Twin Scars

Mr and Mrs Dursley, number four, Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
Well as normal as you could be these days, but even then they knew themselves to be even more normal than the average normal person you'd see on the normal street doing normal things.

And they tended to overcompensate, not for any particular reason; they were as normal as can be be don't forget.

They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Or with any kind of out of the ordinary nonsense. No they just didn't hold to anything other than normal.

Which is exactly why it was the perfect place to hide the boy who lived. And his twin.

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The Dursleys couldn't bear the thought of someone finding out about the Potters.

You see, they were not normal.

They were anything but. They were out of the ordinary, peculiar and frankly rather strange.
Not that anyone knew that of course, the Dursleys kept that well under wraps.

Mrs Potter was Mrs Dursleys sister but they had not met in many years.
It was Mrs Dursley's belief that it was "best that way".

In fact they did not so much as write or wish each other congratulations on special occasions.

Which would not come as much a surprise to anyone who knew the Dursley family.
They did not do special occasions, unless of course, their son was involved.

It is also worth to know that many people thought Mrs Dursleys was an only child, for that is what she liked to pretend anyway.
It was easier that way, pretending not to have the not so normal sister, you know, the peculiar one.

It didn't go down well at parties.


But the Potters had their own children, two tiny babes with jet black hair, like their not so normal father.
These children didn't look as though they'd turn out so good - another reason to keep them away - the Dursleys certainly didn't want their son mixing with that sort.

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But really, it's best to start nearer the beginning.
It's all well and good me telling you how normal the Dursleys were, but we'd all really rather be shown.


And so, from the beginning.

And I'll let you decide just how normal the Dursleys were.

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Outside on a dull, grey Tuesday, there was nothing remotely out of the ordinary to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening.

Nothing at all to suggest that the day ahead would be anything but your average, rather normal, Tuesday.


It was a typical day for the Dursleys. Mr Dursley picked out his gravest tie for work, performing a brisk winchester knot as Mrs Dursley gossiped to a screaming Dudley over a bowl of baby food, most of which was ending up on the floor.

None of them noticed - why would they - the large tawny owl which flew past their window.

Or the barn owl that followed moments later.


And neither of the rather experienced normal adults noticed the crisp, uncanny air the world had woken up with.
Only the babe quietened as a breeze wafted through the window, slightly smokey, slightly electric and something a little more too.

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It was really only until he reached the corner of the street that Mr Dursley began to notice the strange occurrences.

A cat reading a map.
Mr Dursley could not believe what he saw, even as he jerked his head around to look again, peering in the rear view mirror of his car as he attempted to make his way down the drive.

There certainly was a cat.
But not a map.

It must have been the light he thought as the cat stared back.

Mr Dursley drove away but watched the cat in his mirror.

Unlike a normal person, Mr Dursley had no regard for road safety that dull Tuesday morning as he watched a cat read the sign which said 'Privet Drive'.

No, looking.
Cats did not read. Be that maps or signs.

Any rational person knew that.

Mr Dursley shook himself and put all thoughts of cats, and maps, out of his mind. 

☆ ☆ ☆

Mr Dursley drove through town in his shiny grey Ford, which matched his boring, matt grey tie.

Having put all thoughts of cats, and maps, out of his mind, he was determined to focus on his work in the office and his new project

The very project that guaranteed him a promotion, the very promotion he'd been waiting 20 years at that company for - and the large sum of money that would come his way in the form of a glossy new cheque.


He did, however, notice that there seemed to be a lot of people dressed strangely, extravagantly for want of a more appropriate word.

People in cloaks to be specific.

Bright colours and gold stitching.

Some, had pointed hats on.


Mr Dursley couldn't stand people dressed strangely.

It bothered him that people couldn't find suitable daywear to go out in.

It bothered him that people seemed determined not to put any effort into their outfit of choice, despite having to suffer through a 9 to 5 wearing it.

It bothered him that it didn't bother them.

He'd seen, on numerous occasions, people turn up to work in their pyjamas.

These sorts of things never would have happened twenty years ago.

It irritated him that people went out in whatever they pleased, the brightest, strangest items of clothing as some sort of "self-expression".


It became increasingly infuriating to him as he drove down the street on that dull, grey Tuesday morning surrounded by colour.

Did they have no care for the other poor citizens who had to suffer this expression of self and how they felt about the crazed way of dressing?

It must be some new kind of fashion he concluded, quite ticked off, as he drove on, attempting to ignore the strangers and the cat, who had both frustrated him enough already that gloomy nine o'clock Tuesday morning.

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Mr Dursley always sat with his back to the window in the office.

He found facing it distracted him.
That morning, he would have certainly found himself distracted by the sight of owls swooping back and forth in broad daylight.

But as I have said before, he did not face the window on that dull, grey Tuesday. 

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As Mr Dursley walked back to his car he glared angrily at the people in cloaks and also at the people in colour and the people in pointed hats.

They made him feel uneasy.

He was on his way past a small group of them, gathered on the pavement as though they were some form of extravagant cult.

He was walking extremely quickly so as not to look at them any longer than he needed, when he caught a few words of their conversation;

'The Potters, yes that's right, that's what I heard -'

'- Yes their son, Harry -'


Mr Dursley stopped dead.

Fear flooded him and his face turned as white as a fresh piece of paper, or, for want of a better comparison would be to that of the snowy owl which just flew overhead.

He looked back at the whisperers, considered saying something and thought better of it.

And so, as a result of this subconscious decision chose to rather consciously stand gaping like a fish.


Reality hit rather suddenly and Mr Dursley dashed across the road, back to his office, seized his telephone and almost finished dialling the home number - but again, he thought better of it and slowly put the receiver down.

☆ ☆ ☆

As Mr Dursley locked his office for the day, he contemplated the strangeness of the days events.

They were not as normal as he liked life to be, especially not normal enough for a dull grey Tuesday.

Storm clouds swelled and threatened to burst but Mr Dursley was lost in thought as he paced swiftly to his car.

Rather awkwardly, he walked straight into one of the cloaked strangers.

'Sorry,' he grunted, as the tiny man in a violet cloak and brass clasp stumbled and fell.

'Don't be sorry,' the man replied, 'rejoice because You-Know-Who is gone! Even Muggles like you should be celebrating!'

And the old man hugged Mr Dursley around the waist and walked off.

Definitely not normal enough for Mr Dursley.