Chapter 3 — The Boy Who Wasn't in the Story
Arthur Dursley was born on 31 July 1977 — a summer child with sharp eyes and an oddly steady manner, as if he were already a few steps ahead of the world around him.
By the autumn of 1981, at four years old and soon to turn five , he was growing into a tall, sturdy boy — handsome beneath a bit of baby fat and carrying himself with the quiet confidence that made adults pause. There was something deliberate about how he moved, how he spoke, even how he looked at people — as though he was measuring more than what they said.
He was kind, yes — but not soft.
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Arthur had learned early that kindness needed strength to mean anything. When Dudley began toddling around, knocking over cups and pulling the curtains off their hooks, Arthur took it upon himself to restore order.
"Dudley," he'd say in that calm, older-brother tone that carried more weight than shouting, "you don't throw biscuits at guests. You eat them."
"But I don't like raisins," Dudley would argue, face scrunched.
"Then you leave them on the plate," Arthur replied firmly. "You don't start a food war."
Petunia would often turn away to hide a smile, though she never said so aloud.
When they were outdoors, it was the same. One afternoon, Dudley was chasing a ginger cat from the neighbour's garden, waving a stick like a knight on a quest. Arthur stepped in and caught the stick mid-swing, the wood vibrating as he grasped it.
"Oi! What did I say about hitting things smaller than you?"
Dudley blinked. "It's just a cat!"
Arthur's look was enough. "Doesn't matter. Be kind to things that can't fight back. That's what proper people do."
Dudley mumbled something and sulked for a bit, but the cat trotted off unharmed. Arthur watched it go, feeling a quiet satisfaction he didn't fully understand.
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He wasn't like the other children, not entirely.
Arthur spoke clearly, thought before he acted, and noticed things most kids didn't — the way his mother's hands trembled when she was tired, the faint rattle in his father's car engine that meant another repair was coming.
His body followed the same strange pattern of awareness. He climbed better, ran faster, and never seemed to lose balance. Once, he tripped over a loose toy and somehow rolled to his feet before hitting the floor. Petunia had gasped; Arthur had only blinked, wondering why it felt so natural.
Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he saw flashes — not memories exactly, but half-formed impressions.
A blaring car horn.
A mother's scream.
Pain — sharp, sudden, and then nothing.
He never understood them. They came and went like forgotten dreams, leaving behind a strange ache in his chest. But when he woke, his heart always felt steadier, as though those flashes reminded him of something important he could no longer name.
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The Dursley household was a steady, bustling place. Vernon's booming voice filled the mornings; Petunia's routines ruled the afternoons. Arthur fitted into it neatly — dependable, polite, the sort of child who didn't need to be told twice.
He adored his mother, though he'd never say it aloud. Petunia, for her part, had a soft spot for her eldest — though she'd never admit that either. Arthur helped without fuss, fetched what she needed, and kept Dudley occupied when her patience wore thin.
Dudley, of course, worshipped him. If Arthur was building something, Dudley wanted to help. If Arthur was reading, Dudley wanted to turn the pages. Their bond was noisy, chaotic, and oddly balanced — Arthur the calm centre, Dudley the whirlwind.
One summer morning, Dudley tried to climb the garden fence to fetch his ball. Arthur caught him halfway up, arms flailing.
"You're going to fall," Arthur warned.
"I'm fine!"
He wasn't. His foot slipped, and Arthur caught him by the back of his jumper. "See?" Arthur muttered, pulling him down. "Gravity doesn't care if you're confident."
Dudley blinked up at him, then burst into laughter.
Arthur couldn't help but laugh too.
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Arthur's world might have been small, but he filled it with purpose. He liked the feeling of doing things properly — folding clothes neatly, sweeping the porch without being asked, making sure Dudley shared at least some of his toys.
He didn't know why it mattered so much to him; it just did. Something deep inside told him order, care, and discipline mattered. That doing things right, even small things, meant something.
He was still a child, though — and not without mischief. When Vernon left his newspaper lying open, Arthur once swapped the front page with the classifieds and pretended not to know how it happened. Vernon had grumbled all morning before catching the grin on Arthur's face.
"You think you're clever, eh?" he'd said.
Arthur shrugged innocently. "I think you read too fast."
Even Vernon couldn't help laughing at that.
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As the months rolled by, the rhythm of their days never changed much. Too much chatter at breakfast. Dudley had endless questions. Petunia insisted on clean floors and a tidy house. Vernon always had proud stories to tell about his drills.
But underneath it all, Arthur sometimes felt a faint hum — a sense that life was moving toward something unseen. It wasn't fear. More like quiet anticipation.
Sometimes, when he lay in bed after Dudley had fallen asleep, Arthur would feel that strange awareness again — a warmth that wasn't from the blanket, a pulse that wasn't his heart. He didn't have words for it yet, but it was there: a connection between his mind, his body, and something deeper that stirred when he was still.
Then the feeling would fade, and he'd roll over and fall asleep, the way any five-year-old should.
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On the night of 31 October 1981, the wind howled through Privet Drive. The moon hung pale above the rooftops, and the street was silent except for the occasional rustle of leaves.
Arthur slept soundly, one arm flung across his pillow, dreams chasing him in scattered bursts. He dreamed of falling rain, screeching tires, a woman's scream — himself shouting. He turned once, brow furrowing, and then the dream softened — a quiet street, a small house, a baby's giggle.
But tonight was different. He dreamed of something new — a woman pleading, cruel laughter, a flash of green light, a child crying somewhere distant. Outside, far beyond Little Whinging, the world shifted. A dark power fell. A legend began.
Arthur Dursley stirred in his sleep, as though some part of him had heard it. He woke up startled.
And within him something awoke too – the past life, the last five years and the dread and resolve for the future.
And from here, his real story begins — the legend of the new Dursley.
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End of Chapter 3 — The Boy Who Wasn't In The Story