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“Good luck, Harry Potter.”
With those parting words, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore – one of the most powerful wizards of the twentieth century – left the saviour of the Wizarding World on the nondescript porch of a cookie-cutter house on Privet Drive.
The boy in question didn’t stir, exhausted from a combination of trauma and a sleeping spell cast by Dumbledore. The Boy-Who-Lived shivered under his thin, cotton blanket, dead to the world. The wind picked up suddenly. A letter which would have condemned him to a miserable childhood in an abusive home fluttered out of the basket Harry rested in, skidding along the asphalt until it reached the sidewalk.
It was after midnight, almost seven hours before the sun would rise, but Harry would not live long enough to see it.
After an hour, ominous clouds gathered in the sky, growing darker by the minute. With a loud crash of thunder, they released their burden, dousing the street in a hail of chilly rainfall. As the temperature plummeted, the water soon froze, turning the streets into an icy danger zone.
Alone in his basket, Harry Potter grew colder, his infant body unable to hold onto the heat he so desperately needed as the wind and rain combined to soak his blanket and clothing.
The letter grew damp, skidding along into the streets until the rising waters carried it down a storm drain.
Soon the storm began to quiet, but the temperature finally dropped below zero. Snowflakes fell for a while, covering the ice and disguising the night as peaceful once more.
By this time, nearly four hours after he had been abandoned on the front porch of his estranged aunt’s home, Harry Potter’s tiny body began to shut down.
Mercifully, he was still unconscious, dreaming of his mother’s soft voice and warm arms. This was truly the only thing he desired.
In Scotland, the old Headmaster stroked his beard as he nodded off in his office chair, thinking of the fate that awaited the innocent child. Harry’s protection was more important than his happiness, and – a horrible part of Dumbledore thought – it would be easier to convince Harry to sacrifice himself if he grew up never understanding his true value.
In the basement of the castle he resided in, a sallow-faced man drained another glass of firewhisky, and wept over a picture of his old friend. His stomach twisted in hatred as he watched young Harry laughing in her arms, looking so much like his wretched father that it was almost impossible to bear. He had vowed to protect the child, but he would always hate him.
Far away from them, another being thought of the child, but his thoughts were those of a madman. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named snarled to himself as he drifted through an endless forest. The humiliation of being defeated by a child was infuriating. Once he returned to full strength, he would find the boy and make him suffer for this!
Back on the porch, little Harry breathed his last breath. A fragment of a twisted soul screeched as it was wrenched out of the infant’s forehead and dissipated just above him. Harry’s own soul left much more peacefully. It rose up into the sky, past the parting clouds, seeking out something familiar to cling to.
It found them soon enough. A red-haired woman with tears in her eyes held out her arms for him, a man with dark, messy hair and brown eyes smiled sadly, reaching out to stroke the baby’s cheek. They embraced, feeling warm and safe, and if only for a moment, they were happy.
~~~
Two hours later, Petunia Dursley – the woman Harry Potter was forced to live with in another life – awoke from a restless slumber. Her husband, Vernon, snored loudly as she crept out of bed to start breakfast. The weather outside was still dreadful, and she shivered in her nightgown, reaching for a housecoat to keep her warm.
Petunia put the kettle on, busying herself by gathering the materials she needed to start breakfast while she waited for the water to boil, then poured herself a cup of tea, and left to see if the newspaper had arrived yet. She pulled the door open…
…The teacup dropped from her hand, shattering on the wooden floor, and she let out a shriek that pierced the empty streets.
This time, there was no letter to inform her of the infant’s origins. Petunia had not spoken to her sister in person in over two years. She had never even laid eyes on little Harry.
The fact that the child was clearly dead was what made her scream in terror. Her face went white, and she swayed on her feet. The only thing that stopped her from collapsing was the sound of her husband bounding down the stairs.
“What’s wrong, Pet?” Vernon asked, clearly concerned, if a bit grumpy since he’d been awoken so rudely.
Petunia could do nothing but point at the basket on her porch, and even Vernon turned a bit green at the sight.
“What–?” He swallowed. For a horrifying moment, he could picture his young son’s face peeking up at him from the basket.
“I just found it – him. What kind of person would…?”
They looked at each other, searching for answers, until a loud shrieking erupted from upstairs.
Petunia rushed up, taking two stairs at a time, but sighed in relief when she saw her baby boy standing up in his crib, clearly ready to start the day. She picked him up, shushing him as he howled with hunger.
She took him downstairs – taking care to block his view of the front door – and heard Vernon talking to someone on the phone in the living room.
