Chapter 1- The Boy Who Lived (to Vernon Dursley's dismay)

A Chapter by AntiJill

Privet Drive either had a mold that it shaped its residents with, or it was like a magnet that attracted only a certain type of person. Everyone on Privet Drive was quiet. They were orderly. Their neighborhood was quiet, and they liked it that way. And when someone disturbed the quiet, they didn't like it a bit.

The residents of number four, Privet Drive fit this mold to a tee. Well, all of them except Dudley Dursley, that is. Dudley was only a baby, and babies cry and scream, and no one blames them, because that's what babies do. So no one blamed Dudley.

Dudley's parents never blamed him for crying. In fact, they never blamed him for anything. It would remain this way for many years. In their eyes, Dudley was the perfect angel, a model child. He did no wrong, and those who accused him of it were liars and dirt, just jealous of their good little boy.

Dudley's parents were complete opposites of each other, and yet they still managed to fit the Privet Drive mold. Vernon Dursley was big and round, with red skin that darkened to purple when he was angry, which was often. His patience was as short as his neck, which was nonexistent. He resembled a tomato, except that tomatoes don't turn purple.

Vernon Dursley worked at the wartime factory. He was proud of his position, because unlike the other poor laborers, he was co-manager. His factory made bullets for guns, which would be shipped to the army and shot at enemy soldiers. Vernon Dursley was proud, not only of his authoritative position, but of his place in the war. He believed wholeheartedly that the course of the war depended on his factory and the bullets that came out of it.

His wife Petunia was the opposite. If her husband was a tomato, she was a pencil, all long and sharp and pointy and straight. Her nose was long enough to cut someone, and she was often sticking it in other people's business, putting them in mortal peril. She was skinny and bony, with sharp elbows, sharp eyes, a sharp tongue and ears. Her ears were great at listening to other people's conversation, and her tongue was used to relay the gossip to anyone that would listen, either over the phone, in person or over the fence. Then, she would turn to her husband and badmouth those same people, giving her opinion on how indecent and uncultured they were.

Petunia Dursley had several convictions that she stood strongly by- one was that her family was a perfect and normal family, and she was very proud of that. Anything not normal was not to be spoken of under her roof. Two was that there were several things in this world that did not exist, as far as she was concerned, and therefore not to be mentioned- Potters, and her sister, Mrs. Potter. Petunia was mortally afraid of her sister, her worthless husband, and their son, who was probably as screwed up as his parents. The Potters had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, and as far as Petunia was concerned, they could stay mixed up with them, as long as they stayed away from her and her family. The last thing she wanted was for her Dudley to be contaminated by such filth.

Vernon Dursley was ecstatic. They had won the war. Well, not exactly, but the war was good as won, in his opinion, and most of the world was in agreement with him. Hitler was dead, the Allies were celebrating, and soon enough, this bloody war would be over.

But that was not why Mr. Dursley was ecstatic. He could care less about Hitler. He was happy because his side had won, and it was all because of his bullets. He had told people that his factory would win the war, and he was right, as he always was. The factory had made good money, and now he could restart production of other things as well, not just bullets, and make even more money.

When he heard the news over the radio, he had given a snort, an I-told-you-so snort. In celebration, he decided to go get a beer from the grocery across the street. He had definitely earned it, in his opinion. When he stepped outside, things seemed no different then they had an hour ago. The sky was still a solid, gray sheet, nothing had changed, and yet everything had. As he walked down the sidewalk, he observed people crowding in the streets in groups, talking animatedly. Excitement showed on their faces, some cried tears of joy.

Get back to work, you lot. Mr. Dursley thought contemptuously as he watched them. The huddles of people weren't what was bothering him, though. Oh, he was willing to bet money that Petunia was on the phone, gossiping with her friends while Dudley screamed in his high chair, he could picture it clearly.

No, what was bothering him was how some of the people were dressed. They didn't wear normal clothes. No, some of these people were wearing odd robes of different colors, and some were even wearing pointed hats.

Mr. Dursley hated people like this. People who weren't normal. Why did they have to go about, disturbing the peace? It was a nuisance. Why couldn't they all be nice and ordinary, like the Dursleys?

As he walked down the sidewalk, head down, he heard bits of conversation from the different groups: "They say it was You-Know-Who-" "It was on the muggle news-" "You-know-who wanted Hitler out of the way, so he could step in, Imperius curse, made him take a Muggle wand, send a curse straight through his brain-" "Did you hear about the Potters? Dreadful. After the Muggle was dead, he went to their house, took out Lily and James, but the baby-"

Mr. Dursley froze. No, it couldn't be them. There was no way. It was someone else, it had to be. And what was all this rubbish about Muggles?

