You Never Could Tell...

Fuschia Wilkerson, the seventy-year-old founder of Little Whinging's Garden Club and owner and caretaker of Privet Drive's most esteemed flowerbeds, woke up in the night with a cough.

Mrs. Wilkerson hobbled down the hall in her natty floral-print bathrobe, mumbling to herself and patting a loose curler back into place. She filled a glass of water from the tap and trundled sleepily back up the narrow stair.

Mr. Wilkerson mumbled from his side of the bed. "Y'll'right, dear?"

"Yes, Frederick." Mrs. Wilkerson sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her water. It was cool, and soothed her scratchy throat quite nicely. Suddenly, lights flared outside the window.

"Frederick? What's that?"

Frederick, Mrs. Wilkerson's nearsighted, arthritic husband, sat up in bed and squinted out the window, raising a hand to shield his rheumy eyes.

"Looks like 'eadlights, dear."

"Hmm."

The elderly couple watched as the light, now a recognizable pair of headlights indeed, wobbled just outside the neighbor's window.

Frederick squinted, and hobbled over to the window. "Looks like a Ford Anglia there, dear."

"Oh, I hope it isn't puce. I do despise that color," Mrs. Wilkerson commented mildly. She yawned and put down the glass of water.

"Turquoise," grunted Mr. Wilkerson, and made his way from the window back into bed.

A precious few minutes later, the noise of an engine being revved jolted Mrs. Wilkerson from the beginnings of a pleasant doze, causing her to turn her cow-like eyes toward the window.

"I do believe they've just pulled out the windowframe," she commented in the breezy voice employed by those who still believe they are dreaming.

"Mmm," grunted Frederick.

Muffled shouts came from the residence next door.

"Sounds 'k th' Dursley man," mumbled Frederick.

"I'm quite sure Mr. Dursley would never--" began Mrs. Wilkerson. She tried to sound sharp and proper, as her wide-awake self would, but her tired, foggy brain made it difficult.

"That ruddy owl!"

"Did 'e jus' say ... 'owl?'" asked Frederick, sitting up in bed.

The Wilkersons listened intently for a while. The lights grew dimmer and further away, but Mrs. Wilkerson was certain she could hear one final comment shouted into the still night.

"See you next summer!"

"Sounded like that bloody nephew o' his," Frederick mumbled, lying back down and pulling the quilted comforter up to his chin.

"Perhaps," agreed Fuschia, her eyes closing as she lowered herself onto the mattress next to her husband. "He does go to St. Brutus's, you know..."

"Y' never know what to expect, kids these days," said Frederick sleepily. "An' din't I al's say 'e did 'ave a few screws loose..."

The Dursleys may have been a respectable family, but Mrs. Wilkerson had learned that you never could tell what to expect from that reprobate they kept for the summers. Hadn't she always told Frederick that the boy was trouble? Those from dubious origins couldn't help but being criminals, she always said. Fuschia Wilkerson snuggled down into her bed. She would take it up with Mrs. Dursley tomorrow at the garden club meeting, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.