“I don’t know who it is! He appeared on the porch this morning. He looks like he’s been there all night…Yes, I brought him inside!” There was another pause. “Right, an ambulance, and the police! Somebody should go to prison for this!”
Petunia avoided the room, not wanting to see the dead child again, and walked into the kitchen to make Dudley’s breakfast. She strapped him into his highchair and set a pudding cup in front of him, then lost herself in preparing some blueberry pancakes.
There was a knock on the door just as the pancakes finished. Petunia set a plate in front of Dudley, slathering them with maple syrup as she eavesdropped.
“He’s in the living room. I couldn’t just leave him out there.”
There was rush of feet tramping into the house, and she frowned at the thought of how much snow and dirt they must be leaving on her nice, clean carpet. Dudley shrieked as she hurriedly cut up the pancakes into bite-sized bits for him.
“Alright, Diddy-kins, here you go.” She placed the plate on his tray and the baby quickly began stuffing the pancakes into his mouth with his grubby fingers. She smiled faintly at him, feeling uncharacteristically pensive. She didn’t even mind the mess he was making. At least he was still alive.
Vernon marched into the kitchen, looking thunderous. “Warm and dead. Can you believe that, Pet? They said the baby won’t be declared dead until he’s warm and dead.”
Petunia frowned. “So there’s still a chance he may wake up?” She found herself strangely hopeful that that was the case.
Vernon shook his head. “It might be best if he doesn’t. The paramedics were whispering about brain damage and amputation. His fingers are frozen solid. Even if he lives, they’ll have to be removed.”
“That’s awful!” she replied, grimacing at the thought. “Who would do this to a baby?”
“Who bloody knows?” he responded.
Petunia quickly clapped her hands over Dudley’s ears, causing the little boy to emit another howl.
“Not in front of the baby!” she hissed, removing her hands and offering her son another pancake as an apology.
Vernon flushed, but didn’t argue. He collapsed into a chair and rubbed his eyes. “They’ll be sending someone from the Yard to question us.”
Part of her wanted to balk at that, but she felt a twinge of glee at the thought of being interviewed. Maybe she’d be in the papers – the darling housewife who did everything she could to save a precious child’s life after he was so cruelly abandoned. She liked the sound of that.
Maybe she was being callous, but it wasn’t like she knew who the baby was. Sure, it would be awful if he died, but it wouldn’t affect her life.
An awful smell invaded her nostrils and she grimaced again, lifting Dudley out of his highchair to change his nappy before the investigator arrived.
~~~
In the end, nothing came of the investigation. The anonymous child was buried in a nearby cemetery with the help of the community’s donations. His headstone was left mostly blank, leaving room for the child’s name if he was ever identified. The Dursleys donated a full two-hundred pounds, and Petunia made sure to tell every last one of her neighbours about it. The money wasn’t hard to come by, as Vernon had received a bonus at work after word got out that he’d been the one to call an ambulance for the poor child. By the end of November, he was looking forward to a raise and possibly a promotion.
And then they arrived.
Petunia was alone with Dudley when the doorbell rang. She quickly checked her reflection in the mirror pinned to the refrigerator. Their last visitor had come to interview her for the Surrey Advertiser. Her hair had looked terrible in the photograph and she had vowed never to let such a thing happen again.
She put on her best somber/hopeful expression as she strode down the hall. Petunia made sure to check in with the local police station to see if they had any information about the baby boy. So far, there was no record that the child even existed.
It seemed obvious to her that his parents were addicts or drunkards. They’d probably left their son on her porch and then gone off to get their fix at some party. Maybe they were dead. She certainly hoped so. They would deserve it for leaving their child alone like that.
The doorbell rang again, and Petunia called out, “Just a moment!” She pulled the door open, readying herself for another interview, when she saw just who was standing on her porch.
“You!” she hissed, glancing behind the elderly man with his twinkling eyes and ridiculous, magenta suit. Luckily she didn’t spy any of the usual gazes from her neighbours' homes.
“Good morning, Petunia. May we come in?” Albus Dumbledore asked, twinkling merrily at her.
She scowled, glancing between him and the stern-face woman she vaguely recognized as one of Lily’s teachers – McGee? McGuire? – to his left. “I suppose.” She pulled the door open and ushered them inside as quickly as possible. For once, she hoped no one would drop by to interview her, at least until after she’d gotten rid of these two.
Petunia offered them a seat in the living room while she hurriedly put Dudley down for his nap. She didn’t want her son in the same room as these freaks. The boy whined so pitifully that it broke her heart, so she set down a toy for him to play with, and rushed back downstairs. She hoped to get whatever this was over with so they would leave.
