Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The cry of a child pierced through the night, cutting through the silence like a knife through butter. It was a wail of pure pain and agony. Echoing through the once home and seeping through its crumbling walls, leaking onto the streets of Godric’s Hollow.

What was once a beautiful house filled with warmth and love was now a dilapidated wreck. Reduced to a mere shell of death and despair, a vast contrast to the home imbued with love and happiness that once stood in its place.

To the naked eye, the house was completely barren, baring no signs of life. But, to those who dared look further than the evil mark above the house, further than the body at the stairwell, further than the darkness, there was but one living soul who remained.

The soul to whom the cry belonged. Like a light shining through the thick darkness, rising above the ashes of loss.

He was young to have been scorn by the merciless talons of life. Too young for Thestrals to reveal themselves to him. Too young to have lost so much. Yet not young enough to escape the suffocating burdens of memory and pain.

For no soul, no matter how youthful, was immune to the haunting ghost that is one’s own mind, nor the evil deeds of others.

He would carry the marks of this night for the duration of his life, be it long or short. The first a physical reminder, a brand of lightning layed bare upon his unblemished skin as a symbol of hope to those it was exposed to. The second, unlike the first, wasn’t a visible attribute. It was a scar upon his mind, a disincarnate laceration that would never fade, shadowing him through life, shaping him into the man he was destined to become.

A cruel twist of fate that lead to the fulfillment of prophecies.

A fate that chose him as its carrier.

He was the hero, the man destined to a power like none who came before him nor any to come after.

He was the wizard of legend, the survivor of the darkest turmoils.

He was talisman of the triple goddess, created in her own image to return balance to the tainted world of mortals, gifting him with a power exceeding that of the great Merlin.

Though even she could not protect him from the temptations of earthlings, that was a quest he himself must survive to prove himself worthy, to become stronger.

He was the guide of the lost, the seeker of justice.

The harbinger of hope and the purveyor of destiny.

The boy who lived.

Chapter Text

The day was dull and eerie, encased in a heavy blanket of clouds and proceeding beneath the impending threat of rain. Such dreary weather was not uncommon and held no indication of any mysterious events that were to occur. But to those who possessed the courage to listen to the voice of their heart, to look past the inadequate knowledge of their ignorance addled minds, the bleak aura seemed to hold a looming sense of foreboding.

Petunia Dursley was one of the few who had the sense to not be fooled by the occurrence for such common weather and was therefore able to sense the change, though subtle, within the ways of the mother earth.

The weather common as it was, seemed different on this day, though an outwardly normal Tuesday in November, cold and gloomy. It had a sense of grief to it, the blanket of clouds appearing heavier, the thunder sounding for all its worth like a force of pure, pent-up rage. But at the same time the waters were clear, and the flora was in better health than she had ever seen.

Like the Earth was suffering a battle of great confliction. Weighing between great mourning and immense relief. She was unsure of herself and those of the most grounded nature could feel it as if they were sharing the very weight she carried.

Petunia felt this in a strength more intense than any other, bearing the burden as if it were one of her own hand.  She felt it in the stiffness of her body as she dragged herself out of bed, in the rigid coldness of the air that seemed to sink right down to her bones, the phantom weight within her legs as she walked.

It engendered her beneath its suffocating mass, hovering above her like it had something to say but was hesitant to do so and it never ceased in its plague on her mind for the duration of the day.

It was there when she tied her husbands tie around his neck, and it was there when she sung a lullaby to her son.

It was there when she made breakfast for her family, and it was still there when she waved her husband out the door.

The day progressed and not once did this feeling cease. It became a constant hankering within the depths of her mind, evading her every attempt as discovering, keeping her in a continual state of unknown.

Mr Dursley too noticed great change. Though not in the same depth as his wife, for didn’t have the sense to look further than his own nose. No Vernon only felt what he saw with his narrow vision, and he saw a great deal of oddities on this day of November 1981.

On the corner of his street was where he spotted the first, a truly peculiar sight indeed, a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr Dursley was unsure as to what it was that he had seen and jerked his head around to look again. Upon second glance he saw that there, on the corner of privet drive, stood a – quite regal looking – Tabby cat of charcoal grey. Though there wasn’t a map insight, he shook his head and passed it off as a mere trick of the light.

