Archive of Our Own ^beta

It doesn’t matter — gasp — how hard you hit me — gasp — you’ll never –!

WHAM!

Dudley sat bolt upright. Drenched in cold sweat, he was breathing like he’d just gone three rounds in the ring against a rhinoceros, because even knowing that he was at home, in his bed, alone, he could not stop gasping. 

It was now automatic: he looked to the window. Outside it was pitch black, but he could just make out a few stars through the window. His fingers released the bed covers clenched in his fists. His breathing slowed. 

Stars. 

It wasn’t real. Not this time. 

He lay back down, pulling the covers up to his chest, his body still shaking with tremors. He stared unseeingly at the ceiling, waiting for the shivers to subside. 

He hated this. He hated feeling weak and pathetic, and Harry had fucked off to who cares where, which meant Dudley couldn’t even pummel the shit out of him to make him pay for it all.

But then, as suddenly as it had come, the wave of anger dissipated as reality caught up to him: Dudley hadn’t managed to hit Harry in years, and worse, he didn’t even have the guts to. He’d only managed it that night fuelled by panic and because Harry had been distracted by something and hadn’t made to run. And even if Dudley could bring himself to try now… Harry would just do it all again. He could make Dudley relieve the nightmare of never being happy again every single day if he wanted. 

Dudley turned over and curled up under the covers. The thing was… it already was a nightmare he was living through every day. Each day was like pushing through treacle, forcing himself to do those ordinary things like get up, eat, beat someone up and come home, just so no-one would look at him too closely. If he didn’t have to worry about his gang and his parents, he wouldn’t move from this bed. It was so much effort to pretend that nothing had changed.

And Harry had just swanned off, not even bothering to fix what he’d done before he’d gone, like the fucking arsehole he was, leaving Dudley broken and useless until next summer, and that was assuming that Harry could even be persuaded to fix him when he came back. 

Except… 

“They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban.”

Dudley frowned angrily and turned over again, glaring at the uncurtained window. He knew what he’d seen, and besides, everyone knew that Harry was a dirty little liar, so just because Mum had heard of these Dementies that Harry claimed had done something, didn’t mean that they did what Harry said they did. 

But… 

Dudley turned over again, growling. It was stupid to be thinking about this! He was never gonna be able to know if it had been Harry or one of those fucking Dementies. Mum didn’t seem to know much about them — that she’d ever even heard of them seemed mad — and knowing Mum, she wouldn’t ever let the topic be brought up again. There was no hope in hell of finding anything out from her about them. And he would sooner punch himself in the gut than ask Harry about anything to do with that rubbish; Harry always got this really smarmy look on his face when talking about it and spoke to him like he was stupid, like it was stupid to not know anything about all that nonsense. And apart from Mum and Harry, there was no one else to ask. 

Dudley sighed angrily, turned over for the last time, and settled into an uneasy sleep. 

As he had been doing for a few weeks now, Dudley found himself begging off his gang’s usual evening activities the next day. 

“Aw, c’mon, Big D!” Malcolm wailed, and the rest of his gang quickly chorused in.

“Yeah D, it’s not the same without you!”

“You know you want to, Dud!”

Dudley shook his head, pretending to look disappointed.

“Sorry,” he grunted, shrugging. “Can’t. I’ve—” he quickly searched for an excuse that wasn’t lame as shit, “— got a semi-final in London tomorrow and we’ve got to make the trip tonight to be there in time for the morning.”

They didn’t even question it.

“Aw man, Dud, you didn’t tell us you’d entered in a competition in London!” Piers said, awed. 

“Fuck, good luck, D!” Gordon said, slapping him on the back. 

Dudley shrugged again, hoping it looked uncaring in a cool way. 

“We’ll see you when you get back, Big D,” Malcolm said, waving as Dudley turned to leave.

“Yeah,” Dudley echoed, waving back over his shoulder.

He turned the corner onto Magnolia Crescent and kept walking until he reached the alleyway that led to Wisteria Walk, where he stopped. It was time to try again.

He turned to face the alleyway head on, clenching his fists as he stared down it. There were no street lamps lighting the way, and it was impossible to see all the way down to the end of it. Dudley’s heart started to pound in his chest. 

It was stupid. Harry wasn’t here, so there was nothing to be scared of. 

Dudley looked up to the sky; he could see a small number of stars twinkling furiously against the purple-brown background. So even if Harry wasn’t a massive liar, there were none of those Dementies here either. 

Yet his feet refused to move forward. 

After only a few moment’s struggle, Dudley growled in frustration and turned on the spot viciously. He would have to take the long way round, just like he had ever since that night. Pathetic. 

Dragging his feet angrily, he was about halfway down Magnolia Crescent when he spotted her, shopping bags full of tinned cat food at her feet, unlocking her front door: Mrs. Figg. 

He stopped and stared. 

Mrs. Figg had been there that night. She’d said… a lot of things. But, importantly, she’d certainly seemed to know about… all that stuff. Could she…?

“Oi!” he found himself shouting at her. He cursed himself immediately; he didn’t know what the fuck he’d been thinking, but now she was turning to face him, eyes narrowed. Well, now he was in it, he might as well power on. 

He half-jogged over to her front garden and stood awkwardly by her grey picket fence. 

