Chapter Text
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were the most normal people they knew. They lived in a stereotypical suburban neighborhood with a stereotypical suburban name. Their favorite pastime, aside from watching TV (and the neighbors) was to research statistics to make sure they were within one standard deviation of the mean for everything. Luckily, being married and having one kid was extremely normal, so they were happy.
Mr. Dursley ran a drill company called Grunnings, which was very normal and did not break any laws. In order to be a normal company, he made sure to pay his workers a shitty, barely livable wage.
Also, he was fat. Like, really fat. He justified this in his mind because of the rising rates of obesity. Mr. Dursley had an extremely average mustache, and no neck. This made it very hard for him to turn his head. He was pretty sure it was a mutation or something, and he would have gotten surgery to fix it, except the doctors weren’t really sure how .
Mrs. Dursley looked like the opposite, which was good, because opposites attract. She had double the length of a normal neck, which sort of looked like a giraffe’s. This had come to pass via Lamarckian evolution because she spent so much of her time trying to spy on her neighbors.
In a normal way, of course. She wasn’t a stalker.
They had a son who had inherited Mr. Dursley’s neck disease. Dudley was, in their opinion, perfect in every way, except not too perfect because they still had an image to uphold of being average.
Unfortunately, the Dursleys also had a secret, which wasn’t really a secret at all actually because a lot of people knew about it. Mrs. Dursley’s sister, Lily Potter, was the worst person ever. She was so… not normal . Last time they’d visited, Mrs. Dursley had pulled a gun on her (it was totally perfectly legal, too).
Also, her husband sucked too. And their kid.
That morning, it was a cloudy day out, with a high of 13 degrees Celsius and a low of 6. It was drizzling, but everyone was used to this because this was Britain. Mr. Dursley grabbed his most average tie, which was to say a random one, because all of his ties were the same shade of grayish-blue. Mrs. Dursley was awake too, and trying to feed Dudley. It wasn’t going so well because she was distracted with gossiping on the phone.
“Honey, the average person doesn’t use the phone while feeding their child,” Mr. Dursley said as he walked down the stairs.
“Actually, usage rates of telephones are going up, so this is perfectly average.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I’m off to work. Love you. Bye Dudley.”
They didn’t notice the extremely obvious owl flying by their house because owls are native to Britain. Also because who even cares about that.
When he pulled out of the driveway, Mr. Dursley, not keeping his eyes on the road (which he did every once in a while so that he could be only an average driver), noticed a cat reading a map. He looked away, then glanced back in surprise. The cat was still there, but not reading. Well, it hadn’t been reading anyway, because cats don’t read. But he kept watching it in his mirror.
Because he was so focused on this cat (who totally wasn’t a human in disguise because that would be silly), he didn’t notice when another car crashed into him. A man came out of the other one.
“You crashed into me!” the man said.
“No, you crashed into me .” Dursley said. The other man just looked at him in shock.
“I saw you staring at that stupid cat.” Mr. Dursley suddenly remembered why his wife had begun to gossip more- the neighbors were just as bad. “Mate, I don’t want to take you to court, but we are going to have to sort this out,” the man continued.
They got on the phone with their insurance companies, which is so boring, that the narration is going to skip ahead a bit. Mr. Dursley managed to blame the crash on the other man, though, using his powers of bullying.
He grabbed their other car (the average amount of cars per household was approximately 2) and headed to work. Mr. Dursley apparently hadn’t learned his lesson of keeping his eyes on the road, because the whole way to work he kept staring at a bunch of people in cloaks. Cloaks were not an average article of clothing, so he automatically hated it. They were all whispering so loudly, it could hardly be called whispering. Unfortunately, he couldn’t blame the weird clothes on those darn kids because some of them were older than him. Maybe they were a cult?
Mr. Dursley worked for a while, his back away from the window because he didn’t believe in touching grass. Maybe if he had, he’d see a bunch of owls flying around. He was pleased when he found that there were no mice in the basement, though.
His day consisted of mostly yelling at people. He had learned how to effectively yell at people and really make them feel worthless from his time at Villains University™. He had a double major in bullying and business, which really opened up a lot of doors for him later in life.
During lunch, he decided to get a pastry, because he was really fucking fat . This is an important plot point that must be repeated.
Anyway, there were a bunch of cultists there too. He glared at them, which was another skill he’d learned while getting his degree. His teacher had been a world class glarer. He decided to eavesdrop for… some reason.
“Did you hear? The Potters! And their son Harry!”
