November 1, 1981 dawned clear and crisp over the identical houses of Privet Drive. Frost nipped the blades of the evenly-mown grass, but frost was not the only remnant of the night that had passed.

The door to Number Four Privet Drive swung open and a cacophony of bawls and yells spilled into the street, disrupting the stillness of the morning. A single tawny owl alit from his perch on the rain gutter and soared away into the receding darkness.

A woman’s voice issued from the foyer, though the child’s incessant screaming nearly drowned her out. “Quiet down, Diddy-Dinkums. Mummy will be right back. Mummy won’t be but a moment, Duddy.” The woman emerged from the house backside first, still plying with her wailing toddler. “See, Mummy will be right–VERNON!”

All up and down what had moments ago been a quiet suburban street, bathrobe-clad residents were throwing open their doors and stepping out into the morning chill.

A robust, red-faced man with a walrus-mustache appeared in the door way of the fourth house, his sausage-like fingers still tugging at the zipper of his too-small trousers. He roundly rebuked the now-silent woman, and the neighbors (now puttering about in their gardens or loitering by their mailboxes) listened closely, each hoping for an earful of salacious gossip. 

“Petunia – what is the meaning of this?! Calling a man out of his bed in the wee hours of the morning! All I ask from you is a warm breakfast and a clean house–”

But the man stopped shouting abruptly as well.

“Inside,” he rasped, so quietly that tiny old Arabella Figg in Number Seven Wisteria Walk had to scurry forward, on the pretense of chasing one of her mangy mixed-breed cats, in order to overhear them.

Dazedly, wordlessly, the woman called Petunia bent low over the front stoop and lifted a squirming bundle of blankets into her arms. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she stepped over the threshold and into the tidy house that until so recently had been just as box-shaped and boring as any of the others that lined the sunlit lane.  

* * * * *

“Petunia…what is it doing here?” the man called Vernon Dursley demanded, his broad forehead purpling in rage.

“Lily’s…he must be Lily’s…” The toddler in her arms lay utterly still, its vivid green eyes wide in bewilderment.  

“WON’T!”

A half-eaten bowl of porridge sailed past Petunia Dursley’s left ear and hit Vernon squarely in the face.

“WON’T, WON’T, WON’T!”

Vernon mopped his face clean on the collar of his shirt, cussing angrily under his breath.

“Vernon – there’s a letter…” Petunia’s voice trailed off; there was something eerily familiar about the slanting handwriting, but Petunia couldn’t seem to place it. With trembling hands, she eased the letter out of the envelope. Her eyes scarcely moved as she scanned the sheaf of parchment at fever pitch.

“I don’t give a d*mn about any letters,” Vernon Dursley barked as he stormed from the kitchen. “All I give a d*mn about is that I can make it to work by nine and still have time to change my suit!”

“Lily’s dead. Oh, Vernon. Lily’s dead.” Her mind reeled; she found herself reading the same line over and over again, trying to find a fault with it…some syntactical error that would render the entire contents of the letter false. “This is her son, Harry…oh! It was never supposed to come to this! My sister is dead.” 

Vernon tramped back into the kitchen wearing a porridge-free shirt and suit coat. “I don’t care if he is your sister’s son – I just want you to make sure he’s gone when I get back!”

* * * * *

What transpired on that fateful day did not come as a complete shock for our Petunia. Rather it was the logical ending to what could best be viewed as a series of unfortunate affairs. If you will recall the less-than-happy beginning of our poignant tale, you will remember that we endeavored to tell the story of a cheerless girl who grew into the most pitiable of beings.

It follows – quite understandably, I might add – that our Petunia’s troubles did not end there, nor indeed did this deep-seated resentment sprout from any one instance. In all truthfulness, much remains to be told. As the storyteller, my only design is to let the vines of remembrance continue to untangle themselves so that you might grow in understanding.

* * * * *