20 May 1983
Potter Manor, John O'Groats
It was a ratty old owl that delivered the post that morning, with its plumage all matted and talons gnarled beyond belief and with an expression that was just as sour as the pellets that he left on the doorstep. "Uh, Auntie?" Jean called out as she retreated to the breakfast table as she shifted through the proffered envelopes; only pausing to give the disgruntled bird a snack & a coin for the delivery.
Lily's head jerked up at the title, her cheeks stuffed with spoonfuls of sugary oatmeal. "Yes?"
"You've got mail" Jean replied, brandishing the aforementioned letters. They were scrawled with neatly printed handwriting and the stamp in the corner showed a tiny still picture of the old Cokeworth Mill. So, it was clearly a muggle letter—likely from the redhead's parents because she was hard-pushed to believe that Petunia would willingly write her sister—but Jean could only guess what lay inside.
The young witch easily handed over the letters to the moderately pregnant woman, who read through the letters with a curious air. Apparently the boredom of staying hidden in the back of beyond was getting to the Potters because their newest project appeared to be trying to fill the manor's many, many rooms with more children. Something that the house elves were more than happy about, whilst Harry was just ecstatic to be a big brother.
Between this breath and the next, Lily's spoon dropped back into her bowl and a pale parlour overtook her expression. Her fingers clenched around the edges of the paper, crinkling the once crisp parchment and her lips seemed to move of their own accord as she read and reread the letter, over and over again in an effort to divine anything else out of it. Honestly, she looked about ready to pass out.
So, it was to no surprise that when she eventually did resurface to reality, that her voice was squeaky & high pitched, and filled with enough panic to send all the wizards running. "JAAAAAAAAMES!"
Now Jean was really curious about that letter.
It wasn't until later when the house was quiet and Lily & James were scheming over…something, that Jean found out what was inside. The first letter was from some private detective from Cokeworth who had been hired at the behest of the Evans matriarch, which—of course—was out-of-date thanks to the absolute trustworthiness of the postal office (and possible tampering by outside parties).
30 April 1983
Mrs Lily Potter
Potter Manor, John O'Groats
Caithness, Scotland, KW1 4YS
Dear Mrs Potter,
I am writing to you because I am very disturbed by a report that I received last week on the manner in which a victim of domestic abuse was treated by officers from the Surrey precinct. At the behest of Mrs Daisy Evans, my agency—The Looking Glass Agency—opened an investigation about the domestic abuse allegations regarding both Mrs Petunia Dursley (neé Evans) and Vernon Dursley. Unfortunately, the woman known as Mrs Petunia Dursley (née Evans) was not able to obtain the names nor the badge numbers of the several officers with whom she had contact over the years, but I shall do my best to describe what has transpired since thus.
On 22 July 1982, at 6.30PM, Mrs Petunia Dursley of No. 4 Privet Dr, Surrey, called the police for assistance as her husband had beaten her after she refused to give him her money. She was asked to come to the police station at 7.30PM and was subsequently told that because they were married, her money was his money, her house was his house and he had every right to call her possessions, his. She was told to go home and if he caused trouble again, to call again. When she protested this statement, she was told to shut up or she would be behind bars.
When she returned home, she found her husband there with their son, Dudley. Her husband, Mr Vernon Dursley, would not let her in to get their child. She called 999 several times and finally went back to the precinct at 4.30AM on 23 July 1982, on foot. She was told that they knew she had been calling 999 and the lieutenant on duty told her that if her husband had any money, she wouldn't be there (at the police station).
He told her to go home and butter up Mr Vernon Dursley so that he would be nice. The other officers present, laughed at her and told her that since she made her bed, she had to lie in it. That she knew he was an alcoholic and should have known better, and that she should have divorced him a long time ago or never married him at all. They also repeated what was told to her earlier—what's hers was his.
Incidentally, Mrs Petunia Dursley informed the officers that the police had a warrant out for her husband's arrest, for traffic violations. When she continued to press the issue of whether or not something should be done, they told her that she could talk to a detective at 8.30AM, but that she could not wait at the police station for him.
Mrs Petunia Dursley did eventually speak to a detective at about 9.30AM on 23 July 1982, and was basically told the same thing about her husband's rights to her possessions. But that he [Mr Vernon Dursley] did not have the right to kick her out of the house. The detective told her that had she been beaten to the point of being visibly injured, then they could do something. [Please note: She was showed and thrown around by her husband, but there were no visible marks present]. She was told that she should have gotten a divorce a long time ago, so she wouldn't be in this situation.
