Chapter 8
*Harry Potter and KHR Fusion. Like magic doesn’t exist, but KHR does and everything is transferred over to there. You’ll see*
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, if you asked them, would say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Fortunately for everyone's sanity, not many people ask that question, and the people around Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are too high strung to say something like that to their faces.
They were the last people you’d think to believe in nonsense such as magic or ‘soul-fire’, truthfully. They were christian, so it’s possible they may think it exists, even if only to use it as an excuse to hate halloween. They, apparently, didn’t like the fact that Mrs. Number Five’s teenagers smashed pumpkins on their front step, and had sworn off the holiday ever since.
Mr. Dursley worked at a drill company of all things. Who even bought drills from an independent firm, instead of going to B&Q or Homebase? He was a larger man, with a double chin so huge you could barely see his neck. He really should lose weight, he’s going to have a heart attack one of these days.
Mrs. Dursley was a stay at home mother. She cooked and cleaned and tended to the baby, and truly seemed to enjoy it. There weren’t many women that didn’t work, nowadays. Especially in their tax bracket. She was blonde and quite pretty, but worryingly thin. As if she hadn’t eaten in too long. It led to worried neighbors, wondering if there was something amiss in the seemingly picture perfect Dursley household. There wasn’t, not like they were thinking at least, but bored 9-5’rs needed some entertainment, even if it was as far-fetched as wondering if Mr. Durlsey didn’t let his wife eat.
The Dursleys were living in dreamland, apparently unaware of all the chatter on the block. They had a secret, though. One they couldn’t bear to let get out, even if nobody would believe them. They guarded it like anyone would guard their skeletons in the closet; ferociously, as if it was something needing hiding.
They couldn’t even think of what they’d do if anyone found out about the Potters. Lily Potter née Evans was Mrs. Dursleys sister, but they hadn’t spoken for several years. In fact, Mrs. Dursley liked to pretend she didn’t have a sister, when she wasn’t complaining about how she was a ‘no good hippie involved with the wrong sort’. Truthfully, most of the people she complained to had no issues with hippies, and were always a bit bewildered at how much venom the word was spat with.
Last the Dursleys had heard, Lily and her husband had a son, only a handful of weeks younger than their own. They didn’t want them interacting at all, and went on and on about ‘mixing with the wrong sort’, leaving most of the street believing the Dursleys were racist. Word was that James Potter was Indian, after all, and they couldn’t think of what else the ‘wrong sort’ would mean. The one black family on the street was extremely miffed by this, and the wife never invited Mrs. Dursley for tea time when she did the rest of the street. They had no way of knowing that they had been involved in illegality, after all.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on an overcast gray Tuesday in October of 1981, they thought it was another normal day. They’d gotten used to ignoring gut feelings, and were terribly unobservant. Unknown to the rest of the street, they made it their life goal to act as normal as possible. They were desperately failing at that already, of course, but it’s not like they knew that. Mr. Dursley picked a boring tie, Mrs. Dursley chattered on even though it was obvious he wasn’t listening to a word she said.
Both of them missed the person standing outside the window looking in, of course, because they truly are very bad at watching their surroundings. It was surprising for Mrs. Dursley considering where she grew up, but not so much Mr. Dursley. Well, perhaps not so surprising. These people were trained, after all.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley grabbed his briefcase, which was empty of course (Nobody uses briefcases anymore. What is this, 1950?). He pecked his wife on the cheek, which truthfully looked more like his smashing his face on her and her standing as still as she could. He tried to do the same for their son, Dudley, but missed because the little boy was throwing a tantrum about his cereal. He was too young to be eating it on his own, but neither parents seemed to know that, or if they did, didn’t particularly care.
“Little Tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley. He got into his car and backed out of the driveway, even though the rest of the street hated how he didn’t just back into the driveway like everybody else.
True civilians, these people were.