**Author's Note:**
It has been some time since I read the books (for shame, I know). This story was actually inspired by a revelation I had watching one of the films (number six, if you must know). As per my author bio mission, I try two merge two canons when possible (defaulting to source text when not). As such, there is a heavy amount of artistic license I'm taking. However, if you think that anything I say is OOC or non-canon, please send me a message, and I will try to correct the problem. Please enjoy.
An excerpt from A Historie of the First Wizarding War:
"...The attack at Godric's Hollow on Hallowe'en of 1981, which resulted in the mysterious destruction of the Dark Lord, finally brought an end to the extremely destructive decade-long War, the results of which were felt in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds..."
The doorbell of Number 4, Privet Drive, rang.
Perhaps the only thing remarkable about Little Whinging is that nothing particularly remarkable happened. Especially not after midnight. And, most assuredly, no baby was ever left on a doorstep. It was most definitely out of the norm, and yet, when Petunia and Vernon Dursley found nobody outside their door, their eyes drifted down to see the child, sleeping as soundly as he would in his crib, his tiny fingers curled around a yellowed envelope addressed to them.
They took the child inside. Petunia handed the infant to Vernon and cautiously open the letter. After all, nobody leaves a baby on your doorstep with a letter to you in the middle of the night for kicks.
While she read, Vernon studied the kid. He had slick black hair and a very peculiar zigzag mark on his forehead, like a fresh scar. But it couldn't be; there was no blood! The child wasn't crying! Vernon looked up to show this oddity to his wife, when he saw that she was shaking, as if with cold.
"Petunia?" he asked, but her only response was to thrust the letter towards him. He read it.
Ah, so it was that Potter's kid. But now Vernon was even more confused. Petunia had always disliked her sister, vehemently. Why was she now crying over her death? Vernon chalked it up to the paradox of women and left it at that.
But now what of the child? The letter asked that the boy, Harry, should live in their house until he was eleven, and then at least one month each year after for an undisclosed time. The specificity if the letter confounded Vernon further, and worse, the letter didn't say what to do if they didn't want the kid. No "If you decide not to take poor young Harry in, here's a good shelter instead..." No "If not, please return one (1) unused baby to the following address..." The letter asked that they take in Harry, but read as if it had been a long-standing arrangement.
Vernon sat down on the couch next to his wife. "Petunia?" he said again.
She sobbed. "Magic," she whispered. "Magic did this to her. To my sister. She got her magic powers and her magic letters, she got into her magic school and her magic husband, and magic went and killed her."
"What about the boy?" Vernon asked.
"I don't know," Petunia said. "My sister's son, born in a magic family. I don't know if I can stand living in a house with her eyes looking at me. I don't know if I can live in a house with magic. All this magic... it'll be the death of me, too. All this magic will kill me."
Suddenly, blissfully, Vernon Dursley's confusion faded, and he had an idea. "What if we stopped the magic?"