Those who lived
Augusta muttered to herself as she battled her way through the weeds home to the village "Owls everywhere, they should know better, they should." At a pained cry from across the moor she huffed impatiently and disappeared with a pop.
In a small village further south concerned muggles hurried by the park where several blonde-haired strangers were singing and dancing amongst the plants. A dentist regarded them critically from the window of her office across the street, before shaking her head and returning to her paperwork.
Returning home later than usual that night Amelia arrived to find her niece awake and giggling, hair characteristically messy. She got the toddler out of bed and made them both hot chocolates with animated animal marshmallows, trying to put the image of a very fat baby in it's mother's arms screaming like the world was ending in an interrogation earlier in the evening.
Twelve of the finest remaining SWAT auror's were chosen to storm the mansion. Cloaked in the darkness of night they crept through the immaculate gardens, impeded only by the youngest slipping on a pile of peacock droppings. The front door relinquished unexpectedly to a whispered alohamora, and they crept throughout the darkened passages, silently flashing communication signals from their wands.
They arrived outside the single lighted door, and assumed a defensive position before blasting through and training their wands on the solitary figure sitting alone, reading the evening edition of the daily phrophet. The figure sighed, seemingly reading unpeturbed. The highly trained aurors exchanged glances as the reader slowly made his way though the classifieds. Finally the leader of the aurors cleared her throat awkwardly, still crouched in a perfect Alastair III defensive position. The figure looked up, before calmly folding his newspaper and placing it aside.
"Gentleman," he began, his voice as smooth as the silken green cravat perfectly knotted below his neck, "I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
20 meters below this scene huddled an odd assortment of people. A chubbt, frizzy haired child was the only one unaffected by the atmosphere of fear, and was occupying itself by throwing crumbling bits of mortar into the perfect hair of the toddler opposite, cradled in his mothers arms.
Countries away, a beautiful, smooth-skinned woman tied to the ankle of an owl a collection of her (current) husband's documents she was certain the local ministry would find interested. Smiling to herself, she settled her child to feed from her breast as she watched the bird fly into the sunset.
And at number 4 Privet Drive a small child stared out into the street from between the bars of his cot, watching the street lamps go out one by one.