Part I: Summer 1993
Prologue
Saturday, 7 August 1993
Petunia Dursley, once of Number Four, Privet Drive, sat bolt-upright at the shrilling of her bedside telephone. She had it off the cradle and was answering politely through sheer force of habit when she looked at the clock and realized that it was just past four of a Saturday morning.
The explanation of why, exactly, she had been awakened at this ungodly hour, did not endear the caller to her any more than her wretched sense of timing. Had her husband (who slept like a bloody log, the lucky sod) been awake to see it, he would have noticed a particularly sour, pinched expression reappearing on Petunia's face: an expression she had not worn in nearly two years, because it was reserved for her least favorite duty in the world – dealing with the care of her only niece, Mary Potter.
For nearly two years, the Dursleys really had been, as Petunia so loved to think of them, perfectly normal, thank you very much. They had wasted no time after giving the wretched brat the boot, putting their suburban home on the market at once. Before the deal went through, Vernon had finally gotten a decent promotion, managing the new Leeds branch of the Grunnings Corporation, and so they had moved to a larger property on the outskirts of a town called Keighley, which was terribly convenient for his commute. The house itself was smaller, but with Dudders only home from Smeltings for the holidays and the brat gone (so Petunia had thought) for good, she hadn't seen the need for three extra bedrooms gathering dust. It had a long driveway and a good bit of land with a pond, anyway, and Petunia felt that she was moving up in the world. It wasn't what she'd grown accustomed to in Little Whinging, but it was also entirely unlike the world she grew up in, and therefore eminently acceptable.
The Dursley family had not had a single encounter with the magical world since that witch in the outdated skirt-suit had taken the girl away. Even that ruddy blighter, the Headmaster, hadn't bothered contacting them afterward. As Vernon said, even that stubborn queer had to realize that it was no good – Petunia had signed the papers and all – they couldn't be made to take the girl back!
Life was, for the first time Petunia could remember, good, with no weirdness, no awful, peeping neighbors, the move settled, plenty of money coming in, and her ickle Diddykins back in her arms for nearly another full month. She had, in fact, gone to bed in a rather pleasant mood, looking forward to visiting the Farmers' Market in the morning and gossiping about the latest City Council Reforms with Carolyn Brady from down the way.
So much for that.
"Vernon." She poked the still-sleeping man in the shoulder, hard. He grunted and rolled over. "Vernon! Wake up!"
"Wassat, love?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.
"I've just had a call from a hospital in Penrith."
"Who d'we know in Penrith?"
"It's the girl. Apparently she's turned up out of nowhere, and they're needing us to go sign some ruddy form or other so they can release her."
"Can't one of their lot do it?"
"Apparently not."
"I thought you said we were shot of her!"
"We're supposed to be." Petunia didn't know why Vernon was getting so snippy with her. It wasn't as though she was any happier about this than he was.
He groaned, and finally looked at the clock. "It's four twenty-seven in the sodding morning, Pet!"
"I know that, Vernon! D'you think I want to go haring off to Carlisle in the middle of the bloody night? No! I do not! But it is a proper hospital. That… woman said they wouldn't sign off on anyone but her legal guardians taking her – ought to've known nothing those people do counts as legal – and I'd bloody well prefer not to have the coppers on the doorstep wondering what we've done with the girl of a summer and why she's in a bleeding hospital up north and not here!"
"All right, alright. 'M up, love. Keep your knickers on."
Two and a half very tense hours later, the Dursleys pulled into a hospital parking lot and made a beeline for the front desk, determined to sign whatever they needed to sign, and get the bloody hell back to their son before he woke up and realized they had gone. Quite apart from anything else, Dudley was liable to burn the house down trying to make himself breakfast. Thankfully, he had been having a lie-in most days over his summer hols. Petunia had left him a stack of pancakes and a note promising a proper brunch when they returned, just in case.
They made it about ten feet through the main doors before they were intercepted by a tired-looking, petite woman with a head full of disheveled, honey-blonde curls and sensible shoes, who ushered them back outside again, handed them travel-cups of very strong, very sweet tea, and proceeded to talk their ears off with a cover-story, something about the girl getting lost on a camping trip with a school-group in the nearby National Park. Even Petunia, who had more than her fair share of experience with bossy, overwhelming personalities, was hardly able to get a word in edgewise. Fifteen minutes later, the Dursleys found themselves following the woman (Dr. Grant? Grand? Gran-something, anyway) into their niece's room, where a nurse was waiting with a clip-board and the promised forms.
Vernon filled these out while Petunia, the brat, the doctor, and a curly-haired girl who was clinging to the brat's hand stared at each other in stony silence. The nurse, helping Vernon with the paperwork, seemed oblivious to the atmosphere in the room.
Mary cracked first. "Hello, Aunt Petunia."