Harry Potter and the Revolving Wall

The Potters

When one thinks of terribly average, the Dursleys would come to mind if one knew them. 

Now, as Vernon Dursley would profess, the term should be 'wonderfully' average because there was certainly nothing more wonderful than the achievement of mediocrity.

Number Four Privet Drive was white and neat, in line with the rest of the street of manicured shrubs and picket fence. It has two front facing windows, for the parlor room and the dining room but neither were of great interest to the Dursleys. If one were to stop and look in from the street, which one is completely capable of doing, they would see an equally white and neat interior to match the outside. Mrs. Dursley was more interested in her kitchen window, which coincidentally gave a perfect view of her least favourite neighbours, the Watts'. 

She would crane her abnormally long neck, each day nearly, to peer into their fence-facing parlour window, eyes beady with anticipation. Mr. Vernon Dursley would head out early in the morning to work, as director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. Which was very absolutely acceptable to an exceptionally mediocre man.

Where Mrs. Petunia Dursley was sharp and thin, Mr. Dursley made up for it. He was a solid man, beefy and with little neck. His bristly brown moustache was nearly comical, where Mrs. Dursley's hair was pin-straight, thin blonde. The Dursleys also had a young son, Dudley, and they doted on him as he was the best little boy in the world.

Normally, such clearly average people wouldn't warrant much interest outside the bubble of Privet Drive, but the Dursleys had a terrible, terrible secret that wasn't very average at all. The Dursleys simply wouldn't survive if anyone knew about the Potters. Petunia's sister, nameless for years in their household, was the bane of her existence. Which was likely why she completely pretended she did not exist, her or her horrible Potter husband. They were about as unDursleyish as one could be, and without even trying. Petunia did know they had a small son as well, all the better they stay separate. Wouldn't want Dudley mixed up with that sort of child, who knows what would befall her little angel.

On a damp, grey Tuesday the Dursleys became important to this story, unfortunately for their terribly average, mediocre souls. There was nothing to indicate so in the very ordinary English weather, or Vernon's too-milky tea. Mr. Dursley set about making a fresh cup, while Mrs. Dursley soothed a screeching Dudley with sweet nothings.

The large owl therefore went completely unnoticed outside their window.

Mr. Dursley kissed his wife goodbye, dodged poorly aimed mushy pea from Dudley, and backed out of number four's drive humming to himself. It was as he drove round the corner of the end of the street he noticed something peculiar, more peculiar than if he had saw an owl. A cat sat reading a map. Momentarily, Mr. Dursley didn't understand what he was seeing, and once he did he jerked his head back to see only an innocent looking tabby with no map in sight.

"Odd," he muttered to himself. But as any self-respecting average man would, he shakes it off. It must have been a trick of the light, or that tea this morning really was off. He stared at the cat, and it stares back. He drives off clenching the steering wheel just a tad tighter. Cats don't read maps. Mr. Dursley's thoughts are occupied with drill orders the rest of the drive.

But once again his mind is taken away from the humdrum of work, when in the usual traffic jam into town he was unwillingly exposed to a something like a parade of very oddly dressed people. They had on cloaks of some sort. God, the getup young people get into are truly atrocious. But what really ground Mr. Dursley's gears was that at closer look, many of these parade-goers were hardly young! The weirdos were clapping each other on the backs, whooping, and giving little dances in their odd little groups. Some silly stunt likely, maybe looking for donations of a sort... Yes, that's it. Money-grabbers, or another one of those fag demonstrations with less colour. He let them escape his mind as he parked, and made his way into the Grunnings lobby.