“Mrs. Figg,” he said reluctantly, trying to appear polite. She said nothing in return, but put one wizened hand on her bony hip. “Can I, uh, talk to you?”

“You are,” she said drily. 

“No,” Dudley said, licking his lips, “I mean… Can I talk to you about… about you-know-what?”

For a moment, her eyes narrowed slightly and she looked almost confused, but a second later, realisation swept over her features.

“I suppose you’d better come in,” she said curtly, and turned away to bring the shopping bags into the house, leaving the door open behind her. 

Cautiously, Dudley unlatched the fence gate and closed it behind him.

“Hurry up!” she snapped, her voice emanating from the open door. “You’re letting all the hot air in!”

He hurried after her voice and shut the door behind him once he was across the threshold. He followed the sound of her rustling through the shopping bags into the kitchen. She had her back to him, and didn’t seem to care he was there, so he pulled out one of the white, wooden seats under the counter and sat down, waiting for her to finish unpacking. 

He couldn’t help thinking that this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but something deep inside him, some feeling that he couldn’t put a name to, stopped him from leaving.

Finally, Mrs. Figg turned around, a mug of tea in her hand, and saw him sitting at the kitchen island. 

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you,” she muttered. 

Behind her, Dudley could see a packet of biscuits. He stared at them pointedly, hoping she would offer them up, but she didn’t move. 

“Well?” she asked impatiently. 

Dudley’s mouth went dry. He really hadn’t thought this far ahead, and now he wasn’t sure he could force the words past his throat, particularly because he wasn’t sure what the words should be. Should he ask her what Harry had done? Or pretend that he believed Harry's lies? 

His brain always felt like treacle when he had to think things out like this; he usually preferred to just beat a problem into submission. 

“What’s a Dementy?” he blurted out finally. 

Mrs. Figg’s spoon clinked against the mug as she stirred her tea. 

“Dementors guard the wizarding prison, Azkaban.”

Dudley’s hands curled into fists. Was that all anyone would ever say about them?

But she continued, “They suck the happiness out of everything,” and Dudley’s lungs suddenly felt tight. 

“What… what do you mean?” he choked.

She cast him a sharp glance. 

“You know what I mean,” she said, spoon still tinkling against the ceramic mug. “You felt one.”

Dudley couldn’t speak. The casual tone with which she spoke about that night took his breath away. She didn’t seem to understand this, and continued talking.

“They take more than happiness, actually, but that’s the thing that easiest to realise is missing,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, carefully pushing the spoon to one side so it didn’t hit her in the face. “They take hope, and determination, too. That’s the most dangerous thing about them; if they get too close, even if you have the power to overcome them, they take away your belief in that power.”

Hope... Determination...

Now that she said it, Dudley was suddenly aware that they were missing, like an amputated arm he hadn’t even noticed. It seemed so obvious now that they must have been lacking. After all, happiness was simple to replace if you believed that things would get better. But he didn’t believe that anymore; he couldn’t overcome the feeling that every new day would be as bleak and miserable as the one before. 

But she’d mentioned power.

“How do you beat them?” he demanded. 

Dudley didn’t like the look of pity she gave him. It was out of the side of her eyes, like she thought he was stupid or something.

“Well?” he asked, glaring back at her.

“Magic,” she said simply, and Dudley flinched. “What are you jerking around for, boy?” she snapped. 

“Y-y-you said…” he stammered, lifting a finger to point at her accusingly. 

“Magic?”

Dudley spasmed again. 

“It’s not a dirty word, you know,” she said coolly. 

Wasn’t it? It certainly couldn’t be said in his house. 

“If anyone should be jerking around like a marionette when the word ‘magic’ is used, it should be me,” she said, nose wrinkling. 

“Why’sat?” Dudley muttered, eyes on his fists on the counter, so she couldn’t see him jump when she said the word again. 

“I’m a squib, or did you not hear me tell your cousin that?”

“What’sat?” Dudley said, glancing up for a second. 

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.

“Of course you wouldn’t know,” she sighed. “It means I haven’t got any magic. Or that I haven’t got enough to cast any spells, that’s what it really means. But that amounts to ‘no magic’ for some people — to ‘no right to learn anything about your heritage’.” She breathed out heavily through her nostrils. “Honestly, with all of Dumbledore’s crusades, you would have thought he could have spared a moment for the squib’s movement by now, but I suppose the werewolf cause was more important!” 

She looked at Dudley out of the corners of her eyes, who had no idea what the fuck she was on about, but tried to appear that he both understood and cared so she’d keep talking.

“Of course, I’m all for the werewolf cause!” she continued, still eyeing Dudley. “Don’t have anything against the things, of course not!” she sniffed. “Only one night a month. They can’t help it. But I’m just saying that if Dumbledore was going to start somewhere, humans would have been nice.” 

Dudley grunted, in what he hoped was a seemingly supportive manner. 

“Anyway,” Mrs. Figg continued, “my point is, I’ve got much more reason to hate the word magic than you do.”

Dudley bit back on his retort that Harry gave him plenty of reason to hate the word magic. The little he remembered of Mrs. Figg from that night made him think that she probably liked Harry a lot more than she liked him. Well, he didn’t need her to like him to get the information he wanted out of her. 

“So it’s like a s-spell or summin’?” he prompted, wanting to get back to the important stuff.  “To beat the Dememtors?”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes. Expecto patronum,” she said slowly.

