The Boy Who Lived

The Muggle Courts

Mrs Petunia Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, was proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much. She was the last person you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious or untoward or gossip-worthy, because she just didn't hold with such nonsense. Though, of course, what goes on behind closed doors can sometimes be very different from appearances.

Only, she knew the neighbours knew that too...

And she knew the neighbours knew about her and Vernon.

They had been curious about her, well, more curious than normal, ever since the house had been shut up for a year when she and her son went into hiding. Her nephew, even at sixteen, had insisted they were protected by what he called the Order of the Phoenix. Dudley, well, he'd insisted too. Said he trusted Harry and therefore trusted these people.

They had been taken to a lovely little quaint village in the West Country, as she understood it, though no one had actually said where they were exactly and she didn't like to ask. Gosforth's Hallow, she thought, or something like that. It was never actually confirmed. They lived under a false name and she had begun to build a quiet life for herself and Dudley where she tended her garden and learned to love cooking again and, on Sundays, she went to the little church called St Jerome's. And she met a few neighbours and took tea with them. She knew they were being guarded, their movements watched, but it was kept discreet and, for a while, life felt good. She suspected there were a considerable number of wizards and witches who lived in the village but she never questioned it. She also heard, in the bakery around Christmas time, excited gossiping that Harry Potter has passed that way briefly. Again, she kept her mouth shut. She understood that there were somethings she couldn't mention.

When she returned to Privet Drive, the neighbours assumed they'd been taken to a safehouse because of Vernon, especially after he'd been arrested for being drunk and disorderly and punching a policewoman. It had made it into the papers. She didn't correct the assumptions but he'd long since gone by then, for good. He'd left after Harry had said something to him which had scared Vernon somehow, she didn't know what but she'd always be grateful that he'd had the strength to do what she could not. Maybe Vernon might have wheedled back in their lives again; he tried but Dudley had stepped up too and wouldn't let him in the house. A restraining order was put in place.

It was after Vernon's arrest that the neighbours had really become fascinated in her every movement. She wondered, again, about moving away. She just didn't know where she would start afresh, though she often thought about the little village they'd been taken to. It was there, in that quaint little village, that Dudley had met Ronica Lewis so at least she'd know Aduke and Brianne, as well as those at the church.

For the moment, she persevered the gossip in Privet Drive and held her head high. More so after Vernon was prosecuted for historical abuse. Dudley had contacted Harry. She didn't know how because Harry always kept that side of his life so very separate from them. Dudley didn't say how he managed it. But after Vernon's arrest the two boys met up and decided it was time that full justice was sought. They got legal advice, though Petunia wondered if Harry had got someone bigwig from his Ministry lot involved. It seemed that the boy was big news these days, in his world.

However, currently, he had stood in the normal courtroom in a very normal but smart navy suit, facing Vernon as he was questioned by Petunia's solicitor and, on occasion, the judge.

Harry scrubbed a hand through his permanently scruffy hair and Petunia thought that he should, at least, have worn a tie.

'I was taken to stay with my aunt and her family after my parents died. Petunia is my mother's sister,' he said and Petunia hung her head in shame at the memories of her own behaviour back then. 'I can't tell you much about that period because, by the time I was seventeen months old, I was rehomed and brought up in Scotland by my great-aunt on my father's side, Minerva McGonagall. She's also my Godmother. You would have to ask her about those two months, though I understand I was neglected. My bedroom was the cupboard under the stairs and when I went to Minnie, I had two broken ribs and my torso was covered in bruises...'