Honestly, what had he been thinking? Cat’s reading maps? Preposterous!

He pushed it from his mind and continued his drive to town, thinking of nothing but an especially large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But, on the edge of town, drills were once again driven from his mind as the second sign of incongruity presented itself. He was stuck amid the usual morning traffic jam when something unusual caught his eye.

There, on the streets either side of him, were people of every odd type of dress one could imagine. Cloaks of ludicrous colours, and the most outrageous hats he’d ever seen. Mr Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in strange clothes, and these were no exception. He supposed this was another new, albeit stupid, fashion trend.

Honestly, the get-ups you saw on young people these days! At least these people were dressed modestly.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to an off-key tune he’d been humming when his eyes fell to a group of the same oddly dressed weirdos standing close by. They were dressed even more outlandishly then the first people, and stood in a tight knit huddle, whispering excitedly among themselves.

Mr Dursley was horrified to see that, upon further inspection, some of them weren’t remotely young at all, one of the men had to be older than even he and was wearing an emerald-green cloak!

The nerve of him! why he looked as if he’d popped straight from the 10^th century!

It struck Mr Dursley that the sudden abundance of ridiculously dressed individuals was probably for some stunt, a get together for an event of some sorts. Though the thought did nothing to spare them from the ruthless vulgarity that was the inner judgements of Vernon Dursley.

The traffic quickly moved on, and Mr Dursley soon found himself pulling up in the Grunnings carpark, mind set solely back on drills once again. He was but a simple man after all, which is why he didn’t notice the owl’s swooping past in broad daylight, that and because he sat with his back to the window in his office.

Mr Dursley’s narrow mindedness may have speared him from the peculiar spectacle, the people roaming down in the streets certainly weren’t. They pointed skyward and gazed open mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. The vast majority of them had never even seen an owl during the nocturnal hours the bird of prey preferred, to see one in conditions such as these was truly a sight to behold.   

As a result of his ‘sensible’ behaviours, Mr Dursley had a perfectly normal, owl free morning, and quite an enjoyable one at that. He had yelled at five different people, made several important phone calls, and was even able to hire a new, competent, secretary.

It was safe to say that Mr Dursley was having a good day and was in quite a pleasant mood. That was, up until lunchtime.

In form of a reward for his morning of productivity he decided he ought to stretch his legs and walk across the road to by himself a treat from the bakery. It was there that he passed more of the cloaked weirdos which had, until present moment, been absent from his mind.

He eyed them angrily as he walked past, this were whispering excitedly too, but it was only on his way back, clutching a large doughnut in his large hand, was he able to catch a few words of what they were saying.

“The potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard yes, their son Harry”

Vernon stopped dead, a feeling of rigid cold penetrating his skin, clawing its way up his spine. He snapped his attention back to the source if the whispers as if he wanted to say something to them, maybe ask them some questions, but thought better of it and dashed back across the road.

He hurried back up to his office, snapped at his newly appointed secretary not to disturb him, seized the telephone, and had almost finished dialling the number of his wife when he changed his mind. What was he doing? Slowly, he placed the receiver down and stroked the stiff hair of his moustache.

In that moment it occurred to Mr Dursley that he may be overreacting. Potter was not such an unusual name after all, and to be a hundred percent honest, he wasn’t even sure if their sons name was Harry. He had never met the boy, and he had no intention to, why would he? There simply wasn’t reason to. It wasn’t like the brat was special or anything.

There was no point in worrying Mrs Dursley over nothing, she always got so upset when her younger sister was mentioned, and he couldn’t bear to deal with another emotional spit of hers. It was tremendously inconvenient, and he had much more important things to do than console a woman over her own personal problems.

Though, he supposed he couldn’t blame her, if he’d had a sister like that, he’d hate to mention her too, a person like her just wasn’t natural, but he wouldn’t cry over it, such a display simply wasn’t done by a man such as he. It was a weakness, and he would not stand for it. The only reason he allowed his wife such reactions was because she was a woman, the gender notorious for such fragility, and he would much rather she do it within the confinement of their home than tarnish his name in public.

Mr Dursley sat back in his chair, once again facing away from the window, and tried his best to push the people in cloaks from his mind.

A lot easier said than done.

His efforts were in vain and by the end of the day, when he left the building at 5 o’clock sharp, Mr Dursley was no less worried than he was hours prior.