Dursley suddenly got irrationally terrified, which was unusual, because he never did anything irrationally. Irrational wasn’t normal. This created a feedback loop of fear. He dropped his pastry and ran back to his office, where he could reflect on this. The thing was, his, ugh, nephew had the same name. Probably. Actually, he had no idea. Harry was a really common name. So common, in fact, they’d considered it for Dudley’s name. He figured he wouldn’t bother telling his wife about this because she got really mad at any mention of Lily Potter. He totally understood; if she’d been his sister, he would have actually pulled the trigger of that gun.
Dursley left for home at a reasonable and very average 5:00 PM. He still hadn’t learned to watch where he was going, so he was startled when he bumped into another man. And he was wearing a cloak! Oh hell no.
“Uh. Sorry. Actually, wait. Not sorry. You were in my way.” The cloaked guy didn’t seem to care. He just smiled obnoxiously.
“You should celebrate, Muggle! You-Know-Who is gone! Dead!” Then he started laughing and hugged him . What the fuck!
Dursley kicked him in the stomach and ran the rest of the way to his car (which was hard because he was super fat. Remember?). He was planning to sue this man for assault, when he realized he didn’t know the cloak guy’s name and he wasn’t about to go back and get it.
He got home at 5:42 PM, which was a fairly average time. The cat was still there.
“Go away, cat.” The cat rolled its eyes and gave him a glare that his Glaring 101 professor would have been proud of. He shrugged and walked inside.
Mrs. Dursley’s day was boring, which was to say, perfect. Boring days were her favorite kind. Dudley had also learned how to say “won’t”, which made sense because his brattiness was directly proportional to his weight. Suffice to say, he was becoming just as fat as his father.
After putting Dudley to bed, they turned on the evening news, which had a very high viewership, thus they watched it frequently. The weatherman was making jokes about owls or something. Then he was joking about shooting stars. Maybe this news station was overrated, especially considering people with too much time on their hands had phoned in to mention this.
But Mr. Dursley still felt worry in his gut. The cloaks, the owls, stars… it was everything stereotypical of a wizard you could imagine. The thought of stereotypes lifted his spirits a bit, but he still glanced at his wife and said, “Petunia, you haven’t heard from your sister, I assume.”
She scowled. “Of course not. She hasn't talked to us since I pulled a gun on her that one time. And good riddance too. Why would you bring her up? You know I hate her with all of my heart,” she said dramatically.
“Well, there’s all these stereotypical wizard things going on… and I overheard someone mention the name Potter at lunch.” Mrs. Dursley gasped.
“You’re right! This is cliche! Those wizards, invading our lives… how could they!”
“Yeah. But what do we do?” He made sure to say this last part slowly so as to not trigger his wife’s fear of questions.
Mrs. Dursley shrugged. “Get drunk and curse them out?”
And so they did.
They spent so much time drinking and cursing out the wizards that they fell asleep, confident that this would pass and not affect them in any way.
Meanwhile, the cat who was totally not a person, watched a man appear. He did so with a crack that was quickly retconned to be an almost silent pop. The man was the epitome of stereotypical wizard- tall, thin, white beard, blue robes with glowing yellow stars and moons. He was wearing glasses that were specifically half-moon shaped (he had presbyopia) and his blue eyes glowed.
This guy was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Capra Hircus Aquilarios Mirabile Magus Dumbledore. He looked at the cat and nodded.
“Good to see you, Professor McGonagall,” the old goat said. It must be mentioned that he was quite literally half goat; he had long horns on his head and his hair covered his furry ears. His eyes had horizontal pupils, too.
The cat who was totally not a person turned into a person and watched him as he manipulatively pulled out a device he had cleverly named the Put-Outer. Actually, it was a good thing Dumbledore hadn’t founded Hogwarts. He probably would have named it ‘Wizard Boarding School’ or something. Dumbledore clicked the Put-Outer and disobeyed the laws of physics by taking the lights out in the streets. He was aware that the inhabitants of Privet Drive were still watching, but this would give them dramatic and mysterious lighting.
“I’m surprised you knew it was me.” McGonagall said.
“You’re the only cat animagus I know. Also, your markings look like your glasses.” McGonagall’s jaw dropped. This was the first time she had realized this!
They walked down to 4 Privet Drive, where the Dursleys were passed out drunk.
“Did you see the celebrations?” Dumbledore asked her evilly.
“They’re all celebrating. The Ministry is going to have a field day giving out fines for people breaking the Statute of Secrecy.”
“True, but I understand. These past few years have been dark.” he said craftily.
“Not like it’s going to get any better if we have a war with the Muggles next.”
Dumbledore shrugged. “Want a lemon drop?”
“Sorry?”
“A lemon drop. They’re this Muggle candy I have decided to make into my evil mascot.”
“No.” McGonagall said flatly. “This You-Know-Who business-”
“I am so offended you don’t want a lemon drop. Also, why do you still call him that? I’ve always thought You-Know-Who was a stupid villain name. Mine is better.” McGonagall stared at him.
