Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you expected to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a rather large moustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had twice the normal amount of neck, which came in rather useful as she spent most of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a son named Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
They also had a secret, one that they so desperately hoped would never get out. They didn't think they could bear it if the neighbours were to find out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met in several years. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister. Mrs. Potter had, as far as they knew (and hoped), vanished from their lives. Their last correspondence was after Mrs. Potter's graduation, when the two sisters met to introduce each other to their respective spouses. It hadn't gone well, to say the least.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up one dull, gray Tuesday morning, without the slightest suspicion that strange and mysterious events were occurring all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring necktie for work, while Mrs. Dursley fussed about in the kitchen, making sure the two lovely men in her life were taken care of.
At 8:30 the same morning, Mr. Dursley pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek and then tried to do the same for Dudley. He missed, as Dudley was now throwing a tantrum over his selection of cereal which was, of course, now covering the wall.
"Little tyke," Mr. Dursley chuckled as he straightened his tie. He left the house a moment later, leaving his wife to clean the mess.
Mr. Dursley's first indication came as he attempted to leave the street. He saw a tabby cat sitting on the sidewalk, reading a map. He did a doubletake, of course, since the very notion was absolutely absurd, and there was not a map in sight. The cat was, however, staring at him, which he found unnatural and unsettling. He chuckled to himself as he made the corner, trying to dismiss it as something completely in the ordinary. He could have sworn that the cat was staring at the street sign as he glanced in his rearview mirror but that, too, must have been a trick of the light. As he drove towards town, he thought of nothing else but the large order of drills he hoped to make later that day.
As he sat in the morning traffic near the edge of town, drills were once again driven from his mind, as he spotted a large number of people milling about in very strange clothes.
They were wearing cloaks!
Mr. Dursley really couldn't abide people wearing strange fashion. He thought it denoted a certain queerness that simply wasn't acceptable in modern society. He tried to brush it off as an act of young, willful people, but he was startled to spot an older man wearing the same! They talked in excited whispers, and he rolled up the window of his vehicle to avoid being harassed. He brushed it off as nothing other than some sort of event.
Must be trying to make a statement, he thought. Yes, that must certainly be it.
Mr. Dursley had quite the pleasant start to his day. He received that order he was hoping for, he yelled at five people, and he made several important phone calls. He also sat with his back to the window in his office at the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have seen the owls flying past in broad daylight, seen the commotion on the streets as bystanders stopped and gawked at the unusual avian activity. No, instead, Mr. Dursley had quite the normal, owl-free morning. Just the way he liked it.
When it came time for lunch, Mr. Dursley thought he'd stretch his legs a bit, and settled on walking across the street to get a bun from the bakery. He ignored the cloaked individuals as he crossed the street as best he could, although he certainly grumbled about it under his breath. He didn't know why, but something about them unsettled him. It was on his way back, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught his first snippet of conversation, as he passed by a group of the freaks whispering excitedly amongst themselves.
"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard-"
"-yes, their son, Harry, he-"
Mr. Dursley stopped in his tracks, fear flooding him. He looked back at the whisperers, as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary to not bother him, and almost finished dialing his home number when sense came back to him. He sat back in his chair, and stroked his moustache while he thought.
No, it couldn't be them, could it? Potter wasn't that uncommon of a name, surely, and as far as they knew, their Potters didn't yet have a son. Mrs. Dursley might not want to speak to her sister, but Mr. Dursley knew Mrs. Potter still would have written to them. No, it was simply a coincidence, that's all.
Mr. Dursley decided to ignore it. He focused on his work, instead. Best not to ruin his wife's day by mentioning the one name she never wanted to hear again.
Despite his own reassurances, Mr. Dursley found it very difficult to focus for the rest of his workday, and he left his office promptly at closing (after berating some subordinates for trying to leave early, of course). He was so distracted that, as he left the building doors, he accidentally collided with somebody else, who was knocked down to the street.
"So sorry-" Mr. Dursley started to say. He stopped when he noticed the violet cloak the man was wearing.
"Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me this day!" The small man said as he hopped up to his feet. He spread his arms wide as he stared towards the sky. "Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"
And the small man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off, leaving the rotund, beefy man feeling quite flabbergasted.
Not to mention exceedingly angry.
