Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I would have made him get a snake as a pet. What a waste of an ability!

AN: Another chapter in which Nothing Much Happens. We're still setting the scene here, and I'm a veeeery slow writer. Sorry!

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Tuesday, November 1st, 1981 – around 11 PM

Mrs Robins was just about to go to bed when she threw a last cursory look at Number 4 through her kitchen window. She had already turned the lights in her sitting room and the kitchen off – only the hallway was still illuminated, but that could not be noticed from outside the house.

It was for that reason that she escaped the careful scrutiny of the ancient and – unbeknownst to Mrs Robins – extremely powerful but slightly tipsy Warlock Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore that evening. Had her kitchen light been on, and had she not – also unbeknownst to her – had two squib great-grand parents, which allowed her to have just enough magical blood to be exempt from regular Muggle-Repelling Spells, she would undoubtedly not have been able to recall the events of that night come morning. However, her natural inclination towards curiosity and learning had managed to overcome, even in a passing glance, the weak Notice-Me-Not Spell that Professor McGonagall had thrown up as soon as she had transformed back into her human form.

All this meant that nothing prevented her from seeing and, later on, still remembering the strange congregation of a near giant of a man with an even bigger mane of wild black hair, a white-haired afore mentioned ancient man wearing a dress, and the middle-aged-going-on elderly but still stately figure of a grey-haired woman, whose strict bun seemed to be the complete opposite hair-style compared to the giant's. The three of them were surrounding a small bundle in the giant's arms, which he was laying on the doorstep of the Dursleys' Number 4.

It was hard to see the scene clearly, because the streetlamps appeared to be broken once again. Still, she had managed to survive her seventy-odd years without ever needing glasses and was still fit as a fiddle. She needed to squint her eyes a bit, and probably turn off the light in the hallway – which she promptly did – but she could see enough of what was going on.

Mrs Robins wondered, briefly, whether the mysterious bundle with its mysterious couriers would result in Number 4 finally becoming interesting again. However, she discarded that thought as soon as it was formed – one mysterious bundle, even with its mysterious couriers could not make up for two years of sheer boredom and ordinariness. She was certain of that.

Mrs Robins wondered as well, for a little bit more time, why none of the three peculiar oddballs rang the doorbell at Number Four. It seemed to be the polite thing to do. Perhaps the bundle did contain some contraband that would make things interesting. She didn't know. But if it was contraband that was being placed so carefully on the doorstep, the delivery method and the couriers chosen made even less sense.

It was altogether strange.

After a few minutes of them standing around the bundle, the ancient man bent down and carefully placed a small white thing – was that an envelope? – on the small bundle. For being of such an obviously advanced age, his movements were very graceful and elegant.

Then, the congregation dispersed: the giant got on a motorcycle and sped away into the night, somehow managing to throw the rubbish bin that was placed on Number Four's curb over with a loud "BANG". The old man seemed frozen, staring at the bundle, but then started walking right past the bin into one direction with determined strides, and, a few seconds later, the woman turned away from Number Four as well, and began walking into the other direction. Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs Robins saw the motorcycle of the giant make a …jump ? … but when she turned her head, it was already gone, presumably turned towards somewhere at the intersection.

Now, she could investigate.

Still, it'd be better to leave the lights, off just in case. No need to attract attention.

She had just managed to fetch her coat from the armoire in the hall, quite a feat in the darkness, as the door was always stuck, and was about to fetch her shoes, when the streetlamps – all of them – turned on at once.

This seemed like a very weird coincidence, if you could even call it that.

Still, she was not deterred. Finally dressed up enough that she could pass for "just fancying a midnight-stroll", she made to open the door, when she noticed the light in the upstairs bedroom of Number Four turn on. They immediately turned off again.

What now?

A few seconds later, the lights in the downstairs hallway and kitchen turned on. Because the curtains were not drawn, Mrs Robins could see Mr Dursley getting something from the fridge. Thankfully, he was wearing pyjamas – this was not always the case, which is why she usually avoided looking over there after night-fall, once the Dursleys had gone to bed. She really had no desire to see that. Mr Butterfield, the previous male tenant, had, for all his other failings, been quite a specimen. Mr Dursley… well, let's just say she learned not to look very quickly.

Now he was looking at her! Well, that was quite impossible, as her lights were all off and she was looking out of her small window in the front door. He was looking in her direction. And he was angry. Apparently he had noticed the bin.

He disappeared from the kitchen and a few moments later, the front door opened.

Mr Dursley nearly stumbled, but caught himself on the door frame. He looked down on the bundle, and seemed to get even more furious, his face all red now. He bent down, and took the white thing off the bundle, opening it with clipped movements. Apparently it was indeed an envelope. After a minute of reading the contents, he crumbled the letter in his shaking hands, threw it away violently, and went back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Mrs Robins opened her door carefully. She could – because it was night time and night time in unimportant, normal suburbs is silent as death – hear him curse violently. Number Four's door had not shut completely.

She did not know what to do, and remained in the doorway, her door opened only to a few inches. This turned out to be a good decision, because just minutes later, no longer in pyjamas but instead wearing a nondescript black long coat, Mr Dursley came outside, took the bundle, picked up the crumbled letter, placed both in the trunk of the car and drove – raced – away, all the while cursing heatedly and not even taking the time to right the rubbish bin, which had drawn him outside in the first place.

Mrs Robins saw something fall from the bundle. Curious as ever, she took her house key from the door handle and went to check it out. In the driveway, there was an envelope. It was made from heavy, striking white parchment and addressed in beautiful, flowing calligraphy to:

"Mrs Petunia Rose Dursley née Evans

4. Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey"

No return address was given and the letter was missing.

Deciding that there was nothing more to be done, as all the clues disappeared in the trunk of a car that Mr Dursley drove away in, Mrs Robins went back inside her house, locked her door, and went to bed.

She kept the envelope.