"Little Harry survived! And You-Know-Who, gone!" At these words, Mr. Dursley's heart stopped. Not really, of course, but it very well could have. There was no way...He thought he recalled the Potter's son being named Harry...or was it Henry? Yes, that must be it. Angrily, he turned around and pushed past the silly people, not bothering to say excuse me. He stormed into the factory, into his office, told the secretary, a young blonde with a pinched nose, that he was leaving for the day, and with that drove home.

When he got home, he walked in to see Aunt Petunia vacuuming the living room. The drone of the machine drowned out Dudley's screams. When she saw him, she smiled and turned off the vacuum and started telling her husband all about how Dudley had gone outside in the backyard and pulled the tail of a cat that had wandered too close. Mr. Dursley nodded, hardly hearing a word. He knew he needed to ask, there was no point in putting it off, it was better just to get it over with.

"Um, Petunia, your sister, what was her son's name?"

Instantly the smile faded from his wife's face, and a sneer replaced it. "Harry. Why?" She snapped.

"J-just wondering." he said, dropping the matter promptly.

Petunia didn't say much the rest of the evening, annoyed by the mention of their lousy relatives. She was quiet through dinner, tea, and the evening news, which allowed her husband to listen to the reports about odd owl sightings and fireworks across the country. Come to think of it, he had noticed an owl or two during the day...

"What does it matter? Bloody bird watchers, nothing better to do..." he muttered, shutting off the television and going to his room. Petunia followed a few minutes later, after making sure Dudley was safe and sound in bed. Sighing, he prepared for bed, getting under the covers. His thoughts were full of owls and Hitler and fireworks and odd people in costumes, and as he fell asleep, they were full of nothing at all.

The man appeared suddenly, not there one second, the next he was. His long gray hair glowed in the moonlight, breeze blowing his robes. It was late at night, and the celebrators were long asleep. It was a cold, bitter night, the last of April, and the street was silent, but for the occasional sound of a plane flying over the houses. Street lamps were on, throwing small pools of light, evenly spaced apart, onto the pavement. The man sighed again and yawned, looking at number 4, Privet Drive. The house was dark and quiet, a victory garden in the front yard. The house was neat and plain from the outside, matching its neighbors in almost all ways, not just in looks. Neat, orderly rows of dollhouses, and within these dollhouses lived neat and orderly people. He reached into his pocket, taking out an oblong silver box, which he clicked, and the nearest streetlamp went out. He repeated this process until the street was flooded in darkness.

There was a flash of light, and a stiff looking woman in severe black glasses and long green robes came rushing up to him from a few yards away, where she had just appeared in the dark.

"Dumbledore, Is it true? Are the Potters...? And You-Know-Who...?" She couldn't finish her sentence.

Dumbledore sighed. "Yes, James and Lily are gone. As for Voldemort, I don't think so."

The woman flinched, and Dumbledore smiled. "Minerva, you must not be scared of a name."

She shook her head. "But Dumbledore, he's gone, and Harry, he's alive! How is it possible?"

"I can't pretend to have an answer, my dear woman. "

Just then, the roar of a motorbike broke the still quiet night, and a giant man appeared in the sky, holding a small bundle. He drove the bike to the street and hopped off.

"Here is he, sir. Safe and sound." he said, holding the little bundle out to Dumbledore, who took it gently and looked at the child within.The little boy did not cry. Wrapped in blankets and sleeping soundly, he was completely unaware of the horrific tragedy that had just taken place around him. Newly orphaned Harry's dreams were untroubled and calm, a blessing for the baby. In the old man's arms, he sighed softly in his sleep, eyes closed. Against his pale forehead, a fresh red cut burned, an angry red swastika carved into his soft white skin. And yet, the baby slept.

"Hagrid, wherever did you get that thing?" Minerva asked.

"Oh, the bike?" the big man replied. "Young Sirius lent it to me."

Dumbledore sighed and took out a letter from one of his numerous pockets, tucking it into the blanket. "This will explain the situation to his aunt and uncle."

"Sir, is he seriously going to live here, with these Muggles? He's a hero, a celebrity!" Minerva said indignantly.

Dumbledore nodded. "Precisely. Let him grow up, away from all that."

Hagrid walked over, tears staining his cheeks, and gave baby Harry a kiss, rough from the huge bushy beard he sported.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Do not worry, Hagrid, you will see him again. When the time comes." And with these words, he set young Harry on the step of his aunt and uncle's house, number four, Privet Drive. The baby slept on, peaceful, unaware that he was a celebrity, that he was a hero, that he was an orphan, that across the country, people were saying his name, toasting to Harry Potter, the boy who lived.

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© 2018 AntiJill

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Jacob Clifford

Such a creative mind you have! I'm very much a fan of the Potterverse, and so this piece caught my eye. I very much enjoy your voice, which seems like Rowlings but with a different bit of spice. The little twists you put on the story--such as Vernon working at making bullets, Hitler being mentioned--make your version just different enough to be fresh and enjoyable without becoming something else entirely. This is a very ambitious project, and I wish you luck with it.