Expecto patronum! 

Expecto patronum! 

EXPECTO PATRONUM!

A burst of light through his eyelids.

“You need an extremely powerful happy memory to create one,” Mrs. Figg was saying, but it was like Dudley was hearing her through a long tunnel.

He couldn’t open his eyes to look at the light; his eyelids were too heavy. Cold was gripping at his wrists wrapped around his face. The cold almost felt like hands. 

“It’s very impressive…”

The voices were echoing around his head in a cacophony of noise and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe...

DUDLEY? DUDLEY!

If I ever catch you giving that freak something of ours again–!

I… don’t… want… him… t-t-to come! He always sp-spoils everything!

DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!

He’s a lazy, good-for-nothing boy, Diddums. Only good boys get nice things.

Think you’re better than me, huh? 

It doesn’t matter – gasp – how hard you hit me – gasp – you’ll never – !

GET IT!

Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend?

“Well?”

Dudley jerked back to reality, his fists clenched, his breathing short and laboured. 

“Well, what?” he snapped, more concerned with trying to control his breathing than whatever the fuck she was on about now. 

“Were you listening to a word I was saying?” Mrs. Figg asked, lip curling.

“Yes,” Dudley snarled, his fingernails biting into his palms now. 

“So you understand he saved your life then.”

“He what?”

For a split second, he didn’t believe it. Then, thinking of the voices, he wasn’t so sure.

“He could have left you there,” she said calmly. “He cast the patronus and saved himself. Then he turned round and saved you too.”

“Why?”

He wasn’t really even asking her. Dudley wouldn’t have looked back for Harry and why should he? Harry wasn’t his problem. 

“Because that’s who he is,” Mrs. Figg shrugged.

“What d’you mean?” Dudley demanded. 

She looked at him funny.

“It’s what he does. He saves people.”

“What d’you mean?” Dudley said again, annoyed. 

She stared at him. 

“Do you know anything?”

Dudley bristled.

“I know Maths and stuff!”

“I don’t mean that, you stupid boy! I mean the important stuff!”

“Don’t call me stupid!” he snapped. He knew he shouldn’t have, it was so fucking idiotic to leave an opening like that, but he hated it when people treated him like he was stupid.

She put her mug down heavily on the surface behind her; the spoon clinked against the mug loudly and Dudley had to stop himself from flinching.

“Fine,” she said. 

He watched her warily, waiting for her to continue, but she said nothing. 

“Fine?” he asked, cautiously.

“I won’t,” she said simply.

He didn’t understand what sort of trickery this was. He waited a moment longer for the knockout punch, but it never came. So, warily, he prepared for the questioning to begin again. Honestly, it seemed like he’d been here for hours and yet somehow he still hadn’t got all the answers he needed. Probably because it was turning out that there were a lot more questions needing answers than he’d expected.

“What’s the important stuff?” he asked gruffly. 

“Do you know anything about Harry, apart from what happens at your house?” 

How was this the important stuff?

“No.”

“I see,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to start at the beginning then.” She took a deep, long-suffering breath. “You know, of course, that Harry’s parents were murdered—”

“No they weren’t,” Dudley interrupted. 

She stared at him in evident shock.

“Yes, they were,” she said finally.

“No they weren’t,” Dudley insisted. “They died in a car crash.”

She stared at him for another few seconds. Then, without any warning, she began pacing the kitchen, moving so animatedly that Dudley automatically drew back. 

“Died in a car crash! I ask you! Lily and James Potter!” she exclaimed, bony arms flailing wildly in exasperation.

She didn’t even seem to be talking to him, but Dudley felt the need to defend himself.

“S’what my Mum and Dad said!”

“Oh, well I’m sure if your Mum and Dad said it, it must be true,” she scoffed. 

“My Mum and Dad don’t lie to me!” Dudley snapped.

“Oh, maybe not to you, but to Harry?”

Dudley opened his mouth to reply, but some small niggling doubt stopped him from speaking and he closed his mouth again. His parents had made out for many years that they didn’t know why weird things happened around Harry, and certainly hadn’t told either of them about… about the M-word, even though it became obvious once that giant man broke into the house on the rocks that they’d always known it was real. And… and that giant had said that Harry’s parents had been murdered by some mad person, but Dad had said it was all a load of rubbish, and who was he supposed to believe, his Dad or some stranger who broke into a house in the middle of the night? But if Mrs. Figg was also saying it was true…

“Okay,” he grunted. “Maybe they did. I dunno. So what?”

She didn’t seem to appreciate his grudging acceptance, but she rolled her shoulders and continued with her story.

“They were murdered by a dark wizard. No one knows the complete truth behind the reason why, but it’s said that he went after them because there was a prophecy that Harry was destined to be his downfall.”

It was so surreal to be sitting in the middle of a perfectly ordinary kitchen talking about a something as unbelievable as a prophecy, not to mention a prophecy implying that Harry was someone important , when he was just Dudley’s annoying, good-for-nothing, delinquent cousin. 

… His annoying, good-for-nothing, delinquent cousin who may have saved his life.

“There’s a spell that will kill anyone it’s cast at; there’s never been anyone who has survived it. That’s how he killed Harry’s parents.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “But when he tried to use it on Harry… it didn’t work.”

