The Girl Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number seventeen forty-two, Rotisserie Court, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the absolute last couple you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, unless of course you knew about their secret connection to the magical world. They would probably be upset that I'm telling you all about it, because instead of thinking magic is wicked awesome, the Dursleys avoided non-mediocrity like the plague. Not that they held any particular beliefs, mind you, because this is a completely secular story.

Anyway, the Dursleys were content with their modest suburban home. They took pride in their simple accomplishments and had a dull but loving marriage--but don't let this innocuous front fool you, for the Dursleys were evil people. Like all evil people, they were strikingly unattractive; the wife a bony sort of ugly and her husband a fat sort of ugly. Their house, car, and possessions were similarly ugly and dull.

These horrible folks happened to be related to the coolest people ever: the Potters. That's the dark secret I mentioned earlier. You see, the Dursleys hated magic and thought they would have to move to Australia if anyone found out their connection to, you guessed it, a witch and wizard. Why anyone would really give a shit or even believe it if they were told that your sister and brother-in-law were a witch and wizard is unclear--but then, logic is never a strong suit of evil suburbanites. The Dursleys also had a young child, so it may have been paranoid overprotectiveness.

Mrs. Dursley, given name Petunia, was trying to choo-choo soggy Frosted Flakes into Dudley, her son, while hysterically singing the Tony the Tiger song (Grrrrrrrreat!) that fateful day. Morning. Morning of the fateful day. Her husband Vernon was shuffling around the kitchen getting his briefcase, laptop, phone, and a go-cup of coffee (even though there would be coffee at his office and it only took ten minutes to drive there). Vernon worked at a Boring bank where he decided whether or not to deny good honest people loans they desperately needed. The couple didn't bother kissing good-bye, since they were now parents and would never touch each other again.

Petunia spent the rest of the day ignoring Dudley, crying, and lying on the bed or staring in the mirror dazedly. She was suffering from post-partum depression compounded by doubts about her marriage and the fear that, although she was Ivy-League educated, she would never pick her career up again. So, we can't really blame her if she failed to anticipate the horrible shock she would soon receive.

Vernon, on the other hand, was far too conventional to notice any of the blatant signs of unusualness plaguing the townspeople. Until he was pulling into his driveway, that is. Just then, the announcer on his favorite Golden Oldies station came on: "Apparently the so-called magical community is rejoicing today some unknown event involving the estranged relatives of Vernon Dursley, a local banker. In other news, insurgents in Baghdad . . ." Poor Vernon dearly died of coronary thrombosis, but didn't. He scurried from the car in search of dear Petunia. "If only I had married that nice girl with no secret magical relatives," he mused aloud.

Vernon lost his nerve, then quickly got sidetracked. It was already 9 pm because he was an underpaid workaholic, as well as trying to avoid any infant-related responsibilities. Petunia was upstairs locked in the bathroom, and wouldn't be disturbed. Vernon had sincerely meant to discuss the issue with her, but ended up turning on the golf channel and falling asleep.

There was indeed a good deal of Potter-related hullabaloo that day. They were, unfortunately, dead--martyrs in the magical war against terrorism. Still, the magical world rejoiced because the most evil wizard of all time had perished in crashing his explosives-laden helicopter into their bungalow. But wait, it gets better. The Potters, may they rest in peace, had a baby about the same age as young Dudley. Her name was Harriet Potter. She was named after Harriet Tubman, heroine of the Underground Railroad, but was only one-eighth African American, on her father's side. Inexplicably, this tiny baby had not been killed by the blast. Rumors were spreading like wildfire that the child was somehow impervious to Jihad. Not that I mean to bring religion into this.

I think we can all see the conflict here. Young Harriet was now an orphan, and her next of kin the humdrum and possibly racially prejudiced Dursleys.

Just after Vernon had nodded off in front of the TV, a curious looking man appeared in Rotisserie Court. Of course, you couldn't have known he looked curious, because he made himself invisible to non-magical people (aka muddles) like you. If you could have seen him, he would have had a long flowing white beard and a bald head. His face was implausibly smooth and youthful, but with a very prominent hooked nose. He was wearing designer sunglasses and a yellow track suit. His name is Albus Dumbledore, and he is really important. Dumbledore's just about the best (and nearly the oldest) wizard alive and he also runs the school where our Harriet will be going in ten years.

A cat with surprisingly humanoid features which had been sitting on the street corner unnoticed by the Dursleys ran up to greet the unusual old man. The cat then morphed into an angry wrinkled lesbian clad in hiking boots, zip-off shorts, and a fleece pullover. She seemed very anxious. "Oh Albus," she cried, "Can it be true?"

"Yes, Minerva McGonagall, I'm afraid it is," he replied in a tense but sorrowful voice. "The Potters are indeed dead, but little Harriet isn't and so we are bringing her here, obviously. That's why we're here."

The cat lady fell to her knees sobbing, "Lily and James! Oh no! Waaaaah . . ."

"We've all got to go sometime, Minerva, so buck up!" Dumbledore commanded, proffering an odd yellow candy, "Have some Vitamin E." Just then, a gigantic skateboard fell from the sky. On it was perched a very hairy man with a gruff accent of unknown origins. He was nine or so feet tall, depending on who you ask. He wasn't wearing a helmet or elbow pads, but in one arm cradled a baby-like bundle. Upon landing, the man, whose name is Hagrid, lost his balance completely and toppled over, fracturing his wrist. Fortunately the baby didn't fall far, but did get a rather nasty lightning-bolt shaped gash on the left side of her forehead when she hit the asphalt. It was Harriet Potter. Dumbledore coughed disapprovingly. "Hagrid, how can that skateboard possibly hold your gargantuan mass when it belongs to Young Sirius Black, a normal sized guy and the now-deceased Potters' dearest friend?"

"Magic," Hagrid mumbled with a sidelong glance.

"Oooh, da po' widdle babie," McGonagall cooed, "But let's not fix her head, although we could easily do so, because the trauma caused by large facial scars recalling the death of one's parents can be very useful." Dumbledore just nodded and ate another lemon drop. "Anyhoo, let's get on with it."

The trio settled the unconscious child on the doorstep of number seventeen forty-two. Dumbledore tucked a note with the bleeding infant for the Dursleys to discover the next morning. Then, as they were turning to leave, Hagrid began to sniffle. "What if Harriet star's cryin' an' thar ain' no one 'ere for 'er, an' wha' abou' the milkman an' the paper boy an' possibly the garbage men? Isn' it a tad odd to be havin' a wee one on the porch? An' plus when ya open the door, ya's gonna knock 'er down the steps if'n ya don' know she's thar!"

"That's a good point," McGonagall chimed in, "Also, I've been watching this family all day and they're totally evil. Their ten-month-old baby cries all the time. They don't even know any magic! I'm absolutely aghast! Life here will unquestionably suck for little Harriet!"

"It's, uh, this ancient magic thing, really . . ." Dumbledore assured them. "Besides, is one of you going to take care of the brat?" Everyone shrugged and disappeared in various magical ways.