Petunia Dursley

(Why is this so true tho 😭)

Here is mine: Aunt Petunia was misunderstood.

Prisoner of Azkaban - Harry inflates Aunt Marge, inflicts damage, meets Cornelius Fudge but doesnt get expelled

-uses memory charm to make Marge forget about becoming an inflatable woman

Order of The Phoenix - Harry uses Patronus Charm infront of cousin to save themselves from dementors, almost gets expelled

- dementors sent by ministry

-decides not to use memory charm this time

-sends magic letter infront of the exact same muggle + his parents to tell Harry that he's expelled

If I could change only 1 thing about the Harry Potter series, it would be that Harry's aunt Petunia was a magical witch and not a Muggle, who’d willingly take in Harry after Lord Voldemort murdered both his parents Lily and James Potter. Harry would at last have a loving family member he always deserved; Petunia would actually care for him exceptionally well and treat him as if he were her own birth child! Harry would at least have a mother figure should Sirius Black still be killed by Bellatrix Lestrange, thus leaving Harry without a father figure.

Also, MY story about Petunia is that she attended Hogwarts and would be sorted into Ravenclaw House and would be even more academically-talented than her sister Lily Potter, especially in Potions, but she would be very rule-abiding. For example, she also sends Harry a Howler regarding the theft of the Flying Ford Anglia, as Molly Weasley sent one to Ron. After her final year at Hogwarts, she lives a Muggle life still at 4 Privet Drive (but without Vernon Dursley since she would never have even met him, just her and Harry alone) as a best-selling author who writes stories to inspire future generations. She still fakes the story of his parents' death of them "dying in a car crash" and hides the truth that he Harry is indeed a wizard, until he receives the Hogwarts acceptance letter—but only to SPARE him a painful memory of his parents' murder. Petunia would also have fought in the Battle at the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic alongside the Order of the Phoenix members and the Battle of Hogwarts during the Second Wizarding War, constantly casting Shield Charms between the good and evil, and survive.

Who was in the right and who was in the wrong? Based on this story below, I think much of the wrong seemed to be coming unsurprisingly from Vernon and I probably would have knocked him to the ground if I was in James's shoes. Give me your opinions!

• The first meeting between Lily, her boyfriend James Potter, and the engaged couple, went badly, and the relationship nose-dived from there. James was amused by Vernon, and made the mistake of showing it. Vernon tried to patronise James, asking what car he drove. James described his racing broom. Vernon supposed out loud that wizards had to live on unemployment benefit. James explained about Gringotts, and the fortune his parents had saved there, in solid gold. Vernon could not tell whether he was being made fun of or not, and grew angry. The evening ended with Vernon and Petunia storming out of the restaurant, while Lily burst into tears and James (a little ashamed of himself) promised to make things up with Vernon at the earliest opportunity. This never happened. Petunia did not want Lily as a bridesmaid, because she was tired of being overshadowed; Lily was hurt. Vernon refused to speak to James at the reception, but described him, within James’ earshot, as ‘some kind of amateur magician’.

Don't ask me anything unless you are my Diddykins!

Previous Chapter:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003768423

Tags:

@Teddy.J.B @Pervaza972 @CatsAndRoblox

Chapter Two: Horace Slughorn

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a small folded up pull-out chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of most of its colour, so that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of one blared:

“HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more.

‘We’re not allowed to talk about it, don’t ask me anything,’ said one agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter ‘the Chosen One,’ believing that the prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (ctd. page 2, column 5)”

A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the headline:

“SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE”

Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture was moving—the man was waving at the ceiling.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeour’s representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3, column 2)”

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story bearing the title “Ministry Guarantees Students’ Safety” was visible.

“Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this autumn.

‘For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its stringent new security plans,’ said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister’s tough stand on student safety. Said Mrs Augusta Longbottom, ‘My grandson, Neville—a good friend of Harry Potter’s, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and—“

But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage standing on top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too deeply asleep to hear her.

A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old underwear, sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet emblazoned with the words:

“—issued on behalf of—

The Ministry of Magic

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

1.You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2.Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.

3.Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.

4.Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).

5.Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).

6.Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.

7.Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.”

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry’s relaxed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

"Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. as I am in need of your assistance in a matter to which I hope you and I can attend to. Afterwards I will escort you to Mould-on-the-Wold Cottage, where you will spend the remainder of your school holidays. Remus has been informed that I will be escorting you and has given his approval and expanded the Fidelius Charm on the Cottage to allow me and a couple others to visit. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore"

Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o’clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore’s words; Harry had sent back his “yes” with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: Either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.