She seemed to look to him for a reaction, so he, half-heartedly, said: “Oh.” She shook her head.

“Of course you wouldn’t understand the importance of it. It’s fine,” she added, as she saw Dudley preparing to be offended. “You just can’t imagine… Wizards have been around for tens of thousands of years, and in all those millions of wizards, and millions of victims of the curse, Harry is the first person to ever survive it… And he was only a baby. No-one knows how he did it, but the curse rebounded and hit the dark wizard instead.”

“Oh,” Dudley said again, only this time, he really meant it. 

“That’s when he was sent to you, of course,” she continued. “You probably never wondered about it but… It was supposed to be for his safety.” Her eyes looked very old and sad. “Dumbledore— you know Dumbledore?” she broke off.

Dudley shook his head. 

“He’s a very powerful wizard; the only person this dark wizard ever feared,” she said, waving a hand nonchalantly, as though this were a boring distraction from the true story. “Very intelligent. Anyway, though the dark wizard disappeared, Dumbledore always thought that the dark wizard would return. Harry would have been his first target.” She pursed her lips. “So he left Harry with you.” She opened her mouth, then shook her head and said, “Eventually Harry went to Hogwarts. But the dark wizard had been gathering strength, and managed to persuade a teacher at the school to let himself be possessed.”

Dudley’s eyes widened. Harry treated him like a wimp for being scared of the M-word, when everything he ever heard about it just made it sound more powerful and terrifying. Fucking! Possession!

“Dumbledore had agreed to look after a powerful magical object that year: a philosopher’s stone. A stone that grants riches and eternal life,” she added, seeing Dudley’s face. “The dark wizard was after it – he had no body, and he planned to use the stone to get one. Harry found out and…” She seemed to need a moment here, looking away from him to the garden visible through the white french doors. 

“And?” Dudley prompted, when he could finally stand it no longer. There was a slight pause, and then she continued:

“He and his friends went after the wizard.” She turned to face him, eyes glittering like diamonds. “Do you understand? Three eleven-year-old children went after the most feared, the most powerful…” She trailed off hopelessly. “You know they don’t even say his name? People feared this dark wizard so much that 15 years later, they still refuse to say his name. You know what they call him instead? You-Know-Who. You-Know-Who, because there has never been another dark wizard in living memory who has ever caused the death, the destruction, the fear , that he caused.”

Honestly, it was like hearing a story about a terrible dictator in another country. Dudley knew all the words she was saying must be true, but the situation seemed so remote to him that he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. 

Mrs. Figg swallowed, took a deep breath, and continued:

“The stone was protected, of course, and one of Harry’s friends was hurt, and the other… the other had to turn back, and Harry… Harry went on alone.”

Dudley tried to picture it: his eleven year old bratty cousin going up against the most feared undead in the world, by himself. Was it enough imagine the fear he felt when he saw Harry’s wand pointed at him and multiply it by a thousand?

“No one knows what happened there except Harry, the dark wizard, and Dumbledore.”

“What about the teacher? The one the dark wizard was possessing?” Dudley frowned.

“Dead,” she replied, simply. 

Dudley recoiled. 

“Dead? Who killed him?” he demanded.

“I can only guess,” she said, lips pursed, “but I imagine Harry and the teacher fought, and Harry won, and the dark wizard, You-Know-Who, abandoned him to die. He has no mercy, you see,” she explained. “Anyone who failed him, especially anyone who was already close to useless to him, might as well die in his eyes.”

Dudley tried to remember what Harry had been like after their first years at secondary school, but it was so long ago, and Harry had always been so unimportant to him, that he couldn’t recall anything at all. 

“Harry went back next year, as you know—”

“There’s more?” Dudley asked, shocked. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. 

Dudley stared at her. His cousin had faced the most feared and powerful undead at eleven and lived, and that wasn’t the end of it?

He glanced out of the window, to the rapidly darkening sky, and a shiver ran through him. He couldn’t stay here any longer.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said gruffly, pushing his chair away from the island. 

To his surprise, she didn’t try to stop him. She didn’t even say anything. She only watched him as he headed for the door, unlatched it, and stepped out into the cool dusk. With only a brief backwards glance, Dudley set off for home, praying that he beat the arrival of night.

Dudley was awake and watching the window when the sun dawned above the horizon. It had been another one of those nights, and it was going to be another one of those days. Days where the hours bled into one and stretched on to eternity. So it must have been hours later when he heard his mum bustling along the corridor, humming to herself. This was his sign to get up and move before she noticed something was wrong. 

Back before it had happened, she would have left him to sleep for hours. Now though, she felt the need to compulsively check on him, popping her head round the door and hovering over him wherever he went inside the house. He learned to be constantly prepared; ready to act normal. 

The first few days after had been the hardest. Everything had seemed so flat and grey. Slipping out of reality had happened like breathing. 

His mum hadn’t noticed, not really. But every so often, in the middle of one of his episodes, she would call softly, as fragile as glass, “Diddy?” and he would crawl back in and pretend he wasn’t slowly drowning. He got so good at it that she eventually stopped asking. 

Dudley hoisted himself off his bed and made the slow gradual movement towards getting dressed. When he finally opened the door, he almost walked straight into his mum, who was standing outside, arm outstretched, reaching for the doorknob. 

