Meeting the Trio
Privet Drive, Little Whinging was just as regular and plain as every other suburban village in England. Lawns lay trimmed and pampered, often seperated by a rainbow coloured bed of flowers. Important looking cars were parked in most of the drive ways, ready for the important business men to drive them to their important jobs. The houses were neatly stacked side-by-side, and everyone greeted each other with a wave and a smile when seen. But one family living in Number 4, Privet Drive tried much harder to be normal, and in the process ironically came across as the most un-normal family on the street. You see, this is where Mr. and Mrs. Dursley lived, with their son Dudley Dursley and their nephew Harry Potter.
Mr. Dursley was a large man. He had a short, stubby nose, beady black eyes, a Walrus-like moustache and liked to keep to himself as much as possible. Mrs. Dursley was the complete opposite. She was a skinny woman with icy blue eyes, stern lips and often gossiped over the fence with their neighbours. She took particular delight in mentioning Mr. Aswerth losing his job as many times as possible. Dudley Dursley was most like his father, inheritting his large frame and short stubby nose, and enjoyed raiding the fridge for any sweets he could find. But Harry Potter was nothing like them at all. He was a short skinny boy, with a thin face, a messy mop of black hair that stuck up in the most peculiar angles, and a pair of green eyes hidden behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses stuck together down the middle with masking tape. But the feature Harry took the most pleasure in, and one the neighbours gossiped about the most, was the lightning-shaped scar atop Harry's forehead, just above his right eye.
The Dursley's house, immaculately kept by Mrs. Dursley as always, was full of a rambunctious choir of Happy Birthdays.
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Dudders, Happy Birthday to you!" shouted Mr. and Mrs. Dursley to their son, who sat at the kitchen table finishing his third helpings of breakfast.
"How many preshentsh do I havsh?" he said with a mouthful of fried eggs.
"33 dear," came the doting voice of Mrs. Dursley, clearly quite proud of the fact. "We made sure to get you one more than you got last year!"
"One more?!" Dudley roared. "Piers got 35 for his birthday last month!"
Any other family would have been taken aback at their son's outburst of only getting 33 presents for their birthday. The Dursleys were not any other family, though. Mrs. Dursley raced to Dudley's side, smoothening his hair.
"How about we take you to buy 3 more Duddykins? We'll just pop down the road and you can have anything you want."
Dudley seemed to struggle, wondering if 3 more presents would get him more than Piers' 35. He gave up and shrugged his shoulders, going back to stuffing his mouth with more bacon. Mrs. Dursley smiled, sitting back down while muttering "anything for my special prince".
Harry snorted. He was standing in the kitchen completely forgotten about, washing up the frying pan he used to cook their breakfast. He left himself some bacon and half a fried egg on the side, Mrs. Dursley monitoring how much food he had cooked himself beforehand. But 36 presents for his birthday! Harry was lucky if his birthday was even remembered by the Dursleys, and if it was, he'd be even more lucky to get anything more than a pair of Mr. Dursleys old socks. He wasn't surprised by this anymore though. He was almost 11 years old now, and he has been living with the Dursley for almost 10 years, and not once have they showered him in gifts and happy birthdays.
"You, boy." came Mr. Dursley's drawl from behind the newspaper. "You'll be going to Mrs. Figgs when we're out."
Harry groaned. "Do I have to?"
"Yes!" he replied, and folded up his newspaper before squinting his beady eyes at Harry. "And don't do anything ... weird!"
"Yes, Uncle Vernon."
Harry hated going to Mrs. Figgs. Her house smelled of something he couldn't quite put his finger on, and she always told him the same story about one of her cats, Tubbles, chasing the Baxter's dog.
"But I could - "
"No buts!" Mrs. Dursley said forcefully, and pointed a skeleton-like finger in his direction. "You'll finish the washing up and go straight to Mrs. Figgs."
Harry sighed and went back to scrubbing the last bits of bacon from the pan. He wondered if anyone else had a life as dull and horrible as his own.
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"Ronald Weasley!" a shrill voice shouted, and it seemed to echo throughout a rather large house. "Just what have you and your brothers done to Ginny's pigmy doll!"
Up the rickety stairs on the third floor, sitting in one of the bedrooms sat three boys, both with flaming ginger hair and an expression of absolute terror on their face. Two of them were twins, a good foot or so taller than their younger brother, who was a short and stocky boy with freckles dashing his face.
"Told you we shouldn't have done it." said one of the twins.
"No, I told you we shouldn't have done it." came the other's reply.
"I told both of you we shouldn't have done it!" Ron shouted, and upon the booming footsteps echoing up the stairs, the twins shot out of the room and into their own. Ron quickly looked for an escape route. Looking at the window, he wondered if he could jump out without breaking too many bones, but it was too late. The door shot open and a woman with the same ginger hair stood at the door, a thin piece of wood grasped in her hand and a scowl on her face. Beside her was a young girl with the same ginger hair, tears across her face and a pink fluffy ball of a doll in her hand. It was saying in a sing-song voice "Ginny loves Harry Potter!" over and over again.
"What did I tell you about teasing your sister?"
"Mum, it wasn't me!" Ron said indignantly, but his worried face gave him away.
