The Dursleys were an ordinary family in Little Whinging, Surrey. Ordinary to the point of being painfully predictable. Vernon Dursley worked in drills. Petunia Dursley kept her house spotless, polishing surfaces until they gleamed like mirrors. Their baby boy, Dudley, had only just been born, and they were content. Their days were as routine as the weather report, and that was exactly how they liked it.
Then, one overcast morning, the routine shattered. A formal letter arrived, one that would forever change the trajectory of their small, curated lives.
It was from a solicitor.
---
They had been summoned to court. It was not a request.
Petunia had sat stiffly in the courtroom, gripping Dudley's pram with white-knuckled hands. Vernon shifted in his seat, his face a shade of purple that suggested a building storm. When the terms of the arrangement were finally read aloud, it was all Petunia could do not to faint.
"They've left us a child?" Vernon bellowed, loud enough to make heads turn.
"Yes, sir," the solicitor said dryly. "Harrison James Potter. Your nephew."
Petunia blinked. "Lily's boy," she whispered, her voice trembling.
The name "Potter" churned unspoken memories in her chest—memories of arguments, of slammed doors, of years spent bitterly stewing over the sister who had always outshone her. And now here she was, responsible for that sister's son.
Vernon leaned forward, his meaty hands gripping the wooden bench. "This isn't our responsibility," he growled.
But before the words could spark further protest, the solicitor slid an envelope across the table. "Mrs. Potter left this for you," he said simply.
---
The letter was short and smudged, the handwriting rushed, as though penned in desperation.
Dear Petunia,
I know this isn't fair to ask, but you are his only family now. Despite everything—despite our differences—I love you. I always have. Please, take care of my son.
Petunia felt a lump rise in her throat. She blinked rapidly, but the tears came anyway. She glanced at Vernon, hoping for something—anything—that would confirm she wasn't alone in this overwhelming moment.
But he only muttered, "Why us?"
Petunia's gaze dropped back to the letter. At the bottom, one final line stood out, etched with trembling ink:
Harrison is blind.
---
By the time they arrived home with the child, both Vernon and Petunia were quieter than usual. Their annoyance had turned into something softer—hesitation, maybe even guilt.
They had expected to find a wailing baby, needy and loud, much like Dudley. But Harrison was eerily quiet. Wrapped tightly in a hospital-issued blanket, he didn't cry, didn't flinch, just clutched his tiny fists in the air, searching for something he couldn't see.
Petunia stared at him for a long time that first night. She tried to conjure the sharp feelings she once held for Lily—the resentment, the jealousy—but they felt distant, almost foolish.
The child's eyes were glassy, unseeing, and yet somehow heartbreakingly familiar.
That night, she stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the yellowing note. She read it again, and again, until her tears dried and exhaustion forced her to bed.
---
Years Later
The Dursleys never discussed the events of that day. It simply became part of their lives. Harrison—never Harry—was just there, another fixture of the household.
Petunia took on the role of his teacher with an efficiency that surprised even her. She showed him how to recognize shapes by touch—circle, square, triangle—using Dudley's old wooden blocks. She narrated the world to him, describing everything from the weather to the way the kettle whistled when the tea was ready.
When Harrison asked, tentatively, why he couldn't see, Petunia knelt beside him and chose her words carefully.
"You have something called blindness, dear. It's just the way you were born. It doesn't mean you're broken."
Harrison tilted his head, digesting the words. "But... will I ever see?"
Petunia's chest tightened. "No, darling. You won't. But that's okay. There are other ways to experience the world."
And so there were.
Harrison learned the rustling language of the wind through the trees. He learned to identify the smell of rain moments before the first drop hit the ground. He learned to navigate the house with astonishing precision, his small hands grazing the walls until he could do it without thinking.
It wasn't perfect. There were falls, scraped knees, and days of frustration. But there were also victories: the first time he successfully tied his shoes, the first time he read a page of Braille, the first time he smiled without hesitation.
Petunia, for her part, grew into her role as his caretaker. She would never admit it aloud—least of all to Vernon—but she had begun to feel something unexpected toward the boy.
It wasn't love, not quite. But it was something close.
She watched him carefully, protectively, especially as Dudley grew older and more boisterous. Harrison never complained about the taunts or the shoves, but Petunia could see how they lingered, settling behind his blank stare like shadows.
And so, in her own quiet way, she tried to shield him. She was still Petunia Dursley, after all, with all her prickly edges and quiet prejudices. But for Harrison, she softened—just a little.
---
In the dark, Harrison lay in his small bed, listening to the distant hum of the world outside. He didn't know what it looked like, this world everyone else seemed to take for granted.
But he had begun to imagine it.
And in his imagination, the world was vast, full of textures and sounds, of possibilities he couldn't yet name.
He didn't know it yet, but his story was just beginning.
