Chapter I: One of Our Own

The feminine exclamation of shock and surprise, coupled with the smashing of several milk bottles, was enough to rouse the other residents of Little Whinging.

Before anyone could find the true source, however, Petunia Dursley had hastily lifted the baby from the doorstep and took her back into the four-bedroomed semi. It simply wouldn't do to be the subject of gossip. Why anyone should abandon a baby on a doorstep — the Dursleys' doorstep of all places — Petunia didn't know.

Carrying the whimpering child, who had herself been woken by the screaming woman, Petunia took her into the living room and lay her on the settee, sitting beside her.

"What's wrong, Pet?" her rather large husband said, concern evident in his voice, as he hovered in the doorway, squinting in dawn's early light peering through the gap in the curtains.

"Who leaves a child on a doorstep?" she asked, rhetorically, her eyes never once leaving the baby girl before her.

Moving further into the living room, he approached the sofa and looked down, to see the watery-eyed child with dark, messy curls. "Hmm…" he pondered. "Pretty little thing, aren't you?" he chuckled, as he leaned over the arm of the sofa, and carefully stretched out one of his sausage-like fingers to tickle her chin. "Coochy-coochy-coo!" he exclaimed, playfully, prompting a giggle from the new addition, as she extended her arms in excitement, hoping to be picked up.

"Lily's eyes," the woman whispered. "You're Lily's, aren't you? What's your name?" she asked distantly. "Lavender? Linnea? Leilani?"

"Is there a note?" he asked, all his attention focused on the little girl. He'd hoped for a little girl when he first married Petunia, but after two miscarriages before Dudley and Petunia's subsequent difficulty in getting pregnant following his birth, Vernon was happy enough with the chubby little boy currently sleeping upstairs. "Up you get," he smiled, as he lifted up the pink-clad bundle. "You're gorgeous, you are, aren't you?" With that, he planted a somewhat-scratchy kiss on her left cheek, encouraging a cry of discomfort. "You're right; I need to shave," he chuckled, as he soothed the child now in his arms.

"They're dead," came the faint sob from the woman on the sofa. She appeared to have found the letter she'd expected. "They've been killed. Oh, Vernon." Looking up to her husband, she trained her eyes on the girl who had absolutely no idea what was going on. It was clear, however, that she didn't appear frightened of either of them, as was evident from the child cuddling into her uncle's chest. "Her letter," she wept. "She told me and I didn't listen."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replied, taking a seat beside his wife, as he repositioned the baby so she was sitting on his knee. "I seem to remember you were especially-irritable the day you received it and you cried that night." It was evident he was attempting to lighten the mood, in lieu of recent events, though his hope for offering worlds of comfort weren't exceptionally successful.

As Vernon gently took his wife's hand in his own, she looked over to the child. "I can't do it, Vernon. I swore I wouldn't take her in. I never dreamt it would come to this." Her eyes never left those of her niece, who had reached out to touch her free hand.

"Well, no one ever dreams it, do they, Pet?" Vernon replied.

"I didn't want it to happen," the woman told herself. While it was true, there was a distinct dislike — hatred, even — for her sister, Petunia hadn't wished her dead and would have not wanted her niece to be orphaned. It was in this moment of thought that she recalled the name her sister wrote to her shortly after the birth of her child. "Laurel Anne. That's your name, isn't it? Laurel Anne? After my parents." The child looked at her quizzically.

"That's a nice name," Vernon smiled, gently stroking the child's hair. He recalled his in-laws rather fondly, despite the short span of time he'd known them. They were both well-respected in their social circle, though the circle itself was rather small. Laurence Evans — or Larry, as he preferred to be known — was the history teacher of the local high school back in Manchester when Petunia and Lily were growing up. His wife Anna (previously Jung, born to German parents in Liverpool) was a housewife and a member of both the Neighbourhood Watch Alliance and the Women's Institute. Vernon recalled the couple as rather amiable, though there was one incident that stuck in his mind — the fact it was the first time Vernon had met them and, as such, was rather unlikely to forget such an occurrence — when the couple had an argument regarding the family in the next street. Larry had been something of a detective, Vernon had realised, and had more than enough suspicions of the Snapes; a name Vernon remembered as clear as day. Anna, as the type to simply let sleeping dogs lie, had feuded with her husband over what had become of the family, culminating in her spouting her annoyance in German and Larry retaliating in Welsh. Suffice to say, it had ended with Anna presenting her husband with the silent treatment when he happened to announce the strange disappearance of Mrs. Snape. Although Vernon could understand neither Welsh nor German, Petunia, most unfortunately, understood every word.

Both Petunia and Vernon had been acutely uncomfortable at the time and, while they may each have individually thought of it in following years, neither of them ever brought the incident up.

"If we had died," Petunia stated, bringing Vernon from his musings, "Lily would have taken Dudley in without question. She'd love him like her own." Biting her lip, she paused to gather her thoughts. "No, we must raise Laurel as such. And you always did want a daughter," she said, directing her words to her love.

"So did you," he responded, with a knowing glance. Trust Petunia to use him as an excuse to take the baby in. She wanted a little girl just as much as he did.