Mr. Dursley could hardly get his keys to turn when he arrived at his vehicle. He had to take his anger out on one of his poor workers, almost threatening to sack the man if he didn't get back inside and get back to work right that very instant.
As he pulled into his driveway at number four Privet Drive, his mood wasn't improved any. The first thing he saw as he lumbered out of the driver's seat was the same tabby cat from the morning sitting upon his garden wall.
"Shoo!" He shouted at it. The cat stared back at him lazily, as if it didn't understand what he was trying to say. He considered tossing a stone at it, but a few neighbours were out and about, and it wouldn't do to make a scene. He settled for grumbling as he approached his home, hoping that this would mark an end to the strange events of the day. He was still absolutely determined to not mention a thing to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had a nice, normal day. Dudley learned a new word (Won't!) and she told him all about the drama that Mrs. Next Door was involved in. Her daughter had been caught kissing another girl, much to the neighbourhood's shock, and she was, just today, sent packing to her estranged father's house. It was quite the scandal, and the neighbourhood was likely to talk about nothing else for the next decade (the poor woman would likely have to move, just to save face). Mr. Dursley quite agreed that they were better off without her. He thought it was best to act normal, to not let on that anything was wrong.
While Mrs. Dursley got Dudley off to bed upstairs, Mr. Dursley sat in the living room to enjoy a bit of news before he, too, retired for the night. He turned on the telly just in time to catch the evening report on the news.
"And, finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin for the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"
"Well, Ted," said the weatherman, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."
Mr. Dursley froze in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? A whisper about the Potters?
Mrs. Dursley came into the room, carrying two steaming cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something.
Mrs. Dursley sat on the couch, pulling a magazine towards her from the end table. Mr. Dursley cleared his throat.
"Err- Petunia, dear- You haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"
Mrs. Dursley set her cup down roughly as she pursed her lips.
"No," She said sharply. "Why?"
"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls, shooting stars, and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today."
"So?" Snapped Mrs. Dursley.
"Well, I just thought- maybe- it was something to do with- you know- her crowd."
Mrs. Dursley sipped at her tea through her pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered if he dared mention the name. No, best not. Let her speak it. Instead, he said as casually as he could:
"Haven't got a kid now, have they? About time, I'd think. Might make them a bit more normal, give them a bit more responsibility."
"I suppose so," Mrs. Dursley said stiffly.
Mr. Dursley let the conversation lapse into silence as he drummed his fingers nervously on the armrest, trying to think of how else to approach the topic.
"Haven't heard from her in a year," Mrs. Dursley said at last with a sniff that denoted that Mr. Dursley was most certainly in trouble."
"A year?" Mr. Dursley repeated.
"Wrote me with a picture," Mrs. Dursley went on. She was staring at her magazine now, although her eyes weren't moving to read the page. "They did have a child, as a matter of fact. Wanted us to get together when 'this is all over,' whatever that's supposed to mean. Didn't think it was worth mentioning."
"Oh," Mr. Dursley said as his heart sank. "And- err- what was his name?"
Mrs. Dursley sniffed again. "Her name is Hazel. They had a daughter. Ugly, common name, if you ask me. Suppose she thought it'd be funny to break the family tradition with a tree."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Dursley said as his spirits rose. "Yes, I quite agree, terrible name."
He didn't say another word on the subject for the rest of the night, as he hummed happily in front of the telly. No, sir, not one more word. There was no need.
It wasn't the Potters, after all! There had been absolutely nothing to worry about. He chuckled to himself, wondering how he ever could have been so silly. No, the Potters were well and truly out of their life, after all.
It was midnight, now. The Dursleys were all quite asleep. Mr. Dursley, in particular, was snoring heavily, while his wife lay motionless on the bed next to him. Little Dudley was fussing about noisily in the room next door, but neither parent heard enough to warrant checking on the little tyke.
The tabby cat was still sitting on the garden wall, staring down the street, as if they were expecting something. It stood still, as if noticing something in the darkness, and walked to the edge of the driveway, staring down the street.
An elderly man appeared suddenly, as if out of thin air. He was wearing extravagant, purple robes, fastened with a luminescent cloak, and he had a silver beard that stretched far below his chest. He was also wearing spectacles, shaped like a half moon. His light, bright, blue eyes were sparkling behind them.