But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong—his reply to Dumbledore’s letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.

The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the streetlamp outside the window went out.

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.

Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Even as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of crisps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, 'Who the blazes is here at this time of night?'

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky and close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, 'Good evening, Mr Dursley, it has been many years. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?'

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm’s reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and a pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore’s, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.

'Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,' said Dumbledore pleasantly. 'However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.'

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.

‘It is a long time since my last visit,’ said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. ‘I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing.’

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon—the vein pulsing in his uncle’s temple was reaching danger point—but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.

‘Ah, good evening Harry,’ said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. ‘Excellent, excellent.’

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say ‘excellent’ was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.

‘I don’t mean to be rude—‘ he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.

‘—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,’ Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. ‘Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, Petunia, you look well.’

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry’s aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.

‘Albus Dumbledore,’ said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. ‘It’s been fifteen years since we met, but we have corresponded, of course.’

Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. ‘And this must be your son, Dudley? The last time I saw him he was only a year old.’

Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door. His large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.

‘I will be taking Harry shortly, but before I do I would like a word,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?’

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings with an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.

As Dumbledore set his hands on his lap Harry saw that his right hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been

burned away.

‘Sir—what happened to your—?’

‘Later, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Before Harry and I leave there is a matter we need to discuss first,’ said Dumbledore softly. ‘I shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle’s hospitality only a little longer.’

‘You will, will you?’

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore simply, ‘I shall, but first Harry, is your trunk packed?’

‘Erm…’

‘Doubtful that I would turn up?’ Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.

‘I’ll just go and—er—finish off,’ said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed; at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed, screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding Hedwig’s cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs.

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, ‘Professor—I’m ready now.’

‘Good,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Just one last thing, then.’ And he turned to speak to the Dursleys who were looking increasingly uncomfortable by the second. ‘As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in just over a year’s time—‘

‘No,’ said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore’s arrival.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Dumbledore politely.

‘No, he doesn’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn’t turn eighteen until the year after next.’

‘Ah,’ said Dumbledore pleasantly, ‘but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.’

Uncle Vernon muttered, ‘Preposterous,’ but Dumbledore ignored him.

‘Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when your family and Harry’s guardians entered the arrangement fifteen years ago, when we all met here the night of that November first, and part of that arrangement was that when Harry spent time here that he be treated with love and respect.’

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.

‘You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a part of your family. You constantly reminded him that he was only allowed to stay with you because you were being paid, you gave him the bare minimum food and toys, and the little attention you gave him was nearly entirely made up of snide comments and insults about who he is. In short you never treated him like he belonged. The best that can be said is that through the love of his guardians he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.’

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.

‘Us—mistreat Dudders? What d’you—?’ began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his finger for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon with a silencing spell.

‘The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house “home.” However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time.’

None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.

‘Well, Harry…time for us to be off,’ said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. ‘Until we meet again,’ he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.

‘Bye,’ said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry’s trunk, upon which Hedwig’s cage was perched.

‘We do not want to be encumbered by these just now,’ he said, pulling out his wand again. ‘I shall send them to Mould-on-the-Wold Cottage to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak…just in case.’

Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbledore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.

‘And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.’

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him, Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive together. He had never had a proper conversation with the headmaster outside of Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too, and it rather heightened Harry’s sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to mention done his best to smash several of Dumbledore’s most prized possessions.

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.

‘Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,’ he said brightly.

‘But I thought I’m not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?’

‘If there is an attack,’ said Dumbledore, ‘I give you permission to use any counterjinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.’

‘Why not, sir?’

‘You are with me,’ said Dumbledore simply. ‘This will do, Harry.’

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

‘You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,’ he said.

‘No, I’ve done two or three side-along-apparition when I was little, but not since I started at Hogwarts and I have never done any on my own,’ said Harry. ‘I thought you had to be seventeen?’

‘You do,’ said Dumbledore. ‘So like when you apparated with Sirius or Remus you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind—as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment.’

Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm.

‘Very good,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Well, here we go.’

Harry felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then—

He gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes. He had forgotten that apparition felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. It took him quite a while for all his senses to return.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously. ‘The sensation does take some getting used to.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left Privet Drive rather reluctantly. ‘But I think I might prefer brooms…’

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more tightly around his neck, and said, ‘This way.’