Regrettably, it wasn't until 10 February 1983, that the Surrey Precinct received an anonymous tip about a domestic disturbance at Number 4 Privet Drive, that the matter was finally investigated. There, the officers found the aftermath of a violent scene including—but not limited to—destroyed furniture, recorded past abuse (in the form of a diary) and a serious amount of alcohol abuse. Mr Vernon Dursley was detained on sight and Mrs Petunia Dursley & young Dudley Dursley were later tracked down to 62 Penshaw Grove, Cokeworth, wherein a further report was given.
We, at The Looking Glass Agency, understand that police officers can only make an arrest when they have reason to believe an assault has occurred, and perhaps it was the judgement of the officers who made the initial investigation that they did not have sufficient evidence. However, we are deeply disturbed that this woman, who was at minimum, emotionally traumatised by the assault and the inability to get her child, was laughed at, told to return home and butter up her husband. That she should have known better than to marry an alcoholic.
Mrs Petunia Dursley was eventually successful in getting her son, with the help of her parents, and went to stay at her childhood home for a time. She, with the help of lawyers, has initiated divorce proceedings and has a restraining order against her husband. She is now in recovery, but it is slow-going.
Mrs Daisy Evans has also reported seeing strange men hanging around their Cokeworth home and is worried about what this might mean for them. It has been suggested that Mrs Petunia Dursley & young Dudley Dursley move from this home, but they have nowhere else to go besides a domestic violence shelter. Perhaps you might know of a better option?
Thank you, sincerely,
Detective Marilynn Booth
The Looking Glass Agency
Jean could still recall how she had methodically gone about things after staging the scene at No. 4 Privet Dr, all those months ago. How she had thoroughly wiped down any of the surfaces that she may have of touched and doublechecked that the security cameras out in the street hadn't caught her entering or leaving the Dursley's residence. How she had made sure that the house across the street—Mrs Figg's house—was quiet before fleeing the scene as calmly as possible.
Jean could remember how she had stood in the phone booth down the street, her Girl Guides' uniform doing little to shield her from the cold winds. How she had stuffed a couple of quid into the slot and waited for the automated voice to tick over to someone real to talk to. How she had fabricated this story about an audible domestic dispute in No. 4 Privet Drive. How she had hiked back to the neighbouring town and sold a few boxes of cookies along the way, in an effort to make her story believable, before she hopped on the next Knight BUs back to London and then Flooed back to Potter Manor.
The second was a handful of abused pamphlets, ironically pertaining to abuse. Including one that was written like one of those silly acronym poems that they had once written in primary school:
SIGNS OF ABUSE
Says hurtful things to you
Isolates you from others
Gets angry or upset easily
Name-calling & emotional games
Spreads rumours or tells lies
Often criticised you or puts you down
Force is used, physical and/or sexual violence
Acts intimidating & threatens you
Blames you or others for problems
Uses jealousy to justify their actions
Smashes, hits or objects
Embarrasses you in public or private
The third was a series of diary pages and a Christmas letter from Dudley. The diary entry had been dated a day before Petunia had "fled" from Surrey with Dursley in tow, and the letter from Dudley could have only been "written" the Christmas before, or this might've been considered the writings of a child who was confiding in the closest thing he had to a "God". The only discrepancy was that the handwriting that was just a tad too neat to be a child's; not that it seemed to raise any suspicions.
09/02/83
To the Man I Love,
I don't know why it is SO hard for us to speak, but we HAVE to speak. We have to fix these problems we have because if not, it WILL be the end of us. Logically, I know this and you know this, as sad as it may be. I love you and I always will. This is not a question of love, but of how long I will allow you to continue to hurt me or our son needlessly.
So MANY things have gone through my mind. I wish you would get help for your problem—there is NO shame in getting help! The doctors know how to help!—Please don't be ashamed, don't be discouraged. All I am asking is for you to give me a LITTLE hope—by "hope" I mean that I hope someday we can be at peace. That your illness will come under control, that we can return to living in harmony without all of those little voices in your head, telling you to hurt us.
As much as you have hurt me, I have never left before, but when you raised a hand against our SON? That was a step too far, Vernon. I know that alcoholism runs in your family and I know that is only natural for a parent to discipline their child, but I had hoped that you would not repeat the same mistakes of your mother.