The peaceful silence that followed was abruptly broken by a loud wail.

"To the Anderson shelter," Vernon instructed, jokingly. Dudley had arisen and with his action came a cry rather similar to an air-raid siren (or an emergency services vehicle of sorts on a good day.)

"I'll sort Dudley," Petunia announced, in a panic, as she left the lounge in a hurry and straight up the stairs.

With Vernon left to talk to himself, he looked at the child. "And so it begins," he sighed, realisation now dawning that they had two babies to take care of. "Cereal?"


That, of course, had been almost ten years ago now. Vernon and Petunia had, indeed, raised their niece as though she were their own. She'd never gone hungry or wanted for anything. She and Dudley were as close as any pair of blood-related siblings; the two as thick as thieves.

The walls, mantelpiece and sideboard were filled with memories of the two children living in the house. Some of them together, one with Petunia, one with Vernon, one with Petunia and Vernon, both with P— you get the idea.

The pair were homeschooled, an idea Petunia had after Dudley had informed his mother that some of the children at school didn't treat Laurel very well. They had called her a 'freak,' for strange things tended to happen.

There was the incident where Piers Polkiss, a rather large boy with a rat-like face, along with his group of friends were chasing her, as they so frequently did. It had so happened on this day that Laurel had ended up on the school roof in her desperate attempt to get away from the hoard of boys. The two teachers who had been on playground duty at the time hadn't believed her when she claimed she didn't know how it happened and a tearful Laurel had to face the shame of bringing home a letter to her aunt and uncle.

There was also that time when her teacher's wig had turned blue, seemingly on its own. If someone would have told Laurel she'd done it herself she'd likely have been reluctant to believe it, for she considered herself quite ordinary. That had been another letter for her relatives to peruse.

In addition, Piers' Posse, as Dudley had dubbed them, once backed Laurel into a corner, daring her to run. So scared of what they might have done, she handed over what they wanted of her; her homework, the contents of her lunchbox and the money Vernon and Petunia had given both herself and Dudley to buy sweets from the tuck shop run by the caretaker.

A very miserable, hungry Laurel returned home that day and took herself straight to bed, so unwilling to answer questions on what had happened. Oh, Dudley had offered her some of his sweets that day, but she didn't take them from him. She had also handed Dudley yet another letter from the headteacher addressed to her aunt and uncle. That was the moment in which Petunia made up her mind. It was bad if Laurel put herself to bed; worse if Dudley had to speak up on her behalf.

Being away from such negativity had more than improved Laurel's mood. She seemed so much happier being homeschooled and, soon enough, Petunia decided to do the same to Dudley. Oh, he wasn't a bad student by any means, but there was a big difference with two children and thirty-two children. She could give him the attention he required regarding his studies that he otherwise likely wouldn't get had he been at primary school.

Dudley still got to see his friends, of course; friends he had made through social activities outside of school. It was understood by Dudley that as long as he was close to Laurel he'd never fit in with his peers. That suited him fine. He and his cousin were far more like brother and sister and he wasn't willing to sacrifice his relationship with her for conditional friends. No, he had met his friends through sports like karate and boxing.

As a youngster he was rather prone to temper tantrums and, in an attempt to calm his aggression, his parents had enrolled him in the local martial arts club. It had calmed him. The boxing had followed when he was a little older and, with a trusty punching bag, he rarely acted up these days.

Laurel was more of a cerebral child. She wasn't exceptionally physical; rather mental — perhaps a bookworm, for want of a better word. She loved to learn and had certainly picked up her grandfather's love of history. Her aunt had taught her Welsh and German, along with cooking and baking. She felt rather at home in the kitchen and, given the opportunity, she'd have a treacle tart baked for the family every day if she could. Of course, Petunia would disagree on that front, regarding her portly husband and her son's gradual weight gain. Dudley may have been physically active but he also loved his food. On a Saturday night Petunia would agree with Laurel and permit her the opportunity to make treacle tart.

While Petunia remained at home with the children, Vernon went out to work nine-to-five, Monday to Friday. As the manager of Grunnings, a company that made drills, he was hardly in any real position to moan. If anything, his position was quite respectable and was certainly well-paid enough to afford a nice house, decent car and good family holidays.

Their holidays were usually spent in Wales, but the four would sometimes travel to Germany to spend time with Petunia's cousins. Vernon might frequently have felt like a lemon in both countries; so out of place through his inability to communicate, though it was, at least, a little easier to do so in Wales. He at least had three people to translate for him, regardless.

Of course, Vernon had one very definite issue with the part of Germany Petunia's cousins lived, as the last time they had gone it was Oktoberfest and Petunia had neglected to tell him (or rather she was so excited to see her cousins she hadn't seen in so long she forgot to.) He wasn't best-pleased at the sight of himself in the mirror wearing lederhosen. It didn't look quite so bad on nine-year-old Dudley, but it didn't really suit a man approaching forty.


As the Sun's early light peered through the gap in the lemon-coloured curtains, the dark-haired girl squinted, groaning quietly and pulling the duvet over here head.