He reached into his robes, pushing aside his silver cloak, and drew out some sort of instrument. With a flick of the switch, and an audible click, the light from the nearest streetlamp went out. Another click, and then the next one went.
It went on like that for a while, each click of the Put-Outer extinguishing each and every light in the neighbourhood. If someone should, by chance, gaze out into the street at this moment, they would not have been able to see a single thing. Only once every light was gone did the mysterious man stride forward, walking straight towards number four Privet Drive. As he approached the house, he chuckled at the sight of the cat.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall," he said in his kindly, aged voice.
The tabby was gone now, as he turned to address it. In its place was an older woman, her black hair drawn into a tight bun, wearing an emerald cloak. Her face looked rather stern, and she wore square-spectacles, the same markings that had been on the cat's face moments before.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall irritably. She rubbed at her lower back idly, perhaps to relieve some of the stress.
"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
"Oh, yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back towards the Dursley's dark living room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls, shooting stars- Well they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."
"You can't blame them," Dumbledore said gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."
"I know that," Professor McGonagall said irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours."
She threw a sideways glance at Dumbledore, as though hoping he would tell her something. He didn't, so she went on.
"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," Dumbledore said. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as if this wasn't the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person such as yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense- I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name. Voldemort."
Professor McGonagall flinched but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, didn't seem to notice.
"It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."
"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half impressed, "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know-Who- oh all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too- well- noble to use them."
"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed this much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."
Professor McGonagall sent a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the rumours that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"
Professor McGonagall had finally reached what she truly wanted to discuss, what was really making her so anxious. She rocked on her heels slightly as she waited, hoping Dumbledore would take the hint, would carry the topic. He was too busy selecting another lemon drop, so McGonagall pressed on.
"What they're saying is that last night Voldemort showed up at Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are- are- that they're- dead."
Dumbledore bowed his head. McGonagall let out a gasp.
"Lily and James- I can't believe it- I didn't want to believe it- Oh, Albus-"
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.
"I know- I know-"
Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on.
"That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry, but he couldn't. He couldn't kill the little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke- and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded glumly. "It is not the full story, I am sure, but it is true enough."
"It's- It's true?" Professor McGonagall faltered. "After all he's done- after all those he's killed- he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding- of all the things to stop him- But how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"
"We can only guess," Dumbledore said. "We may never know."
Professor McGonagall took a handkerchief from her robe, and blew into it loudly. Dumbledore checked his pocket watch as he stared into the starry night sky, as if he was looking for something.
"Hagrid is late," Dumbledore said. "I suppose it was he who told you I would be here?"
"Yes," Professor McGonagall said thickly. "I suppose you are going to tell me why it is you are here?"
"To give young Harry over to her Aunt and Uncle," Dumbledore answered. "They are the only family she has left, now."
"You must be joking," McGonagall said. "Albus, these people, you have not seen them- they are dreadful- they- they-"
"Are the only family she has left," Dumbledore reiterated.
"Why here, of all places?" McGonagall said again. "He should be amongst his own kind, with another family. Why, there won't a kid his age that doesn't know his name. I would be surprised if this day isn't known as Harry Potter day in the future!"
"That is precisely the reason why," Dumbledore said. "She will be famous. It is better for her to grow up, here, away from it all. Could you imagine? Being famous before you could walk and talk? For something that you can't even remember? No, I think it best if she grows up away from it all, until she is able to handle it properly."
McGonagall pursed her lips, but she did not argue any further. Perhaps she was finally catching on to the elderly man's choice of language. Whatever she was thinking, she kept her secrets.
"In addition," Dumbledore continued, "I fear potential retribution from Voldemort's followers. He may be gone himself, but they are not. We still have our work out for us. It'll be easier to protect her if they do not know her whereabouts."
"Very well," McGonagall relented. "And where is he? I do not see him with you."
"Hagrid is bringing her," Dumbledore said as he popped another lemon drop into his mouth.
"And you think it- wise- to trust Hagrid with this?"
"I would trust Hagrid with my life," Dumbledore said.
"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," McGonagall said grudgingly. "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to- what was that?"