Still so worried in fact that on the way to his car, he ran straight into someone.

“Sorry” he grunted as the significant smaller man, in both width and length, stumbled from the impact of their collision.

Barley a fraction of time passed after his apology before Mr Dursley realised that the tiny old man was adorned in an exceptionally vibrant violet cloak. He mentally scolded himself, unable to believe he’d just apologised to one of these weirdos.

Weirder still than his eccentric state of dress was that the man didn’t seem at all upset at being near knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a blinding grin, one that made Mr Dursley damn near take a few steps back it was so bright.

“Don’t be sorry dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice for you-know-who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!” The man exclaimed in a rather high pitched, squeaky tone of voice that made passers-by stare.

He then proceeded to leap forward to hug Mr Dursley around the middle (though it was a wonder he was even able) and skipped off, singing merrily a song of foreign culture and happy exclamations.

Vernon stood rooted to the spot, staring wide eyed after the stranger, a feeling of the utmost confusion lingering in his mind after the interaction.

“What on Earth?” he muttered to himself, blinking a few times as way of conformation that the occurrence was indeed real.

After a few prolonged moments of bewilderment he shook himself out of the stupor of uncertainty he’d been absorbed into and kept on the root to his car where he continued to contemplate the recent events.

He had just been hugged by a complete and total stranger and was quite sure he had been referred to as a Muggle, by a man in the most silly state of dress he’d ever had the displeasure of seeing.

The term had unnerved him greatly, he could’ve sworn he’d heard that preposterous term before, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out where. Hoping he was just imagining things, something he’d never found himself hoping before as he didn’t believe in such outlandish things as imagination, Mr Dursley the key in the ignition and wallowed in his sour mood as he made the trek back home.

This time, he ignored the people on the side streets, not wanting to see anything to plunge his mood further down the drain than it was already. Once again though, he found his efforts to all be in vain, for the moment he pulled into the driveway, he came face to face with the sleek tabby cat he’d spotted earlier. He knew it was the same one, for it had the same markings around its eyes and Mr Dursley was nothing if not good at noticing the obvious.

“Oh for goodness’s sake” He muttered angrily as he got out his car “Shoo!” he yelled at it, trying to usher it away with flailing arm movements.

“Go one get out of here! Shoo!” he repeated

The cat didn’t so much as flinch, only pinned him under, a rather human like, stern gaze. A reaction to which Mr Dursley, in his rather fragile mood, took as mocking.

He let out a rather uncivilised growl, load of old tosh.

“Shoo!” he tried once more, yet once more the cat made no move under his instruction, its stern gaze still holding strong.

Mr Dursley’s eyes widened, he was in the early state of wondering whether this was normal behaviour for a cat, before he caught himself.

Oh to hell with it! He would never allow his standards to be lowered as far as wondering, and about a cat of all things! Such a thing was absolutely ridiculous in any context let alone one such as this.

Without further ado, Mr Dursley threw the towel in and made his way inside, hoping with utmost intensity that his wife would find it within her to improve his mood. It was her job after all, what else would a woman find purpose for other than to serve her husband?

Upon the arrival of her husband, Petunia was stood in the nursery. Cradling their small son in her arms and singing him a lullaby of old.

Someday when we are wiser

When the world’s older

When we have learned

I pray someday we may yet live to live and let live

The melody was soothing, and ripe with age, not withering as something of such ancient origin typically would be, but blossoming in the seed if its years. Flourishing in the vigour of belief.

Someday life will be fairer

Need will be rarer

And greed will not pay

God speed this bright millennium on its way

And let it come someday

Petunia’s voice, much like her, was elegant and of ethereal beauty. Like a river of the sweetest honey, underlined with a current of unseen strength.

She poured her soul to the open as she sang, bearing it to the Earth and letting her carry its message.

Someday when our fight will be won then

We’ll stand in the sun then

That bright afternoon, oh

Till then, on days when the sun is gone

We’ll hang on

We’ll wish upon the moon, oh

She sung with conviction, her mind a construction of belief, her heart a woven harmony, both blessed by the hands of the triple goddess herself, to whom the ode was created.

There are some days, dark and bitter

Seems we haven’t got a prayer

But a prayer for something better

Is the one thing we all share

The song was of unity and piece, forgiveness, and redemption. It was a melody of second chances. Of understanding and acceptance.

