Dudley Slytherin

Petunia Dursley was a woman of persistent health; according to her Doctor. Whom also believed her husband, Vernon Dursley, to be a man of poor health; persistently poor as she wiped the remains of breakfast away.

It had been a meal for three, with a good pot of coffee. "Splendid Petunia," smiled her large husband, sipping contently from his spot at the table. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He really didn't, a fact they both knew as Petunia titled towards him. "I don't either, Vernon."

They shared a smile, the rustle of the morning paper ushering her away. "Blimey, strikes again. Do they ever actually work?"

Vernon loved to grumble over the morning paper, particularly when certain layabouts were on strike. "The tube will be packed today, they're cancelling trains…" he sighed in frustration, continuing to read as Petunia washed their plates.

She always finished first, enjoying the calm from her seat as her husband ate. He had a way of chewing that was better than any Spa, not that she'd ever actually go to such a place as she placed the plates to dry.

She lived in Surrey, not Chelsea. In her village, she'd meet for brunch instead, or perhaps at a local Café or restaurant. They'd chat about their husbands, which holiday they were to go on. That kind of thing, they even enjoyed a good gossip… poor Mrs Pekk, she'd never recover from such a scandal.

Her thoughts began to drift as the water sloshed, with plate after plate stacking neatly on the drying rack.

Ding Dong Ding

She stopped.

Who could that be, she thought. Turning to scrutinise her husband, only to find a similar face looking back at her.

Unexpected then, how odd.

"I'll get it, on my way out soon anyway."

Before she could speak, Vernon was away. Striding with purpose towards the door.

She liked his walk, as dried her hands, knowing she might be needed.

The door opened with a click, her husband's voice echoing loudly. "Yes? What is..i-"

The words seemed to pitter out, strange. Vernon never stuttered.

Petunia moved quickly, feeling urgent. "Vernon?" she called, as she stepped into the hallway. "What's wrong?"

She frowned, matching her husband who wore a fierce counterpart. Petunia settled beside him, feeling better as her eyes met unnatural blue.

She froze.

It couldn't be.

"Hello, you must be Petunia," said the man, smiling warmly. The action doing nothing to ease the sting of his unwanted presence. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May I come in?"

No, absolutely not. Was what she wanted to say, until a little bundle wiggled into view.

"Don't be absurd," hissed Vernon, snapping to attention. "We want nothing to do with your lot!"

The man suppressed a wince, his eyes blinking as he clutched the bundle in his arms. "Please understand, I must speak with you."

He didn't plead, but it was as good as. His eyes found hers. "Your sister, she…" Petunia stilled, looking penetratingly at his sorrowful eyes.

Dumbledore sagged, yet cradled the bundle tightly. "She's dead."

She felt feint, clinging to Vernon as the air sank. "Wha-,"

Her body tumbled down.

Good health.

Indeed.