A low rumbling broke the silence of the neighbourhood. It grew steadily louder as the two looked up, spotting a bright light descending towards them. With a great squeal and a roar, the great, flying motorbike collided with the pavement below, and came to a full stop. A top of it was a gargantuan, hairy man, wearing a tight set of goggles and a large, brown coat. He kicked the bike as he demounted, and the noise died back into silence. All that could be heard, now, was the barking of a few dogs.
"Hagrid," Dumbledore said with a tone of relief. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"
"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, Sir," Hagrid said in a friendly, yet nervous, tone. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."
"Sirius Black, you say?" Dumbledore said a bit less warmly. "And, perhaps, did he say where he was headed?"
"Went into the house, sir," Hagrid said. He approached the two of them quickly, his thick boats making a loud crunching sound with every step, a pink bundle of blankets carefully perched in his arms. "He- Said he- needed to see it for himself, sir."
"I shall speak to him after we are done," Dumbledore said. "No other problems, then?"
"No, sir," Hagrid said. "The- The house was destroyed, but I got her out all right before the Muggles started swarming. She fell asleep as we were flying over Bristol."
"Excuse me," McGonagall said as she cleared her throat. "She, Hagrid? Were you not sent to pick up Harry Potter?"
"I was wondering when you would ask, Professor," Dumbledore said with a sad smile.
"Course I was," Hagrid said, ignoring the looks he was getting from the witch. He scratched at his beard with one of his thick hands. "Only- err- well-"
"There is no Harry Potter," Dumbledore said for him. "Minerva, I would like to introduce you to Hazel Potter."
"Hazel?" McGonagall said sharply. She leaned in closer to Hagrid, gently taking the bundle in her own arms. Her face melted into relief and kindness as she looked down at the sleeping baby's face, and she gently rocked her in her arms.
Hazel was sucking on her right thumb, face nuzzled into the blanket as she slept. She had a light smackling of red hair a top her hair, barely covering a bright, red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.
"Is that-" McGonagall said with a sharp breath. "Is that where-"
"Yes," Dumbledore said darkly. "She will have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one on my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well- give her here, Minerva- best to get this over with."
McGonagall handed the pink bundle over to Dumbledore gently, reluctantly. Dumbledore carried Hazel over to the doorstop of the Dursleys, then placed her gently on the ground below, taking care to tuck the blanket in securely. Hagrid was crying loudly behind the both of them, and McGonagall gave him a kind pat on the shoulder, as Dumbledore had done for her moments before. Dumbledore produced an envelope from his robes, as well as a long, wooden stick. With a wave of his wand, a basket materialized underneath Hazel, propping her up. Dumbledore placed the letter inside with her, then stepped away.
McGonagall cleared her throat before speaking.
"Dumbledore, I must make one more attempt to persuade you. If she is known to the world as a he, then why not house her elsewhere? Why leave her here with these- these people? She will not be loved here. She will not be given the care she deserves, I am certain of that."
"Professor McGonagall," Dumbledore said with sadness in his voice. "I fully intend on revealing her true identity within the week. It will become known without my interference sooner rather than later, and it is best if not put off. And, besides, even if they didn't find out the truth on their own, they would once her scar is seen. I do not know how it leaked so quickly, but they are all talking of it."
McGonagall sniffed again. "Very well, Headmaster. I- I shall defer to your expertise on the matter."
"Then that's that," Dumbledore said. "I will see the both of you back at the school tomorrow morning. Give the students the week to celebrate. We will resume normal activities on Monday."
"I have no reason to linger," McGonagall said sadly. She was staring at the bundle. "I- I will see you at Hogwarts, Headmaster."
"I should get the bike back," Hagrid said, pointing behind himself with his thumb. "She'll- she'll be happy here, won't she, Professor?"
"We can only hope, Hagrid," Dumbledore said.
Hagrid kicked his bike back into life as McGonagall, now a cat again, slinked away into the shadows. Dumbledore continued standing in the driveway as his two companions left, staring at the dark house in front of him. He reached into his pocket, bringing out the Put-Outer, and played with it in his hands, wondering if he should, perhaps, do more.
"Good luck," he said at last, "Hazel Potter."
He clicked the Put-Outer. The lights all flew towards their points of origin, bathing the street in warmth once again. And, just like that, Dumbledore had vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving only a quiet house and a sleeping child who was unaware of her fate.
