabbed pieces of toast before moving hurriedly out of the house and across the yard. When they reached the small cottage, Remus Lupin opened the door and smiled at them, brushing his long brown hair out of his face. He ushered the twins in to the cottage and closed the door behind them, quickly leading the pair into his small kitchen, where he had already begun breakfast.
Scarcely an hour later had the letters arrived which changed the Dursleys' lives forever…
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number eleven, Parkington Lane could never be normal, no matter how much they wanted to be.
A/N: Credit for the inspiration for this one-shot goes to meteoricshipyards, whose off-handed comment resulted in the birth of this odd little tale. Cheers, Tom:)
Review if you have something to say.
Cheers,
LIZ