“Oh, Diddy!” she exclaimed, flustered. “I was just coming in to check on you.”

“Well, I’m up,” he answered, somewhat flatly. She was always hovering and sometimes he couldn’t help but wish she’d hovered a little more before, when he needed someone looking out for him, and that she’d hover a little less now, when all he wanted to do was curl up in his room, alone. 

“Breakfast is on the table,” she said quickly, absentmindedly running her hands down her flowery apron.

Dudley tried not to wrinkle his nose: he just knew it was going to be another disgusting meal of melon and grapefruit slices. Mum had started cutting them into stars in the hope of gaining more appreciation for the meal from him and Dad. It wasn’t working. 

“Sure,” he grunted, and shuffled down the stairs. 

Dad was sitting at the table with a newspaper open in front of him, the melon and grapefruit slices duly ignored.

Dudley slid into his seat, laying one elbow on the table to hold his head to the side. He lazily reached for his fork and picked up one of the stars from the plate before him. Spinning the fork slowly, he chewed each of the legs of the star in turn and popped the centre into his mouth. It was slimy going down and settled deep in his stomach like a rock. 

His mum followed him into the kitchen and sat opposite him. She smiled brightly and falsely. 

“I was thinking of going to shops today,” she announced. “Do you want to come with me, Diddy?”

“I can’t,” Dudley said quickly, before he’d even thought of an excuse. His mum’s smile dropped slightly, and Dudley hurried to think of something to add.  “I’m supposed to be meeting at Piers’ for training.”

That seemed to do the trick. His mum smiled waterly at him; she had always tried to support his forays into boxing and similar activities, calling him her ‘big, strong man’. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was right now. 

“In fact,” Dudley said, stuffing the remaining slices of melon and grapefruit in his mouth, “I’b bedda go now…”

He eyed the stars on his dad’s plate; the things were disgustingly unpleasant, but it was the only food he was going to get. With Dad’s nose was still in the newspaper, Dudley nicked a couple of slices off his plate too, shoving them quickly into his mouth. His mum smiled and didn’t rat him out.

Dudley was soon out on the street, and that was when he realised what a terrible idea this was. He’d told his crew that he would be in London for the next few days, which meant the last thing he wanted to do was be spotted by them. That ruled out any of the usual haunts. He might be safe for a few moments outside his house, as his friends lived on the other side of Magnolia Crescent, but he couldn’t dawdle for long. 

He started walking automatically without much thought to the destination. He knew this was stupid, but he felt too much like a sitting duck outside his house; at any moment, his mum could poke her nose outside and ask why he wasn’t already on his way to Piers’.

As he headed further up the road, a idea slowly started to form in his mind. He instantly rejected it; he knew there was a difference between a moment of madness and whatever it would be if he went back there. The last thing he wanted to do was return. 

And yet… 

There had been some sort of strange understanding at the house. He'd no longer felt like a ghost, moving through the town unseen, going through the motions of what he had been. It had felt… real, in a way nothing truly had since that night. 

In the end, though, the decision was made for him. He was already outside the grey picket fence and he didn’t have long to hesitate; if his Gang caught him here, he’d never hear the end of it. He glanced over his shoulder to check there was no one around, and then unlatched the gate, pushed it open and quickly closed it behind him. It was almost a half-jog to the door.

He knocked sharply, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. He felt too exposed, like the right hook could come swinging his way any second now.

There was an impatient call from within: “It’s open!”

Without waiting for further invitation, he pushed the door open and quickly slammed it behind him. He stood by the door, breathing heavily, wondering, even now, if it was too late to leave. 

“Are you going to dawdle there all day, boy?”

The caustic tone should have rankled him. If he was honest with himself, perhaps it still did a bit. Yet there was a larger part of him that appreciated the brutality of it: there was no caution; no quiet wondering whether poor, pathetic, broken Diddy was okay. Dudley let out the breath caught in his throat, and continued further into the house.

Mrs. Figg was sitting in the living room on one of the flowery armchairs that faced the sliding doors leading out to the garden. She glanced over her shoulder briefly to look at him, then returned to staring out at the garden. Dudley slipped into the armchair next to her and sank right down into the cushions. 

“Thought you’d make yourself at home, did you?” she muttered. 

“No thanks to you,” Dudley retorted, but he didn’t think either of them really meant it. 

Silence settled between them. It was surprisingly peaceful watching the birds flit from tree to tree, the flowers dancing in the summer breeze, the clouds float on by.

It felt almost natural when he finally said it, as though they were two friends with nothing better to do than laze around and have casual conversation.

“You said there was more.”

“I did,” Mrs. Figg responded.

Neither of them had looked at each other. 

“Will you tell me?” Dudley asked finally.

It still didn’t seem real, all this terrible adventure his cousin had apparently had. But...

Mrs. Figg drew a deep breath in, reaching her arms out in front of her and splaying out her fingers, as though she were a cat stretching. With a sigh, she relaxed back into her armchair. 

“Harry’s second year,” she began, “was more of an ordeal.”

Dudley stared at her. More of an ordeal than defeating the world’s most terrible undead at eleven years old? 

Mrs. Figg looked at him sharply out of the corner of her eyes, and Dudley closed his apparently open mouth. 

