Harry Potter:
November 1, 1981
by
Jake Crepeau
A/N: Blame my beta; Jordre suggested this idea for a Hallowe'en story.
November 1, 1981, early morning hours
"What on Earth is that racket?" Petunia Dursley mumbled sleepily. A quick glance at the alarm clock told her it was half midnight as the sound of snarling dogs and what sounded like a screaming baby drifted through the tightly closed window.
"Probably a couple of dogs with a cat. Just ignore it and go back to sleep," Vernon mumbled and turned over to do just that.
Only to find he couldn't, as the screeching cat got louder. Yes, cats very often did sound like crying children, but this… "Go check Dudley; I'll look outside." He threw on his robe as he rolled out of bed, then opened the cupboard and withdrew his shotgun.
Outside, he found two dogs playing tug-of-war with what looked like a baby-doll. Whatever had been screaming had run off without a trace. Snarling in annoyance, Vernon took aim and pulled the trigger.
Both dogs yelped in pain as the buckshot tore through their bodies; they both fell to the pavement, dropping the doll. Vernon let them have it with the other barrel to finish the job, then gave a satisfied grunt and retreated back inside.
"Don't know what was yowling; it ran off. All I saw was two dogs with some kid's doll."
"Dudley slept right through it," Petunia told him as they settled back into bed.
Moments later, there was a pounding at the front door.
"What now?" Vernon growled as they both got up and went to answer it.
A constable stood there. "Good evening, sir, madam. We got a report of a gunshot from this location."
"Oh, that," Vernon said offhandedly. "There were a couple of dogs making a racket outside; I shot 'em," he admitted.
"Is the weapon you used licensed, sir?"
"Yes; I inherited it from my uncle a few years ago."
"May I see it, and the license, please?"
"Certainly, Constable; let me go get them for you." He turned to head up the stairs again. He wasn't certain, but that constable seemed awfully grim for someone dealing with a couple of stray dogs.
Meantime, Petunia looked unhappily outside at the gathering crowd of pajama-and-robe-clad neighbors. It was going to be all over the neighborhood by morning, she was certain.
Something crinkled under her foot, and she bent down to find a sealed parchment envelope with emerald-green writing on it. Her face pallid, she picked it up and read it, then screamed and fell over in a dead faint.
"Petunia!" Vernon had reached the bottom of the stairs; the constable noted that he was careful in setting the shotgun down before rushing to his wife.
The policeman was already checking her over; he took a piece of paper from her hand. "Sir, what exactly were those dogs doing when you shot them?" he asked.
"They seemed to be fighting over a doll," he replied.
"This doll?" a second constable he hadn't noticed before, indicated the small figure lying on the grass, twisted in ways Vernon hadn't thought plastic capable of.
He looked a second time. No. Not possible. Dear… He moved forward for a closer look and nearly tripped over a basket.
"Oh, Vernon…" he heard Petunia say weakly; he turned to see her now sitting up on the step, with the first constable supporting her. Tears were running down her face. The man was holding out a piece of paper toward him. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure the second constable was now covering with a sheet. So small… He read the letter and was promptly sick.
He didn't know if he had done it, or the dogs had before he'd ever fired a shot, but a baby was dead.