“You do realize you were the only one You-Kno- ugh, Voldemort was afraid of, yes?” McGonagall said somewhat sycophantically.
“I am humbled.” he said wily.
“But did you hear what they say stopped him? They say he went and killed Lily and James Potter and then couldn’t kill their son Harry!”
Dumbledore looked sad, but also calculating. McGonagall wiped a single stoic tear from her eye.
“No… I didn’t want to believe it! Lily and James were so loved by everyone… But what of their son? How did he survive?”
“We may never know,” Dumbledore said, except he actually knew because he was freakily good at making guesses.
“So why are we here, in this awful Muggle neighborhood?” McGonagall suddenly asked, wondering just why she had wasted her day like this.
“Hagrid is late. He’s bringing Harry here, to his aunt and uncle.”
“What? No! They’re the worst people I’ve seen! The man crashed his car and his wife stalks the neighbors! And they’re fat .”
“This is for the best,” said Dumbledore wisely yet cunningly. “Harry must grow up here for my master plan… uh I mean because he’ll be really famous here and we don’t want him getting a big head. Anyway, I have a letter written for them to explain this.”
“Really, you think a letter is going to help? And wait- why is Hagrid bringing him here? I hardly even trust him with our students!”
“Hagrid is a perfect minion. He does everything I say without being asked. Speak of the devil, do you hear that?” Sure enough, a rumbling noise pierced the air. Hagrid himself fell out of the air riding atop a massive motorcycle. McGonagall’s jaw dropped again.
“I got Harry. An’ Sirius Black gave me this motorcycle before runnin’ off ter go after someone named Pettigrew. O’ course, I don’t know how to ride the motorcycle, but it got us here.” A fly flew into McGonagall’s open mouth. Hagrid handed the bundle of blankets that was Harry Potter to Dumbledore.
“That scar… is that…”
“Yes, he’ll have that scar forever. I could probably get rid of it but I don’t want to because scars can be useful.” That sounded reasonable enough to McGonagall.
Suddenly, Hagrid started screaming and crying. A few curtains rustled along the street.
“Hagrid!” McGonagall narrowly stopped herself from saying “10 points from Gryffindor.”
“It’s jus’ so sad!” he cried. A puddle began to form at his feet. “Lily an’ James are dead .”
“Yes, yes. Don’t you need to return that motorcycle?” McGonagall asked tiredly.
“Oh, righ’. I sure hope nothin’ bad has happened to Sirius while I was gone!” With that, Hagrid somehow managed to start the motorcycle again and flew through the air.
Dumbledore dropped Harry on the doorstep with the letter. “Okay, that’s that,” he said deviously.
“Albus, it’s freezing out! And you’re just going to leave the boy on a step all night?” McGonagall said in outrage. Dumbledore shrugged again.
“He’ll be fine. Let’s go find one of the celebrations and get high.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Dumbledore looked back at Harry one more time. “Bye. See you in 11 years,” he said, and then started cackling insanely and bleating.
Far away, the remains of Voldemort suddenly felt really jealous.
But none of this would matter to Harry, who clutched the letter tightly, shivering. As it turns out, even accidental magic can’t stop hypothermia and Harry immediately died. Maybe Voldemort should have taken a page out of Dumbledore’s book. There was suddenly a flash of light, and Lady Magic, Fate, and Death appeared on the street. Lady Magic was a glowing woman wearing a flowy dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Vegas, Fate was an older woman somehow knitting a shiny thread into a pair of socks while she walked, and Death pulled back a dark hood to reveal purplish skin and a golden glove sparkling with magic stones holding a scythe.
“Get out of here, Death,” Lady Magic said, “I want to revive him.”
“What? No! He’s destined to become the Master of Death! Therefore, I get to do it.”
Fate laughed softly. “Destined, you say? Perhaps this is something for me.” The socks grew steadily longer.
While they squabbled, Harry’s corpse did literally nothing. The three gods turned to him.
“What if… we all revive him?” asked Lady Magic.
“But he’s the future Master of Death ,” Death said petulantly.
“You know what?” Fate interrupted, “If you don’t compromise I’ll just make him Fated to not become Master of Death.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Fate put the socks on Harry’s corpse. “Are you sure?”
“Fine. Let’s just get this over with so I don’t have to see you again.” They put their hands up and began to glow obnoxiously. So much for Dumbledore’s evil and horribly named light device. As they faded into the air, Harry began to stir.
But the magical world had no knowledge of this. All they knew was that somehow, Voldemort had been defeated. Across Britain, perhaps even across the
world
, people were cheering and arguing over who would have the rights to the Harry Potter name. “To Harry Potter,” they hollered, “The boy who will make us money!”