Mrs. Dursley was humming to herself a few hours later as she rummaged about in the kitchen. She always got up earlier. She spent the earlier hours getting ready for the day and seeing to the baby. She had Dudley snoozing away in his highchair, sitting at the table, and she was fixing breakfast for herself and her husband. A single slice of melon and a piece of toast for herself, and a full fry-up for him.
"How's the news, dear?" she asked sweetly. Mr. Dursley was sitting at the table, watching the morning news on the telly. He'd already finished his newspaper. He just wanted to be more up to date.
"Terrible," Mr. Dursley said.
Mrs. Dursley turned her attention towards the telly. They were still going over that awful gas line explosion from just an hour ago. Mr. Dursley had considered calling into work, since it was fairly close to them, but he really had a lot he needed to get done today.
"This just in," the newscaster said. "We are now being told that the man responsible for this attack has been apprehended. No reports yet on the identity of the attacker, but officials assure us that the situation has been handled and we are all safe to continue our day."
Mr. Dursley snorted at that.
"Rubbish, that. Half a dozen dead, but we're all supposed to go on with our days, are we?"
Mrs. Dursley kissed her husband on the cheek for how considerate he was being. She'd make sure his return home was extra special tonight. She grabbed the empty milk bottles from the counter, and went to put them out for the milk man. Mrs. Dursley opened the door, set out the milk bottles next to the baby, then closed the door again.
She made three steps back towards the kitchen then froze. She turned back to the door with her heart sinking, wrenched it open, and then let out a shriek.
"Petunia, dear?" Mr. Dursley called from the kitchen. "Are you all right?"
"V-v-v-v-Vernon!" she screamed. "C-c-c-come quickly!"
Mr. Dursley's heavy feet ran towards her, and he was out of breath just from the few meters it took to get there. He saw what his wife was pointing out, let out a shriek himself, then hauled the bundle up from the ground and slammed the door behind him.
"What is this?" he said loudly. The baby was stirring in his arms as Mrs. Dursley took them from him.
"I- I don't know," she said shrilly. "It- it was- it was just there when I opened the door!"
Mr. Dursley plucked the letter from the basket. Little Hazel grabbed at his thumb with a smile on her face, but he brushed the little hand aside.
"Somebody thinks they can just pawn her off on us, eh?" Vernon roared. "Well, we'll see about that! They'll be lucky if we send it to an orphanage without reporting them!"
"What does it say, Vernon?" Petunia asked nervously.
"P-p-Petunia," Vernon stammered out as his face grew pale. "I- I think you better read this."
Petunia handed over the baby, swapping for the letter. Vernon took her into the kitchen, to allow his wife some space to breath and read.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,
I am sorry to drop off your niece on such a short announcement, but I thought it better if you process this without my presence. I was told you do not take kindly to wizarding kind.
I will make this as short as I can. This is your niece, Hazel Lily Potter. Last night, or two nights ago at the time of your reading, your sister, Lily, and her husband, James, were attacked and murdered by a dark wizard. He has left your niece an orphan, I'm afraid. You and Vernon both have my deepest condolences. I can only imagine the grief you are feeling at this moment.
I am leaving Hazel in your care. She will, of course, be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when she comes of age. I have already received word that she's produced proof of magical ability, and her name is in our records. I hope you will love her and care for her as if she was your own.
You do not need to worry about protecting her. The protection your sister put on her will remain so long as Hazel lives under your care, and no one will be able to find you. I have already produced more wards on your home, just to be sure. You can rest assured that all of you will be safe in the coming days.
You know how to reach me, should you have any questions. I will answer them all to the best of my ability. I have prepared an additional letter for Hazel, for her to read when she is older. I am sure she will have many questions when the time comes, and she may write to me, as well. I will do the best I can.
My Condolences,
Albus Dumbledore
Petunia flipped over to the second page, the one her husband had ignored, and began to read it.
This page has been enchanted for your eyes only, Petunia; your husband will not be able to read it.
I am told you were estranged from your sister, these past few years. I know that this cannot be easy for you, but you will have my full support. You may write to me for anything, and I will provide it.
You need not worry about Lord Voldemort returning to finish the job; by all accounts, he is gone. The protections I mentioned on the previous page will already be in place, long before you opened the envelope.