"You think I don't know when you're lying? Fred! George!" she shouted, and from the room across her popped the heads of the twins.
"Yes mother dearest?" they said in unison, batting their eyelids.
"Don't you give me that. I know you're both just as guilty as your brother! Downstairs, now!" she ordered, and all three of them shot downstairs quicker than you could say the Chudley Cannons won the Quidditch Championship.
"Told you we shouldn't have done it." Fred repeated.
"No, I told you we shouldn't have done it!" George said, poking his brother in the arm.
"Both of you shut it!" Ron said, scowling at the pair of them. Why does he let them drag him into these things.
"Can you all keep it quiet down there?" came a bossy voice from further upstairs. "I'm trying to study and it's rather hard when you great lumps keep shouting!"
"Oh, you were studying were you Perce?" Fred said, smiling towards George.
"You weren't studying your girlfriend's latest picture by any chance, were you?" said George, and they both bursted out laughing.
"Fred, George!" shouted their mother, and they raced into the kitchen with Mrs. Weasley following close behind them.
Sat at the table was Mr. Weasley, hidden behind the latest edition of the Daily Prophet. Mr. Weasley, just like all the other Weasleys, had flaming ginger hair, though his was certainly thinner and balding in places. He had the look of a well-fed man, usually because Mrs. Weasley encouraged everyone to have second and third helpings. "Growing boys" she always cooed.
"Boys," Mr. Weasley said, and all three of them stopped laughing. "It was a good joke" he whispered, sharing a smile with them. Mrs. Weasley appeared and he suddenly straightened up. "For doing that to your sister you can wash the dishes. No buts!" he said as all three of them opened their mouth to protest.
"Maybe this will teach you to be a bit more like your brother Percy." said Mrs. Weasley, putting the Pigmy doll on the table and pointing at it with the same thin piece of wood. It suddenly stopped singing about Harry Potter.
"Who wants to be more like a great big dolt." Fred whispered.
The twins were on washing up duty while Ron dried them. Grabbing a dishcloth, he wondered if anyone else had a life as dull and horrible as his own.
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In a small rural town in Kent lived the Grangers. Now compared to the Dursleys, the Grangers were everything that is normal. Mr. and Mrs. Granger were both succesful dentists with a young daughter, Hermione Granger. They were a loving and caring family, and unlike the Dursleys, they doted upon their daughter, who was exceedingly bright for her age. Right now sat at their kitchen table were all three. Mr. Granger looked like you'd expect of a dentist. He was average height, not skinny and neither large. He had brown hair parted down the side, wore a pair of glasses, and was currently shovelling scrambled egg into his mouth while glancing at the clock on the wall.
"You'll be lucky if you don't choke cramming your mouth full like that." Mrs. Granger said, pushing out her upper lip in disgust. Mrs. Granger, just like her daughter Hermione, had wild brown hair as if she stook her finger in a plug socket, which made her just the bit more intimidating to her husband. He grinned back sheepishly and pointed at the clock.
"I've got an appointment at 9. Can't be late. Poor Mr. Wilkens might need a tooth or two taken out." and he seemed rather excited about this. Mrs. Granger only shook her head.
"What are you going to be doing today, dear?" she asked, and Hermione looked up from one of the books surrounding her.
"Huh? ... Oh! I need to get started on my English homework. They gave us a ton of it to do this summer!" and just like her father, seeemed a tad bit more excited about homework than the other kids of her class. She let out a grin and showed two rather large front teeth, which Mr. Granger seemed to notice straight away.
"I do wish you'd have some braces, Hermione. In a few years those teeth will be as straight as ever."
"No!" she shouted, and slammed the book she was reading shut. "The kids at school pick on me enough as it is, I don't want to give them another reason."
"I thought we had a word with your headmaster about the bullying." Mrs. Granger questioned, but before Hermione could answer there was a light tapping at the door.
"Must be the postman." Mr. Granger said, and headed down the hall. Opening the door he was greeted by the most peculiar man he had ever seen, but being a private dentist, that wasn't all that unordinary. What was unordinary, though, was what the man was dressed in; a large flowing purple robe which whipped around two spindly legs in the summer breeze, a rather large and pointed hat, and a pair of half-moon spectacles halfway down his crooked nose. He had a large white beard that ran down to his waist, and peering at him was two rather luminescent blue eyes that seemed to twinkle with delight.
"Ah, Mr. Granger," he said as if he was greeting a friend. "May I come in for a moment? I do believe we have something to discuss."
Mr. Granger stood there with his mouth wide open, stammering "I uhhh...errrr...uhmmm" before the odd man interrupted.
"I do hope that was gibberish for yes." he said, smiling and stepping inside. Mrs. Granger, having overheard the conversation if you could call it that, was already halfway down the hallway to see what was happening.
"Mrs. Granger! So very nice to see you. I'm here to see both of you about Ms. Granger?"
Having managed to recollect himself, and at the intrusion of this man inviting himself inside and wanting to talk to them about Hermione, he stood infront of the old man.
"Wait just one minute. Who are you?" he ordered.
"Albus." the old man said, offering out his hand. "Albus Dumbledore."