Her stomach clenched as she recalled the last letter Lily sent her, saying that her family was in danger and she would be going into hiding. That was over a year ago, and what a blissful year it was. Petunia could almost imagine she didn’t have a sister.
Perhaps whatever trouble Lily had gotten herself into was over now, or maybe she’d sent these two to give Petunia a message.
Her lips tightened as she thought of another reason why they would be here, but she shook her head. Dumbledore was far too jovial to be here to inform her of her sister’s death. Besides, Lily was too clever to get herself killed in some silly little magic war.
She returned to the living room in time to see Dumbledore using his wand to pour himself a cup of tea from her kettle. Honestly, if he’d waited five minutes, she would have offered him some. Petunia Dursley was a good host, if nothing else. And did they have to shove their abilities into her face at every opportunity? Bad enough when it was just Lily and that horrible boy.
“Would you like some milk or sugar?” she asked stiffly, forcing herself not to snarl at the blatant display of magic under her roof.
“I would indeed. Thank you, Petunia,” Dumbledore responded, flicking his wand. A milk jug and her sugar bowl flew out of the kitchen and he poured what he needed into his teacup with a flourish before returning them to their previous positions.
Petunia withheld another snarl and seated herself across from the two magical people, folding her hands over her crossed legs as she fought to maintain her composure. “So, what exactly are you here for, Mr. Dumbledore?
Dumbledore merely twinkled at her, unfazed by the hostility in her tone. “Professor McGonagall and I had some concerns about young Harry’s living conditions. I know these are trying circumstances, but we had hoped by now that the wards would have settled around your house. It surprises me that they have not.” He paused, glancing about the house as if looking for someone. “Where is young Harry, by the way?”
Petunia felt like she’d been dumped into a tub full of ice water as her mind made the connection. “Harry?” she squeaked, her eyes widening. “The baby on my porch? That was Lily’s son?”
Dumbledore paused. “Of course it was, Petunia. Didn’t you read my letter?”
“What letter?” she asked vaguely, feeling ill. She suddenly knew, beyond all reasonable doubt, that her sister was dead, that these old fools had left her infant nephew out in the cold, and that neither of them knew what they had done.
Dear god, she’d attended her nephew’s funeral and she hadn’t even realized it! Sure, she’d only gone for appearance’s sake, but it was nice to know that even complete strangers cared about what she’d been through. The other attendants had been so eager to hear her tale about how she’d discovered the child.
Dumbledore was frowning. “I suppose it may have blown away in the wind. Where is Harry, then? Did you take him in? It is very important that he remain with you until he is of age.”
Petunia blinked. “Haven’t you read the papers? I’ve been in so many, telling my story,” she said blankly, still in shock. “I found him that morning, after the storm. By that time he was already…he was already…” She stopped.
“I don’t understand,” McGonagall interjected, her eyes showing that she was starting to. “Where is Harry?”
Petunia just looked at her. “He didn’t survive the night.”
McGonagall’s mouth dropped open in horror, while Dumbledore’s turned down into a frown. “There must be some mistake,” he said.
“The only mistake was when you two idiots left an infant outside all night instead of having the decency to knock,” Petunia replied icily.
She didn’t care about Lily – she wouldn’t – her sister had made her choice, but Harry was only a baby. He didn’t deserve to die like that.
“How could this have happened?” Dumbledore breathed, horrified.
Petunia tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him. “Maybe you should have checked the weather forecast before dumping him on my porch that night; there had been warnings about a snowstorm all week. What am I thinking? Your kind probably doesn’t even know how to switch on a television. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to leave.” She stood up and marched to the door, holding it open.
The two magical people reluctantly left, too shocked to protest.
She slammed the door behind them, locking it, even though she knew it wouldn’t do any good. The thought of barricading it crossed her mind, but in the end, she simply sunk down to the floor, her back against it.
She’d call the police station in a few minutes – tell them that some old friends of her sister had dropped by. She’d tell them they’d admitted to leaving her nephew outside with the intent that she’d take him in. She would explain that she’d lost all contact with her sister after she fell in with some disreputable people. She would return to Harry’s grave and pay for it to be properly marked.
How much could she tell the police about Lily? Would they understand? She knew some normal people were aware of the magical world, but she had never bothered to learn who they were. It never seemed important.
She put her face in her hands. Petunia Dursley wouldn’t mourn for a freak, but she could mourn for a child who never grew up.