Magic's Child

The Dursely's

Once upon a time, in the small neighborhood in Surrey called Little Whining there lived a family. That family lived in the house Number Four Privet Drive, and they were called the Dursley's.

Mr. Vernon Dursley was a large, very walrus like man, with an angry disposition. He wasn't particularly well liked at his job down at Grunnings, but who didn't make a few enemies in the lucrative business is sales? It wasn't his fault they were all a bunch of blathering idiots! Vernon Dursley cared for no one and nothing, except for perhaps his wife, son, sister, and food of course.

Mrs. Petunia Dursley was a horse faced women, thin as a twig (much unlike her husband), and had a perpetual need of perfection. Whether that be in the state of her garden, or what her neighbors thought of her, or what that her perfect little Duddykins had every one of his perfect little needs taken care of. Perfectly. Was it wrong for her to dote on her little boy? Of course not! A mother had to do whatever it took to keep her perfect little angel happy.

Dudley Dursely was a spoiled, arrogant, fat little boy with little care for others. Even at the tender age of seven years old, he ruled his small group of primary school friends with fear and intimidation. Dudley Dursely knew what he wanted, and he got it, no matter those petty little things called consequences tried to rear their ugly heads or not. And Dudley Dursley liked it that way.

So yes, many thought that they were horrid, not that they ever said it to their faces, mean, but no one would ever dare confront them, and not the most exemplary example of the human race, but they were normal. That was one thing the Dursley's always had claim to. Normalcy.

But everyone knows that every white picket fence holds back a secret, and that every picturesque scene has a flaw.

The Dursley's flaw came in the form of a malnourished, meek, thoroughly abused not of six years old, hiding in the tiny little depths of his cupboard under Number Four Privet Drives staircase. His name Harry Potter.

Hidden away. Away from prying eyes, judgmental stares, and the potential tarnish of a pristine reputation. And the Dursley's had every intention of keeping it that way.

"BOY!" shouted the large, and somewhat grotesque form of Vernon Dursley. Young Harry opened his cupboard door and poked his head out.

"Yes Uncle Vernon," the boy replied, as meek and quiet as one could possibly be.

"I thought I told you to have dinner done, and the table set for six by the time I got home freak! We have important guests coming, and I don't want some stupid freak mucking it up!"

Mr. Dursley of course had told the boy no such thing. Though he had tried to make dinner, his aunt had taken upon herself to put him in his cupboard because he had breathed his freakishness on her laundry, and contaminated it.

How that worked, Harry would never know.

But despite the lack of fault in Harry, he knew better than to point this out to his uncle. It would only result in a beating, and Harry had yet to fully recover from the last one.

"I'm sorry Uncle Vernon. I'll make dinner now Uncle Vernon," the young boy mumbled, keeping his head down, the respectful thing to do. At least most of the time. Sometimes Uncle Vernon wanted him to look him the eyes, but then the next day yell because Harry did not deserve to look at him with his freakish eyes. In Harry's opinion it was it was just another of his uncle's excuse to hit him.

Harry was correct in his assumptions.

But this time his uncle, obviously distracted by something, let him be, and Harry headed off to the kitchen to make the dinner for six.