A story told by the deities themselves, and it preached with the magnitude of Everest.

Someday

When we are wiser

When the world’s older

When we have learned

I pray

Someday we may yet live 

To live and let live

It spoke that it mattered not your level of education nor lack of, for we all have an abundance to learn.

Someday

Life will be fairer

Need will be rarer

Greed will not pay

God speed

This bright millennium

Let it come

Wish upon the moon

It was a life she hoped for everyone, even her misguided husband who didn’t treat her so.

Life had dealt her a difficult hand, but even so she did not give into resentment that threatened to consume her with every obstacle, every harsh word, every hand and every fist.

She had already let it tear her from her sister, she would not allow it to take her son.

One day

Someday soon, ooh

One day, one day

Someday soon

The words were a composition of prophecy, a promise to a future of equality and plenty. Where no one needed, nor wanted. Where everyone was rich in the only sense it mattered.

In love and in happiness.

It mattered not your race, it mattered not your religion.

Sexuality and orientation were not sins but accolades of the greatest braveries, the courage to be who you are, who you were made to be and be proud of it was the greatest feat of them all.

It mattered not your crimes, nor deeds of saintly disposition.

All that mattered, was your heart.

Vernon was a hard man to live with, he had allowed himself to be misled by feelings of temptation and bitterness, but even he wasn’t without a heart.

No one was, for that just wasn’t how they were created.

Humans were created to be beings of compassion, incarnates of love and beauty. There were no exceptions of this, there was still darkness in the world, and people did often veer of their path of light to drown in the depths of temptation. But Petunia believed there was no one, no matter how malicious they may seem, who was completely evil, she believed that everyone had goodness in their hearts.

People made mistakes of great consequence and evil appearance, you must simply have the courage and the willingness to forgive them and hope they may be returned to their path of light.

For being happy is not a privilege, it is something everyone deserves, and no one has the right to make anyone feel lesser than on their journey to get there.

Chapter Text

Mr Dursley sat in his arm chair, his face hard as he watched the news and recounted the events of the day. The occasional echo of his wife’s soft melodic singing disrupting his brooding.

His eye twitched in annoyance. There was no doubt that petunia had a lovely voice, it was sweet and soothing, she was definitely the more musically inclined one, even a man such as he could admit that. But never the less, he did not understand her constant instance at singing those ridiculous lullabies to his son.

Dudley was a year old now, he didn’t need his head filled with the outlandish nonsense from Petunia’s run from the mill lullabies, no matter how she persisted their educational value. Vernon scoffed at the idea, music was for entertaining guests at parties, or when you put someone on hold, there was nothing educational about it.

For a moment he tuned into the echoing harmony, to live and let live? What kind of nonsense was that!

He sighed, never the less, it no use trying to sway her from it again, after the day he’d had he simply did not possess the energy. That and singing to Dudley seemed to make his wife happy, and a happy wife, is a quite wife.

Petunia smiled down at her son, carding her fingers through his subtle blonde hair. At first glance Dudley was undoubtedly his father’s son, from the same stocky physique right down to the dusting of blonde curls sat upon his head. She only hoped that he followed his heart rather than being misguided by the ideals of her husband.

Gently, she set her angel down in his cradle and placed a soft kiss to his head

“May Morpheus guide you safely through his realm and grant you the sweetest of dreams my love” she whispered.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she rested the back of her head against the hard oak surface of the door.

Whilst singing song of such ancient origin, allowing her soul to flow with the strings of powerful lyrics, granted her with temporary relief from the tugging sensation in the pit of her stomach, now that she had stopped it had returned tenfold. The sense of foreboding overwhelming her senses, manifesting in the pit of her stomach, and branching out across her body like rigid veins.

Neither her heart, nor her mind were able to provide an explanation as to why she felt this way, equally submerged within the murky transit of unknown.

The feeling was one of battling contradiction, joyous fluttering and impending dread raining down on her in equal measure. It was sudden too and it felt like a building pressure was finally boiling over, like the cutting of a taut string or the release of a slingshot.

But with that sense of uncertainty, came one of the utmost rightness. Like the very cogs of destiny had been set in motion, triggered by great loss.