There is only one matter I must make clear: Hazel must feel that this house is her home. Your sister sacrificed her life to save that of her daughter's, and it created a level of protection that cannot be broken, so long as she lives with those of the same blood and can call them family.
I will stress this again: you will take care of her, as if she was your own, and you will provide her with a home. I will not take kindly to finding out otherwise.
You have been warned.
Petunia walked into the kitchen, tossing the letter onto the table as she took a seat. Dudley was screaming at her, demanding more food as he banged his empty bowl on his seat. Petunia rushed over, whispering softly to the child to calm him down, trying not to spread the panic she was feeling in her own insides. Vernon even stood to help her, just this once, likely to calm himself.
Hazel was sitting on the table, staring up at Dudley with a smile on her face, reaching for him eagerly.
"Dud!" she said happily. Petunia had no idea where she'd heard the name. It unnerved her.
Dudley responded by tossing his bowl at her, striking her in the head right next to her scar. Hazel began screaming immediately, neither adult rushing to her aid.
"What do we do?" Vernon asked irritably.
"What can we do?" Petunia responded darkly. She stood, strode into the kitchen, and continued making breakfast.
"Marge wouldn't take her," Vernon said with a scoff as he sat back in his chair. "I could always drop her off somewhere. Perhaps one of the neighbours would-"
"We'll have to take her, Vernon," Petunia said shakily. She could hardly hold the spatula she was attempting to flip the bacon with.
"I'll have to ring Grunnings," Vernon grumbled. "They'll want to know why, of course. What should I tell them?"
"Tell them we had a tragedy in the family," Petunia spat.
"Had a business lunch to make," Vernon grumbled again. "We're taking her in, then?"
"What other choice do we have?" Petunia yelled over Hazel's crying. "And shut up, you." Petunia smacked Hazel on the back of the head lightly, an action that scared the toddler enough to have her lapse into silence.
"Suppose I'll have to spend the day clearing out the spare room," Vernon said darkly. "We'll have to fix up Dudley's old crib for her. Couldn't bother sending some supplies, could they? No, they expected us to handle everything."
"We can't put her in there," Petunia countered over Hazel's crying. "Marge is coming to visit next week, she'll need it."
"Right," Vernon said as he drummed his fingers on the table.
There was, of course, another room they could put her up in, but neither adult suggested it; they already turned it into a playroom for Dudley (in addition to his normal bedroom), and they had no intentions of ever changing that.
Petunia stirred one of her pots again, the contents spilling over the side. She already had tonight's supper going; she had intended on making a nice stew, leaving it to simmer all day.
"Err- Petunia, dear? Do you- do you need to talk about it?"
"Why would I?" Petunia said. "My sister's gone and gotten herself blown up. Always knew it would happen. The freak had it coming, and now we're stuck with her because she didn't have enough sense to- to-"
"Well I won't have any of that going on in my household," Vernon roared as he regained control. "No, not one bit. We'll stamp it out, put a stop to any of that nonsense. Mark my words, Petunia,I will not be having it!"
Petunia nodded, turned to the fireplace, and tossed both letters into the flames. The open one crumpled, while the one for little Hazel took a bit longer.
When she turned back to face the rest of the family, she saw Hazel squirming again, looking about in fear. Her bright, green eyes locked onto Petunia's, and, for just a moment, her heart softened. She really did look just like-
Then, with another cry, the lights flickered, and she stepped back in fear, the same, familiar hatred rising within her.
"Enough, Lily," she screamed out. The child ignored her, continuing to wail, as the lights flickered dangerously in the room.
"I better go make that call," Vernon said loudly. He rose from the table, heading straight over to the counter, where they kept their telephone. Petunia strode over to where little Hazel was still sitting, still screaming. Her little tantrum was starting to upset little Dudley, and he was beginning to mimic her sobbing.
Petunia picked up Hazel, who eagerly hugged into her for the comfort. She walked into the hallway, opened the cupboard door, and placed Lily gently among the shoes, boots, and coats within, closing the door firmly shut afterwards.
The door helped to muffle the sound of her cries, and Petunia returned to the kitchen, intent on not letting this ruin her perfect day. Perhaps, if she was lucky, she and Vernon would find the time to slip out with Dudley. There was a nice park, nearby, and it had been a while since they all walked through it together as a family.