“To start with, there were several petrifications throughout the year— a cat and several students were found frozen, as though made from stone,” she added, side-eyeing Dudley. “Most of the students rather suspected Harry, even after one of his best friends was petrified.”

“Why’d they think it was Harry?” Dudley frowned. 

He wouldn’t deny that he’d always panicked when he thought Harry was about to do… something , because to be honest, the last time that stuff had been directed at him, it had been horrible. Harry might have found it funny, but Dudley had decidedly not. He’d had to go through a series of embarrassing consultations, several hours of surgery that he didn’t want repeated and, even after that, he couldn’t sit down without pain for months. 

Despite the instinctive fear though, Dudley wasn’t sure what Harry could actually do with that stuff: Harry hadn’t even been the one to give him the tail after all. In fact, now that Dudley thought about it, Harry hadn’t ever used that stuff against him — except that time at the zoo when Harry had set a snake on him. 

“Well, apparently the boy can speak to snakes, you see—” Mrs. Figg started, looking a little flustered

“I know,” Dudley interrupted. “He set one on me once. It was my birthday,” he added petulantly. Perhaps he was still not over that one. 

Mrs. Figg stared at him.

“You knew?”

“Well yeah, what’s the deal?” Dudley huffed. “S’all magic isn’t it?”

Then he blinked in surprise; he hadn’t flinched at the M-word. 

“Well,” Mrs. Figg said, straightening up in her armchair and brushing her legs absentmindedly. She was quite pink. “Well, yes, I suppose, it’s just… Well, it has rather an… unsavoury reputation, parseltongue.”

“That’s stupid,” Dudley scoffed. 

“Well, anyway,” Mrs. Figg said distractedly, not looking at him. “That’s why people distrusted him. Then…”

Dudley leaned over the armrest, closer to Mrs. Figg. Then… what?

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Figg said after a moment, shaking her head. “I know it all turned out alright but… She only survived because a twelve year old boy was brave enough — or foolish enough — to go after her.”

“Who?” Dudley demanded, unable to stand the wait, “What happened? Why did Harry go after her?”

Mrs. Figg sighed and turned to him.

“Someone Harry knew — his best friend’s sister — was taken. Not petrified: taken. And,” Mrs. Figg bit her lip, “a message was left behind... ‘Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever’.

“The Chamber of Secrets was thought to be a legend. It was said that one of the founders of Hogwarts hid it in the castle, but in the thousand or so years that Hogwarts had been around, no-one had ever found it. Not even Dumbledore! So it was really, truly believed to be just a legend. 

“And then she was taken… the school was to be shut down — it couldn’t continue with all the petrifications and now a girl being stolen away… But Harry… Harry figured out where the Chamber was and he went after her.

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know many of the details on this one, but I do know this: he found a piece of You-Know-Who down there. You-Know-Who had been controlling a basilisk — a fifty foot snake that can kill with a single glance. That’s what had been petrifying the students. Harry fought and killed the basilisk with only a sword and went on to defeat You-Know-Who for the third time at twelve years old.” She looked out to the garden, her eyes focused on something in the distance. “There were older wizards who couldn’t even manage it once.”

Dudley stared at Mrs. Figg as he tried to process all this information. He was finding it quite difficult to reconcile the brave and powerful person Mrs. Figg was describing with his skinny, squirty, shabby cousin. 

But then he remembered…

EXPECTO PATRONUM!

DUDLEY? DUDLEY!

DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!

GET IT!

… and maybe he could. 

A sudden sense of emotion took him. Why hadn’t Harry ever said anything about all of this? 

… Well, perhaps it was obvious why. 

But why had they never noticed that Harry was different after his first years at secondary school? Surely defeating the world’s most evil undead wizard twice, not to mention a fifty foot snake that could kill with just a look, surely that would change someone? So why hadn’t they noticed?

… But this year, he had noticed something.

Dudley swallowed thickly. He’d heard Harry screaming in his sleep almost every night, begging someone not to kill some Cedric, pleading to his parents for help…

And he’d thrown it in Harry’s face.

Dudley could feel something terrible stirring deep in his gut. Harry hadn’t had nightmares after his first or second year, of that he was sure. Yet this year, he’d returned angry and bitter and… broken.  

Maybe he and Harry were more alike now than he could have ever thought possible.

But what on Earth had happened to Harry last year? What could be worse than facing the most feared wizard in the world, twice, and living to tell the tale?

Mrs. Figg seemed ready to continue. Dudley feared what he might hear next.

“His third year,” Mrs. Figg started, stretching her hands above her head and settling into a new position on the armchair, “was rather tame, all things considered. It was thought that someone, Sirius Black—”

“His godfather?” Dudley interrupted. “The murderer?”

Mrs. Figg blinked at him. 

“How did you know…?” She shook her head and replied: “Yes, his godfather — but not a murderer.”

Dudley frowned, but Mrs. Figg was already speaking before he could say any more. 

“It was thought Black had betrayed Harry’s parents to You-Know-Who— that he’d been a spy for the other side and he was the reason Harry’s parents were murdered. So when he escaped Azkaban—” 

Dudley knew what that was: he’d heard enough people telling him what the Dementors guarded. He shuddered at just the thought of them. He managed to shake it out, but still felt quite cold after their mention.

“— everyone thought he was going after Harry— to finish the job, you see,” Mrs. Figg continued, oblivious. 