Don't you remember how your mother used to hurt you? Remember all of the times that you tried to get away from HER? You have told me SO many stories of how she abused you and your siblings. Of how she always stank of drink? Is that how you want it to be in OUR home? Because I sure don't!
I am telling you—you are hurting me! Your disease is hurting us! You see it everyday, I know you do, you spend every morning apologising but still spend every night in a drunken maniacal rage! I don't have to be a genius to know that this is NOT how life is supposed to be, but you don't know any other way. Violence has always been your way of life, but I refuse to let it be Dudley's. Did you know that his teacher told me he hit his classmate when she refused to share her crayons? He can still fixed—so can you—but we need to leave.
I love you, that is certain and this is why I was always with you. Why I still love you, still trying to show you a better way and still trying to love you through the hurt. However, at what point do I have to just let you go? You still drink and hit us for no reason—why? Why don't you love me enough to get some help to stop hurting me? Would you rather be alone? Would you rather me leave? If that is the case, then I—we—really must go, no matter how much I want to stay.
I love you, Vernon and I always will, but I have to love myself too. I have to keep Dudley safe. Please…please just get some help. Help us to stay in love and stay together, forever. I'm begging you. Put us first, just this once.
Love,
Your beloved & devoted wife.
Dear Santa,
Mummy says we have to leave our house. Daddy is always mad and he smells like Mummy & Daddy Juice. We had to do ALL of the chores. Daddy gets everything he wants. Mummy says it's time to leave and she'll take us to a safer place where we don't have to be scared.
I'm still scared. I don't want to tell them what Daddy did. Kids are mean.
Are you going to come this Christmas? We don't have any of our stuff here. Can you bring some chapter books, a dictionary and a compass, and a watch? I also want a very, very, VERY good Daddy. Can you do that too?
Love,
Dudley
Petunia's diary pages and Dudley's letter, alongside the memories, had been fabricated by Jean, of course (the diary in advance and the letter, whilst at the Dursley's residence). But the detective's report? The pamphlets and all that followed after? That was all them. That was the all the result of what she had done; still, Jean couldn't have predicted that they would have of ended up here. With Petunia & Dudley moving in with the Potters, whilst the Evans parents took to spending their golden years abroad; taking to those worldwide cruises like ducks to water. That is to say that there was more than enough room for Petunia & Dudley in the Potter Manor, of course, but it was still an unexpected twist of events. It also made things a lot harder for Jean to scheme and plot in peace, nosy as they were. But that was okay, she could work with this, she had to.
25 May 1983
Potter Manor, John O'Groats
Petunia and Dudley officially moved in almost a week later, without much fuss; taking up a wing at the opposite end of the manor to the Potters, themselves. Lily had been particularly weepy—although that may have of been because of the pregnancy hormones—when she'd seen the state of her older sister on their back doorstep. And James—who was strangely quiet in the doorway as he watched the proceedings play out—stood there with hooded eyes and arms crossed, fingers clenching around his forearms.
Jean didn't know if the anger that emanated from the bespectacled wizard was because of his (previously) aggravating sister-in-law moving in, the state of her when she arrived (that healing black eye had clearly irritated his Gryffindor sensibilities) or because of the Order of the Phoenix members who were so clearly the "…Strange men…" mentioned in the muggle detective's letter. The ones who were hanging around his in-laws home, and staking out in the hopes that they might force the Potters to rejoin the Order, without physical force. It was enough to turn one's stomach.
As for the wolfhound and the werewolf, they had been sequestered to the estate of their own accord; giving the excuse that they didn't want to scare the muggles with their out-of-control canine instincts. It wouldn't do to give them a fear of dogs when they had to live with them. But that was okay, because Crookshanks did enough growling for both of them. More so because Dudley hadn't been taught how to properly pet a cat, just yet, than actually disliking the boy; but it was hard to tell with the flat-faced kneazle.
Harry, on the other hand, had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time that his aunt and cousin had moved in. Not because he wasn't happy to have a friend to run around the large estate with—even if it was his snobbish cousin—but because he didn't want to share Jean or any of his friends from kindergarten. He spent most of the weekend looking like he'd just suckled on a mouthful of fizzing whizzbees; with lips pursed and brows furrowed to the point of wrinkling like a dehydrated raisin.
Jean teased him relentlessly about it.