"Happy birthday to me," Dudley chanted on the landing. If the blinding light from the glowing ball of plasma in the sky wasn't enough to wake the previously-sleeping child, her cousin's announcement certainly was.

Focusing in the light, she focused on the ticking clock on her bedside table. Half past seven. He was at least getting better with his excitement. In previous years she'd likely have been looking at about half-four or five o'clock. Still, she considered the extra three hours of sleep a sign of Dudley's maturity; he was more considerate of sleeping family members these days.

With a playful knock on her door, Dudley opened it slightly and peered in. "It's my birthday," he grinned.

"I'd never have guessed," she replied, with a small smile, as she pulled the covers off herself and sat up. "Happy birthday, Big D," she said, holding her arms out to give him a cuddle, at which he pounced on her in acceptance, knocking her backwards, as she banged her head on the headboard.

"Ooh, you alright, Laurel? Sorry," he said, rather sheepishly, as he leant back, desperate to not inflict anymore damage on his cousin.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied, rubbing the back of her head. "What does it feel like to be eleven?"

Pausing a moment to ponder the question. "Well, much the same as it feels like to be ten," he responded, plainly, "except with a one after it."

"Ten with a one after it?" she confirmed. "Well, I must say, you look good for your age. You don't look a day over one-hundred."

While Dudley thought about the girl's attempt at a joke, she clambered out of bed and over to her wardrobe, bending down as she lifted out three wrapped packages, in blue paper with white ribbon. "Oh, I get it," he whispered, with a subtle chuckle.

"Here you go, Cousin, though you feel more like my brother," she smiled, handing the three packages over. "They're nothing to get really excited over."

"Thanks, Laurel," he replied, taking the offered presents from her. "I'll open them downstairs."

"Will you have enough time?" the girl asked, as Dudley turned to leave. "We're leaving for the zoo soon and I think you might have quite a bit to get through."

It was no secret that Dudley was spoiled, but his parents were glad he wasn't rotten with it. They'd raised him decently-enough to be grateful rather than greedy, except when it came to food.

The two descended the stairs together, having washed and dressed, Dudley more than excited for the day ahead.

"Bacon," he said, dreamily, closing his eyes and taking in the scent of the frying bacon wafting through the house.

"That's more than just bacon, Dudley; it smells like a full English to me," Laurel smiled.

As the two entered the kitchen, Dudley approached his mother, though Laurel would scarcely have been surprised if it were the bacon alone he was attracted to.

"Oh, pumpkin!" Petunia exclaimed, leaning in to kiss her son. "Happy birthday!"

"Happy birthday, son!" Vernon said, cheerily from his spot at the table, as Petunia covered Dudley's eyes and led him from the kitchen and into the dining room, where a huge pile of presents sat. Dudley's eyes went wide.

"How many are there?" he asked, inquisitively.

"Thirty-six," the large man replied. "They were a job to hide and all."

"Don't you think that's too many?" Dudley asked.

Laurel, meanwhile, was distracted, focused on the table. "Is that Aunt Petunia's?" she whispered to her uncle, indicating a teacup on the table.

"Yes, love," he responded, reading his newspaper.

"And that's Dudley's?" she questioned, pointing to a glass.

"Yes, love," he replied once more, eyes unmoving from the sports results, as though he were used to the conversation.

"So if that's yours," Laurel finished, eyes trained on her uncle's coffee mug, "then that must be mine." She sat down before the only unconfirmed glass.

"Thirty-six isn't too much is it, Vernon?" Petunia questioned.

"Tsk. Three-nil," he frowned, seeming to not have heard his wife.

"I said thirty-six isn't too much is it, Vernon?" she repeated, glaring at her husband. Laurel stifled a giggle as her uncle's eyes remained on the football results. "Vernon!" she snapped.

With a start, he jumped, knocking his mug off the table. "Oh," he groaned. "Go and fetch us some kitchen roll, would you, Laurel?" He looked into his niece's eyes pleadingly.

He needn't have asked, however, for the girl was already on her feet and across the kitchen.

As she leant over to grab the desired manual-mopping-device, she leapt back with a start as the frying pan caught fire. Gingerly, she stepped forward to hastily turn off the hob and grabbed the nearest tea towel, drowning it in the washing-up bowl.

Wringing it out as speedily as she was able, she all but threw it over the flaming pan. The fire soon went out and, after a moment to gather herself and calm her nerves from the unplanned disaster, she slowly made her way back the table. Somewhat sheepishly, she spoke.

"Dudley—" She paused, after hearing a loud bang from her uncle hitting his head on the underside of the table. "Dudley, I don't think you'll be having bacon this morning."

Dudley's expression might have morphed into one of complete horror at the statement, but appeared more questioning.

"Oh, my best trousers," Vernon moaned, pitifully, eyes focusing on the coffee stains currently decorating them.

Before Petunia could make any sort of exclamation of irritation, the girl with the sparkling green eyes almost doubled over with laughter.

"Happy birthday, Dudley!" she said, turning to lean on the kitchen counter for support; the only thing preventing her from hitting the floor from hilarity.

This was certainly going to be an interesting day…