“But he wasn’t?” Dudley asked uncertainly.

“No, he wasn’t,” Mrs. Figg confirmed. “It had been someone else who had betrayed Harry’s parents. Black realised this person was alive and hiding out, and broke out of Azkaban to exact revenge. Well, everyone was quite alarmed by his breaking out — it wasn’t thought possible, you see, and it added to this hysteria about Black, that he’d been given such power by You-Know-Who that he could do the impossible. Anyway, the panic was such that the Ministry sent the Dementors out after him.”

Dudley’s stomach twisted: he wasn’t sure he would wish the Dementors on anyone. He felt cold and clammy just thinking about what it would be like, having to live knowing that those things would be chasing after him for the rest of his days. 

“Because it was thought Black was going after Harry, they set the Dementors outside Hogwarts and Harry turned out to be quite sensitive to them.” She raised an eyebrow. “The more terrible memories one has, the greater they affect one, you know.”

Dudley could feel that terrible stirring in his gut again. 

“He felt he had to learn how to defend against them: the patronus charm.”

Expecto patronum! 

Expecto patronum! 

EXPECTO PATRONUM!

A burst of light through his eyelids.

NO! 

Only through jamming his nails into the palms of his hands did Dudley manage to pull himself out of the memory. He was genuinely winded at the effort it took; he had to subtly take several deep breaths while Mrs. Figg was distracted with her story.

“Well, as you know, he managed it — a hugely impressive feat for a thirteen-year-old. Even more impressive was that he fought off a group of over a hundred of them while protecting Black.”

A strange feeling spread through Dudley at these words. He couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling but it seemed to originate from somewhere deep in his chest and reminded him a lot of the rush of winning a match, only it felt less full and more distant.  

“Well, Black survived because of Harry, but the traitor got away and Black had to flee. He’d wanted Harry to come live with him.”

Mrs. Figg gave him a look of some sort, but Dudley was too lost in thought to pay it much attention. What would life have been like if Black hadn’t had to flee? If Harry had gone to live with him after third year? Dudley probably would have celebrated and dumped all his stuff back into his old second bedroom; he would have thought it was great to finally get rid of his snarky old cousin, wonderful to have his room back to himself, rejoiced that he’d never have to think about magic again…

And then a year later, he would have died. 

Ice flooded through his veins, freezing his heart mid-beat. The weight of what might have been was heavy against his chest: it felt like it could be suffocating him. 

The clang of metal against ceramic pulled him back to reality. Mrs. Figg had disappeared from the armchair next to him. Dudley twisted around in his own armchair, peeking over the top to see her standing over a cup of tea, staring off into the distance. She was slowly swirling the spoon around the mug, but didn’t seem to be paying it much attention. 

Uncertain, Dudley got to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. Over her shoulder, he could see Mrs. Figg’s hands were shaking. 

“Um,” he said because the words felt foreign in his mouth, his tongue thick and uncontrollable, “are you… alright?”

Mrs. Figg jerked in response, gaze automatically flicking to Dudley, then down at the tea splashed over the counter. Grumbling to herself, she grabbed a roll of kitchen towel from the island and mopped the liquid up.

“Hungry?” she said, instead of responding to him. She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Of course you are.” 

She bustled around the kitchen, grabbing a dinner-plate and an assortment of biscuits. Humming to herself, she carefully arranged the various biscuits into a flower pattern and offered the plate to Dudley. 

“I’m… I’m on a diet,” Dudley said cautiously. 

“Pah!” Mrs. Figg scoffed. “You’ll need some sugar in you for this one. I know I will.”

 She thrust the plate of biscuits at him again. Dudley hesitantly took a chocolate digestive and nibbled it politely.

But the instant the chocolate hit his tongue, it felt like a drop of sunshine had been tipped back down his throat and burst in his stomach. As it spread through his body, from his feet to his fingertips, he felt something he hadn’t felt since the beginning of the summer. It took him a moment to put the words to it.

It was… warm and… happy?

The rest of the biscuit was crammed into his mouth in less than a second flat and he grabbed two more, shovelling them down right after. 

“What’s in these?” he finally asked, once he’d chewed and swallowed and let all three settle in his stomach. “They’re… they’re so…” He trailed off, unable to describe the now foreign feeling coursing through him. 

“Er,” Mrs. Figg said, staring at him, the plate of biscuits still outstretched. “I bought them from Tesco.” Then, unexpectedly, her eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “Is this the first time you’ve had chocolate since the Dementor attack?” 

The name of those horrible creatures barely registered; Dudley’s heart soared at the realisation.  This was the most normal he’d felt for months. It felt wonderful.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, not really sure what the question was for, but revelling in the feeling of speaking without feeling like a ten tonne weight was sitting on his chest, not needing to force the words out like they were made of lead. 

“Oh that stupid boy!” Mrs. Figg exclaimed, shocking Dudley with its exasperation. She put the plate of biscuits down on the island and shook her head, annoyed. “Honestly, they told me he was smart!” Her eyes flashed. “He didn’t offer you any chocolate?”

“Uh, no,” Dudley admitted, but he felt he had to add, “but like I said, I’m on a diet: my mum would have killed him if he’d tried. And then he disappeared a few days later anyway.” 

