Life at Number 4, Chapter 1

"Ahhh!"

A scream rent the air of Privet Drive, causing a squirrel near the end of the road to hastily abandon his gathering of nuts, which he had spent the last several hours lovingly placing in a hole at the base of a tree. The noise might have caused a larger commotion, but it was quite early, only 6:00 o'clock in the morning, and most of the residents of Privet Drive were either still in bed or sleepily scrubbing through their morning shower.

The only one who seemed to notice the scream, which was hastily cut off nearly as soon as it was begun, was the resident of Number 7 Privet Drive, Mrs. Arabella Figg. This was no coincidence, however, as she had been watching Number 4 for several hours, nearly all night, and was expecting something to happen. She leaned closer to her window, kneeling on her couch in a most uncomfortable way. A cat jumped up and tried to curl up on her legs, but she twitched it away.

"Not now, Tibbles," she said, a bit regretfully, as he stalked away, clearly disgruntled. She turned her attention back to Number 4, but the doorway was now empty. She pulled herself up a bit, no easy feat as she was, as she put it, "getting on in years", and she had never been a tall woman. She tried to see over Number 5's hedge, which was much too high, but no luck. Finally she gave in and stood straight up on the couch, peering across the street. There it was. The little bundle was still lying there, though Mrs. Figg was sure it had been seen. She had, after all, watched Mrs. Number 4 open the door and surely the scream had come from her. For the first time, Mrs. Figg actually wished she lived a bit closer to Number 4. She had never been fond of the people who lived there. It contained a rather portly husband with a ridiculously large moustache, a tall, skinny wife (both features for which Mrs. Figg would never forgive Mrs. Number 4), and a chubby boy, always whining and crying and causing much more noise than was strictly required for a toddler.

But now Mrs. Figg had a reason to want to be nearer, for she had a job to do. It would not be easy, but she was never one to shy away from hard work. She kept her eyes on the bundle and promised herself she wouldn't leave her post on the couch until something was done about it.

Mr. Dursley had had a bad night. He had lain awake for hours, worrying about the owls and the mention of the Potters he had overheard yesterday, and then slept poorly and woke in a foul mood. He was just combing his moustache when he heard the stifled scream, and he paused, listening. Was that….Petunia? He hurried downstairs and found Mrs. Dursley standing at the front door, one hand clapped over her mouth as if she were afraid bats would fly out of it if she let go. Her other hand clutched a bit of paper Mr. Dursley couldn't see well.

"Petunia?" He said, and she turned her head slowly to gaze at him. Her eyes seemed as large as dinner plates as she stared. The scream had woken Dudley, as well, and he began wailing upstairs in his crib. Most appallingly, and perhaps for the first time in his short little life, Mrs. Dursley did not immediately run to get him as she usually did. This, more than anything, scared Mr. Dursley.

"Petunia?" He said again, stepping toward her. Dudley shrieked upstairs. "What's the matter?" She continued to gaze at him with a horrified expression on her face. She let go of her mouth and pointed at the door, but seemed unable to speak.

"What's wrong with the door? Did you see something?" She nodded slowly, and it was then that he noticed the paper in her other hand again. His heart sank. Was it a newspaper? Was there a story about the Potters? Is that why she was so upset?

"Is it, is it them?" He asked in a whisper, dropping his voice so low on the word them he could hardly hear himself say it, as if he were afraid someone were listening at their keyhole. "Are they in the, er, newspaper?" She stared at him, then uttered her first word of the morning.

"Worse."

Mr. Dursley stared back at her, aghast. What could possibly be worse than having them mentioned in their newspaper, possibly tying the Dursleys to people like them? Mrs. Dursley still seemed incapable of speech, but she raised her hand and pointed at the door again.

With a feeling like lead in his stomach, Mr. Dursley approached the door with the caution one shows to live ammunition. He slowly turned the knob and pulled the door open, putting his head out a minute amount to ascertain what was the cause of all this fuss. He saw the milk bottles on the stoop, not carefully arranged like Petunia usually placed them, but scattered carelessly, some on lying tipped over on their side.

And he saw something. What was it? It looked like a pile of blankets, with dark black fur on one end. Could it be an animal of some kind? A dog, or perhaps a skunk? Mrs. Dursley hated all animals, and he could certainly see why this might upset her, but how could it be worse than the Potters being in the newspaper? How could this be as bad as overhearing their name in the street yesterday?

He nudged the bundle with his toe, and it moved. He jumped back as if burnt, then peered closer as whatever was inside turned over. Then, with a horror of the like he had never even dreamt possible, he knew. He drew back, his face mottling into an ugly purple and red mixture, as he tried to get a grip on himself.

"That's, that, that's never…" he spluttered, incapable of speech. Dudley's wails were louder now, echoing into the streets, and it sounded like he was yanking on his crib bars, as well. Mrs. Dursley pulled Mr. Dursley back into the house and slammed the door again.

"Shhhh, Vernon," she said, seeming to come to herself a bit, "People will hear." He stood up and poked his eye into the peephole, staring up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed anything. Was it his imagination, or had the curtains of Number 7 twitched ever so slightly?

"We'll, er, well, we'll have to bring it in, won't we?" He said, hoping she might come up with a good reason why they shouldn't, but she just stood there. "I suppose, people might ask questions….shall I just, er, bring it in and, er, put it somewhere for now?"

Mrs. Dursley stared at him helplessly, clutching the paper in her hand. He still didn't know what it was, but he wanted to know less and less as the morning continued. Finally, she nodded. Mr. Dursley opened the door with as much bravado as he could muster, grabbed hold of one of the blankets, and dragged the whole bundle into the house. It bumped a little over the threshold, and a small noise escaped. As soon as it was through the doorway, he shut the door again quickly. Then he and Mrs. Dursley stared down at the baby boy in the blankets that they had just, most unwillingly, brought into their home. Dudley screamed louder and louder as they stood there, watching it wriggle and yawn, a tiny baby fist escaping the blanket to stretch and wave carelessly. Then, to their absolute horror, the baby opened his eyes and looked as them, his eyes almond shaped and a very vivid green.

A/N: While I've always loved to write, this is my first venture into the world of fanfiction. Constructive comments of all kinds are most appreciated. Thanks!