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.

‘So tell me, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Your scar…has it been hurting at all?’

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.

‘No,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort’s getting so powerful again.’

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression.

‘I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.’

‘Well, I’m not complaining,’ said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again.

‘Professor?’

‘Harry?’

‘Er—where exactly are we? This isn’t Mould-On-The-Wold village.’

‘This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.’

‘And what are we doing here?’

‘Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.’

‘How can I help with that, sir?’

‘Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,’ said Dumbledore vaguely. ‘Left here, Harry.’

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too.

Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.

‘Professor, are you sure we are alone right now, since I’ve arrived at Privet Drive the weather has felt very similar to just before a dementor attacks,’ said Harry, his hand still holding his wand.

‘For now we are alone, but you are partially right. Once the dementors left Azkaban they began breeding. That is what has been causing all this mist.’

They continued to walk in silence, but soon another question popped into Harry’s head.

‘Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into your old colleague’s house?’

‘Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance—‘

‘—you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,’ said Harry quickly. ‘My Gryffindor friend Hermione Granger told me once.’

‘And she is quite right. We turn left again.’

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions to ask.

‘Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked…’

‘Correct,’ said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street.

‘He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office.’

‘I believe Remus mentioned at some point that he had worked with him when he used to be an auror and that we was one of the ones, like John Dawlish or Albert Runcorn, that he didn’t get along with…Do you think he’s good?’ asked Harry.

‘An interesting question,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.’

‘Yes, but I meant—‘

‘I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.’

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it.

‘And…sir…I saw about Amelia Bones,’ this made Harry’s voice stager, he had known Madam Bones for most of his life as she was the aunt and guardian of his longtime friend Susan Bones. He was deeply saddened when he saw in the paper that she had been murdered as she had always been kind to Harry when he visited. The only silver lining was that Remus had sent an owl letting Harry know that Susan had not been home at the time of the assassination and thankfully survived.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘A terrible loss. She was a great witch, and another child has lost their beloved guardian. Just up here, I think—ouch.’

He had pointed with his injured hand.

‘Professor, what happened to your—?’

‘I have no time to explain now,’ said Dumbledore. ‘It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.’

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep asking questions.

You can remember precisely the first time she brought him home.

Vernon was there, of course. He'd seen the youngest Evans daughter only through pictures and heard of her only through your clipped explanations. You have no doubt, pictures or not, that he was surprised when she stepped in the door. Your family looked normal, typical and ordinary; the girl at the doorway with the bright red hair and the vibrant green eyes did not.

Initially, it was to be the nice dinner that your parents always threw when Lily arrived home from school. It was a time for catching up, they said, a time for Lily to share her exciting life of magic and wonder and adventure and for you, Petunia, to recount your dull drum events - minor scandals, half-interesting teachers and less-than-remarkable friends.

It was also the dinner at which you planned to announce your engagement. Even amidst Lily's tales of graduation and wonder and magic, they had to care about your engagement. Surely nothing she said could top that. You were the oldest, you were getting married, and they would damn well care.

And then, when Lily walked in, he was behind her.

It was the first time Lily had ever brought a boy home, and you remembered distinctly your instant dislike for the way he poked his head around the doorway and donned that forsaken subtle smile.

She introduced him as James Potter, he smiled and shook your hand, and you knew, instantly, that Lily had outdone you yet again.

Your parents liked Vernon plenty. He was nice, he had a job, was reliable, and he was normal. You figured they'd be happy enough to have him a part of the family. They liked him.

But instantaneously, they loved James.

Of course they did – he had his charming smiles, his charismatic presence, his perfectly-timed jokes and a sense of life about him. He sat at the table next to your sister and as you looked around, you saw the difference. You were family, by blood, but now, seven years after she'd first left, you were scarcely recognizable. She and that boy were so reckless, so young, so naïve and so passionate – you and Vernon were so cautious, so simple, so normal and so safe.

They were the freaks, you knew that. When you looked at your parents, you saw your future. Your parents had been like you. They had been nothing out of the ordinary, and neither would you. Lily was the oddball, the misfit, the fluke accident – and they loved her for it.

You never announced your engagement that night. The dinner was spent listening to Lily and James recount tales of school and chaos and their many misadventures, while you and Vernon were expected to sit quietly and listen.