She didn’t yet know why she was able to feel this so strongly, but she knew when the time was right, the Triple Goddess would reveal her reasoning. Until then she simply needed to have faith.

Pushing herself from the oak door she had previously been leaning against, Petunia muttered a quick prayer to any deity willing to listen and made her way down to the living room where she knew her husband sat waiting for her.

Mr Dursley sat frozen in his chair, the last string of reports from the daily news circling through his mind, stirring his thoughts.

“…strange reports of owls streaming in from almost every bird watcher in Britain as the normally nocturnal birds have been spotted flying all over the country since sunrise...”

“…viewers from as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that rather than the rain I promised yesterday they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars!..”

It occurred to Mr Dursley that his fears from his earlier encounters may very well have been true, not farfetched as he had led himself to believe. Between what he had witnessed for himself throughout the day and the evidence provided by the news his paranoia was only increased.

Owls flying in the day, a hailing of shooting stars, weirdos in cloaks scattered all over the place

…a whisper about the Potters.

The pattern was too regular to be coincidence. There was something unnatural in the works, and he only hoped it snuffed itself out before it inflicts anymore damage. God knows that sort brought nothing but trouble.

He’d have to bring it up with Petunia once she finally stopped singing those God-awful lullabies. After all, it involved her more than it did him.

As if reading his thoughts, his wife peeped her head into the living room “Would you like a cup of tea dear?”

“Yes please” he replied offhandedly, his mind still focused firmly on how he might bring up the subject of Lily Potter without Petunia becoming an emotional wreck.

He didn’t understand why the topic made the woman so upset, her sister was a freak, it’s not like she lost anything valuable in their broken relationship. It had devastated Petunia, but Mr Dursley didn’t have the empathy that ran through his wife’s veins like blood and saw only the positives in the sisters tarnished bond. She broke ties to her sister without his intervention, if she hadn’t, he would’ve stepped in and done it for her.

No wife of his would be consorting with that lot.

Mr Dursley dug his fingers into the expensive upholstery of his armchair sneering at the television as the presenter once more went on to marvel at the strange occurrences of the day. How anyone could find fascination in such abnormal events disgusted him. It simply wasn’t natural.

“Ridiculous” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the reporter, still rambling away, on his television screen. This was supposed to be the news, not some fool-witted conspiracist crap the younger generation waste their time on.

He glared daggers at the man on screen, blathering on about the so called ‘beauty’ of these events, flapping his hands about like a disturbed pelican (or mentally incapacitated individual) to emphasis his frantic chatter.

Vernon shook his head at the completely indecent display, ought to be ashamed of him-self.

“Bloody poo-“

“Your tea is ready dear” Petunia called, her expression woven in poorly hidden disapproval, as if she knew exactly what he had been about to say before her interruption.

Mr Dursley grunted, ignoring the newly acquired pink tinge to his cheeks in favour of reaching for one of the steaming cups, brows furrowing in confusion at the resistance he was met with as he attempted to pull it into his grasp and looked questioningly up at his wife.

Petunia merely cocked her eyebrow, clearing her throat pinning him with an expectant expression, not unlike the one she gave Dudley when he forgot his manners.

“Thank you” He muttered begrudgingly, feeling very much like a chastised child.

Seemingly pleased with his amendment, Petunia loosened her grip on his cup and curled up on the couch across from him, her own tea cradled gently in her hands.

Vernon cast a disapproving eye over her, it was not the place of a woman to expect such accolades from him for the simple act of brewing him tea. That was the role of a wife, attending to the needs of her husband and here she stood with the gall to request laurel for fulfilling her basic expectations.

Noticing the copious amount of steam emanating from his cup, he felt his temper spike

“It’s too hot!” he snapped “you know I like it lukewarm”

“Nothing a splash of tap water wouldn’t fix” she stated without hesitation, his anger flaring when she made no move to get up and fix his problem.

“Well?” he prompted irritably “are you gonna fix it or not?”

Petunia’s eyebrows shot up at that “you’ve got two legs, don’t you?” she stated in a tone just short of condescending “it’s your tea, you fix it, or at least ask nicely”

He glared into the shallow depths of the steaming liquid, Petunia always had been far too head strong for someone of her stature, and his patience was wearing thin.

