Amanda Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

1. The Boy Who Lived and the Girl Who Didn't

   Arabella Doreen Figg, of number seven, Wisteria Walk, could have picked any neighbor in Little Whinging, to help her take care of the two most important children in her world. She might have chosen the Montgomery couple, her next-door neighbors, who had helped her move in, or perhaps the Chesterfield family, who were genuine and loving; the kind of family who worked in soup kitchens and such. She could have made a list of all the families in Little Whinging, that she entrusted to take a major part in something as important as this, but of course, Albus Dumbledore, a man in whom she had full loyalty, would have none of it. He would be leaving the both of them at the Dursleys, and that was final.

   Normally, Mrs. Figg was not one to argue with Dumbledore, but she considered the Dursleys to be a special case. She had long since known the Dursley family, of number four, Privet Drive, to be conceited, and as unworthy of such an honor of raising these children, as a person could get. Vernon Dursley was a beefy, burly, neckless man with a purple face and a very large mustache. According to Mrs. Figg, he was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a man who yelled a lot, was well-respected, and was so intensely ordinary, that he was dull, but according to Mrs. Figg, that suited him just fine. Petunia Dursley, the wife of Mr. Dursley, was pale, bony, blond and thin-lipped, with horsy-teeth and a very long neck. Mrs. Figg always saw her peering out the window of her living room, or craning her neck over the garden fence, attempting to get a good look at her neighbors. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley's son, Dudley, a toddler with watery blue eyes and tufts of blond hair poking out from the top of his chubby, pink head, was a plump little boy, who was always flailing his arms about, throwing tantrums every time he wanted something from his mother. It was Mrs. Figg's dearest ambition, that Mrs. Dursley would get her nose stuck between the boards of her garden fence, and Dudley would grow a little snout, right where his nose should have been. She had no doubt, that Dudley would grow up to be just as narrowminded, portly, and self-important as his father.

   Mrs. Figg knew very well that the Dursley family would be horrified  if they found these children on their doorstep. They would be furious if they had to raise children such as these; children who were already considered to be a piece of their darkest secret. But Mrs. Figg had the upper hand; she knew their darkest secret, and they did not know she knew. Perhaps this was the reason Albus Dumbledore had given her such a predominant task . . . . . She wasn't much good for anything else . . . . .

   Petunia Dursley was, like her husband, a very boring, ordinary person, who was always gossiping happily about her neighbors and bragging about her little son, as if he were an angel. Little did anyone know in Little Whinging (besides Mrs. Figg of course), that Petunia had a sister; her secret. Her sister was part of a family known as the Potters, who were as abnormal, strange and as unDursleyish as people could possibly be. If the Potters came to the neighborhood, even the large, purple-faced, short-tempered Vernon Dursley would cower in fright. They were better off without the Potters, which was why they never mentioned them within the household, and Dudley would be kept, his whole life, away from the Potter's children, who were the most significant children Mrs. Figg had ever heard of. Children who were worth one thousand Mr. Dursleys. Children who were worth their own holiday because of something they had done . . . . Something she had only heard about in rumors just this morning.

   Mrs. Figg opened up her purple, moth-eaten curtains and positioned her eyes on the Dursley's home. Today was an important day, and she knew it. Out of her love for Dumbledore, she would have to overcome her hate for the Dursley family and invite herself to tea with the vile Mrs. Dursley. It was all part of Dumbledore's plan of course. He would be coming over to Little Whinging that night to explain everything to Mrs. Figg, and leave a certain someone on the Dursleys' doorstep.

   Our story starts on a dull, gray Tuesday, when Mrs. Figg had opened her curtains to see Mr. Dursley leaving his house at half past eight, briefcase in hand, as he pulled out of the driveway in his car. Neither one of the Dursley couple, had seen the tawny owl fly past the window where a screaming Dudley was seated in his highchair. Mrs. Figg watched Mr. Dursley turn down at the corner of the street, stopping to stare, beadily, at a tabby cat, who appeared to be reading a map on the side of the road.