You could tell by his disinterested grunts and the dark looks he occasionally sent across the table at Lily's counterpart that Vernon was jealous. He had been involved with you for over three years, now, and not once had your parents ever warmed up to him in the way they were warming up to the boy who'd been here not three hours. Who were these people? He was engaged to Petunia Evans and he'd never met them before. How were they – wild, rambunctious, untamed, unhindered – possibly related to you, perfectly plain Petunia? Vernon loved normalcy almost as much as you did and these people were not normal.

He hated them, but then again, you hated them more.

You saw the change this boy brought about in your sister. She was the way she had been before, when she was a young girl, animated and rambunctious and full of laughter, love and life. She wasn't the quiet, studious girl she had suddenly become in her teen years – all of the sudden, Daddy's little inferno was back, with all the liveliness that you'd almost forgotten she had.

Maybe that was why your parents loved him so much.

Maybe that was why they cried at her wedding but not at yours. Maybe that was why, after your ceremony, they'd walked over to Vernon and given him a clap on the back and a smile, when after Lily's ceremony they swooped down on James, crying, Mum kissing him on the cheek and Dad welcoming him to the family.

Maybe you didn't cry at their funeral because of that, because Lily Evans meant more to them than Petunia Evans, and because Lily Potter was still their daughter while Petunia Dursley never had been. Maybe that's why at their funeral you'd been so blank, emotionless and apathetic while Lily, perfectly invincible girl that she was, had collapsed into her husband's arms, sobbing.

Maybe that's why you never went to Lily's funeral at all. You're sure she had one, and, knowing Lily, quite a spectacular one. After all, she and that boy were twisted celebrities of war, icons and names to fuel the propaganda bonfire, and it only makes sense that their death be marked with a bang.

You think you knew, somehow, it would be like this, from that instant she brought him home.

And maybe, you think, that's what makes you hate her son so much. You see so much of them in him – the boyish charm of his father that won your parents in an instant the way Vernon never did, the strong-hearted determination his mother had that inevitably lead to her death. In him, you can see a spark, a drive, a fire that, as much as you search for it and as much as you wish it were there, you know resides in neither you or Dudley.

You know who would be the favorite grandchild if your parents were still alive.

And you know that like his parents he's running out of time. You know that, just like them, he'll be lucky to make it to twenty. But that's what they get – all of them – for being so damn wonderful.

The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long, and the Potters had always been blazing.

You just wish, sometimes, that the Dursleys glowed a little brighter.

As tragic as I find her youth, always secretly wishing, hoping she was magical too, always overlooked by her parents and all else, I can't ever fully sympathise with her, just for the fact she neglected and abused a child in need. It was her last string to her sister, she could've had a chance to make things right, yet she allowed Harry's life at "home" to be so miserable? She knew how painful feeling neglected could be, yet she actively chose day after day to neglect her little nephew, who lost both his parents... I just can't understand and therefore I can't forgive nor really sympathise with her character.

In late 1977, James met Lily's parents for the first time. Lily's father was initially wary and reluctant about meeting James because his meetings with Petunia's fiancee Vernon were not the best and he was wondering what if this one (Lily's boyfriend) is worse, but by the end of the meeting Lily's father's worries evaporated completely.

Mr and Mrs Evans found James (who had a great sense of humour) to be very charming and amusing. James and Lily's father were both passionate about sports and they spoke non-stop about Quidditch and football. James would also low-key flirt with Lily's mother by calling her madame and he and Sirius (who arrived later on during the date) were singing to her "Happy Birthday you don't look your age" (it was Lily's mother's birthday and she looked quite young for her age), something which flattered Lily's mother. Lily's father (in a joking manner) warns them off: "Boys I appreciate your sweet gesture but don't forget, that's my wife your talking to."

Both of Lily's parents (especially her father) really loved James as if he were their son. Mr and Mrs Evans preferred James a lot more than they did Vernon and they got along a lot well with James than they ever did with Vernon, something which exacerbated Petunia's resentment and jealousy of her sister Lily even more. Petunia was sick of her parents talking non-stop about Lily's boyfriend and what really broke the line for Petunia was when she overheard her mother saying this to their father: "To be honest, he (James) is a far better bloke than Petunia's boyfriend."

What are your thoughts on all of this?

Decided to post some of my favorite harry potter memes, so enjoy 👍