“Please will you put a splash of cold water in my tea?” He asked begrudgingly

It clearly wasn’t the polite request Petunia had been hoping for, though she seemed satisfied none the less, setting her own tea on the coffee table “that wasn’t too hard now was it” she said, reaching out for his tea and taking it into the kitchen before he had the chance to respond.

Vernon clenched his now empty hand, feeling the satisfying pop of his knuckles. He had half a mind not to bring up the woman’s harridan of a sister, God bloody well knows he could do without the hysterics. But despite his reluctance Mr Dursley was not a stupid man *debateable*. He knew that keeping his suspicions to himself would cause more harm than good, if these rumours are indeed about the Potter’s little miscreant than the reputation he’d worked so hard to build would crumble to ash, and he would die before he allowed that to happen.

It was then, as his wife came striding in, gently placing the now much more appropriately made tea in his rotund fist, that Mr Dursley decided he would indeed bring present matters to her attention. The only thing he needed to figure out now, was how on earth he was going to bring the matter up to Petunia, without suffering through one of her…womanly reactions.

Quite plainly, Vernon didn’t believe Petunia – with the way she paraded around with a volume of pride that was frankly inappropriate for a woman to possess, much less his woman – deserved anything less than abruptity. But alas he knew that if he did not approach with teaspoon of sugar he would be forced to deal with her tears.

And the only thing worse than a prideful woman, is a crying woman, so he knew that despite his best wishes, he would have to approach her delicately to, hopefully, prevent any emotional backlash.

When the opportunity presented itself in the form of his wife making herself comfortable on the couch across him, Mr Dursley cleared his throat “Petunia Dear?”

“Yes Vernon?” she replied absentmindedly, keeping her eyes fixed on the television – an action which would normally infuriate Mr Dursley, however tonight he found himself resoundingly thankful to the distraction.

“You haven’t heard from your sister lately have you?”

Petunia’s grip tightened on her teacup

“It’s just- there was some…funny stuff on the news, not to mention the absolute crowds of weird looking people”

“…and that bloody cat” he added under his breath, thinking back on how the creepy animal stared at him with that stern expression, like he failed a test, and his teacher was disappointed in him.

“So?” Petunia snapped “times are changing Vernon, just because people don’t conform to your definition of normal it doesn’t make them weird”

“It does when their strutting down the street spitting nonsense about muggles, and eating death or whatever” he griped “just thought it might have something to do with – you know – her crowd”

“Of course you did”

“Their son, what’s his face, he’d be about Dudley’s age now wouldn’t he?”

“His name is Harry and yes, he’s only a couple months younger”

Vernon felt his heart fall to the pit of his stomach like a brick in a pool of water.

Petunia studied him carefully, “why do you ask?”

“No” he cleared his throat to get rid of the squeaky, high pitched tenor his voice had suddenly taken up, “no reason”

Petunia looked him up and down and it was all Vernon could do not to squirm beneath her suspicious gaze.

“Very well” she said, her voice clipped as if she knew he was lying but couldn’t be bothered to call him out on it. She always went quite like that whenever her sister was brought up, her face turning down as if pulled by strings. A watery sheen obscuring the sharpness of her eyes, a shade so deep of blue the water could’ve swelled from the ocean contained beneath her irises rather than the emotions breaking free from the empty dungeon that was a woman’s mind.

He couldn’t imagine why she reacted so strongly, and opted to focus on his now adequately prepared tea rather than mulling over the convoluted complexities that was a women’s emotions. It wasn’t important anyway, no point in upsetting her further. It would only put more stress on his shoulders having to deal with it.

But, that night as they settled into bed, Petunia sniffling as she turned away from him, there was a niggling sensation prodding at the back of his mind. A sense of foreboding if you will, warning him against brushing the matter of the Potters off so quickly.

But that was just preposterous wasn’t it? He was being ridiculous. Harry wasn’t such an uncommon name after all, and when it comes to surnames Potter was right up there with Smith is regard to commonity.

No he had nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing.

If only the hairs on the back of his neck agreed.  

~*~

Clearly no one ever taught Vernon that fluttering feeling in the gut one gets when something significant was about to happen was called your instinct, and that you should always trust it. Because if they had he would know the hairs on the back of his rather robust neck were erect for a reason, and that the prickling feeling dancing across his skin was how blind muggles responded to magic.