PETUNIA

Privet Drive was awakening. As a weak sun rose, sending shimmers along the wet road, lights appeared in the identical houses along with the silhouettes of their residents. The rain from last night was glistening on the immaculate lawns and the cars sat dripping in their drives.

Then, quite suddenly, a short scream sounded from outside number four.

Petunia Dursley clapped a hand to her mouth but she had been unable to stop the sound escaping her. She had just gone to put the empty milk bottles outside the front door when her eyes had fallen upon the bundle of blankets covering all but the sleeping face of a baby, sitting on the step.

'What is it, dear?' came Vernon's voice from behind. He was throwing on his jacket in readiness for another day at Grunnings. The image of a cat sitting far too still on the corner of the road sprung to his mind. If his day at the office was anything like yesterday's …

When Petunia failed to respond to his question, he peered over her shoulder and yelped.

'What the devil?'

Now awake, the infant shifted in its blankets and a few tiny fingers poked out. Vernon instinctively pulled Petunia behind him and blocked the doorway as though expecting the baby to attack them.

'Someone's tipped a baby on us!'

'Don't just stand there staring at it, bring it inside, Vernon!' said Petunia shrilly, even though she herself had been frozen since she opened the door. Her eyes automatically swept over the windows of the houses opposite. There was an unspoken rapport between the neighbours who prided themselves on their ordinary, everyday lives: what on earth would they think if they saw a stray baby dumped on one of their doorsteps?

Glancing this way and that, Vernon hastily scooped up the bundle and returned inside so Petunia could snap the door shut. They hurried to the living room, where Vernon set the baby on the sofa and Petunia drew the curtains again. When she turned to face Vernon, she pointed at the bundle with fresh alarm.

'There's a letter, Vernon!'

She had snatched the envelope in a moment. In loopy lettering read a single word: Petunia.

With shaking fingers, she opened the envelope to find, not paper or card, but yellowish parchment, and read:

Dear Petunia,

My name is Albus Dumbledore. You may remember corresponding with me shortly after your sister was accepted into my school of witchcraft and wizardry, Hogwarts, many years ago.

It is with the deepest regret that I must inform you of the tragic deaths of Lily and her husband James. They were murdered in their home last night by the Dark wizard who takes the name of Lord Voldemort. Their son Harry, Voldemort's primary target, survived the attempt to murder him too, a feat that no other wizard or witch has ever achieved.

Though Voldemort is now in a position of near-destruction and has lost all his powers, there will almost certainly come a time when he returns, and when that time comes, both Harry and yourselves will be in grave danger. However, you have absolutely nothing to fear if you follow my next instructions carefully.

Last night, I placed a spell on this house which will protect Harry from any future attempts Voldemort or his followers may take to harm him, or yourselves. As Harry's last remaining blood relative, you will seal this protective spell by taking Harry into your home. I must ask this crucial favour of you: to accept Harry, and raise him as your own, for the spell will only work as long as Harry can call this place home. Harry will grow to become a wizard – when he is eleven he will reside at Hogwarts for seven years, though he will still be obliged to return to your house every summer. In the highly unlikely, though not impossible, event that Harry is a Squib (that is, someone who has failed to inherit their parents' magical ability), I shall take other measures to ensure his safety, of which I will inform you in due course. Ultimately, on his seventeenth birthday, the spell will cease to operate and Harry will be free to leave for good.

This is an inconvenience, and you have my greatest sympathies.

Yours truly,

Albus Dumbledore

Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Petunia could not think. Grief, fear and even anger were all crashing around inside her, wave after wave … Her sister, dead … murdered. They had not been in touch for years, but Vernon had mentioned her only last night …

Both Harry and yourselves will be in grave danger … She and Vernon, despite their very best efforts to lead normal lives, clear from that awful world of magic, were now targets of the most dangerous wizard in existence? And this 'Dumbledore' (she had long since repressed the memory of that jealousy-driven letter all those years ago) had dumped the Potters' boy on her doorstep and she was expected to raise him for seventeen years! What on earth had she done to deserve this?

'Unbelievable,' muttered Vernon, who had just finished reading the letter over Petunia's shoulder.

'We can't take him in,' said Petunia, feigning a lack of emotion. 'We promised, remember, that we'd have nothing to do with – with her.'

Petunia's voice broke, betraying her heartache. Lily, dead … she had never had the chance to say goodbye, to even give her any sign that, deep down, she did love her. Lily was gone.

Vernon put a large arm around her bony shoulders. Petunia impatiently brushed away her tears.

'We can't take him in,' she repeated, more firmly this time.

'We'll find him an orphanage,' Vernon told her. 'He shouldn't be our problem. We'll figure something out.'

Petunia nodded, barely aware of what she was agreeing to. She had just noticed a postscript on the parchment, which she was certain had not been there a moment before.

P.S. I should add that my asking that you keep Harry is not a request. It is an order. Your house is under watch. Should you choose to abandon Harry, I shall know immediately and you shall regret it. Good day.