He scuffed the kitchen floor with his shoe. He hadn’t wanted to talk to Harry back then anyway, had still been convinced that Harry had done something to him and had let out a metaphoric breath when they’d come home one night and Harry hadn’t been there. Now, though, it seemed horrible that he hadn’t even questioned where Harry could have gone, what might have happened. Harry might have been murdered by that You-Know-Who and Dudley only would have been relieved that his cousin had vanished from his life.

He jerked his head up.

“He’s okay, isn’t he?” he asked Mrs. Figg. “He’s… he’s alive?”

Mrs. Figg regarded him carefully. 

“Yes,” she answered eventually. “He’s at school.”

Dudley let out a breath.

“Do you…” Mrs. Figg said slowly, still eyeing him. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Dudley said quickly. “No,” he repeated firmly. “I need to know.”

“I see.” Mrs. Figg straightened her back and picked the plate of biscuits up again. “Well then,” she said, and gestured towards the armchairs. 

Dudley grinned, then ran and leapt into his armchair. It was still warm from earlier. Dudley turned his head to watch Mrs. Figg enter the living room at a much slower pace. She placed the plate in her hands down on the side table to the right of her armchair and carefully lowered herself into her seat. 

She seemed to need a second to collect herself, and when she began, it was with a much quieter and hesitant tone.

“Last year, a famous historical event called the Triwizard Tournament was finally reinstated and arranged to be held at Hogwarts. Three schools take part: Hogwarts, of course, and Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. One champion is selected from each school. The champions then go through three challenges and the one who performs best is crowned the victor.

“Well,” Mrs. Figg snorted derisively, “with Harry at Hogwarts, nothing was that simple. There was supposed to be something preventing anyone under seventeen entering — it was considered far too dangerous otherwise. It wasn’t uncommon for kids to die doing it, you see.”

“Die?” Dudley repeated, horrified. 

“Yes,” she said. “Die. But they were trying to avoid all that this time with the restrictions.” She scoffed to herself and continued “Well anyway, despite the restrictions, Harry was selected as a champion. But not,” she said, leaning in to punctuate her next statement, “as one of the three champions.” She raised an eyebrow; Dudley frowned. She clarified: “Harry didn’t put his name in — someone else did.”

“Okay, so what?”

“Well, magical contracts can be tricky, and in this case, it didn’t matter that Harry didn’t put his name in or that there weren’t supposed to be four champions: Harry was forced to compete.” She huffed. “A competition deemed too dangerous for anyone under seventeen and they put a fourteen-year-old boy in. Like I said, it couldn’t be helped,” she assured him. “But anyone with half a brain knew it was no mistake Harry was chosen.”

“You-Know-Who,” Dudley said quietly. 

Mrs. Figg nodded sharply. 

“Harry had set him back in his first year but You-Know-Who managed to gather some resources over the next few years and had slipped a spy into Hogwarts for the Triwizard tournament. Well, quite a few of us, myself included, thought he’d been submitted in a broad and legitimate attempt to… well, to get rid of him. Especially after the first task turned out to be dragons.”

“Dragons!” Dudley yelped. “They exist?”

“Well, of course,” Mrs. Figg said, raising an eyebrow. “How else could there be such consistent stories of them across the world?”

Fucking. Dragons. 

The thought was both amazing and terrifying. 

“Well,” Mrs. Figg continued, wrenching him from his daydreams of riding fucking dragons, “Harry’s a very good flier, so the dragon wasn’t too much of a challenge for him in the end, thank Merlin! Honestly, if he hadn’t thought of flying, I don’t dare to think what could have happened! A fourteen-year-old boy! Against a dragon! They take a whole team to subdue them normally, you know,” she said pointedly. Then she shook her head, and continued. “Well, anyway, the next task was diving to the bottom of a Scottish lake to find something that had been taken from them — this turned out to be a person important to them.” She sighed. “Well, both of Harry’s best friends were down there, as it happened, as well as the younger sister of one of the champions and another girl from Hogwarts. Harry arrived first but refused to leave until all of them had been saved, and when no-one came for the younger sister, he took her along with his own person, with great difficulty — they weren’t supposed to take more than one, you see, so the mermaids—”

Mermaids! 

“—guarding them were not happy about it. Harry had quite a struggle.”

Was every mythical creature actually real? Dudley couldn’t help but feel for the first time that perhaps he was missing out. There was a great big world beyond his reach that he would never be able to touch, only catch glimpses of when the lighting was right and he was looking in the right direction. 

“Then,” she said, “then it was the final task.” A great shadow cast over her face, and her lips pressed together so tightly they seemed white. Her eyes met Dudley’s, searching for something. Dudley stared back, confused and unknowing. 

“It was a maze,” she said finally, eyes darting away to the carpet. “The cup at the centre. First to reach it wins. Harry and Cedric—”

A stone dropped into Dudley’s stomach at the name. 

“— the other Hogwarts champion, the real Hogwarts champion — got there at the same time. They agreed to take the cup at the same time.”

Mrs. Figg seemed unable to look at him. Her eyes stayed resolutely on the carpet as she picked at a loose thread in the arm of the armchair. 

“It was… It took them away. It wasn’t supposed to. But it took them to a graveyard, where You-Know-Who was waiting.”

Dudley’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel something building like a great wave, but he couldn’t sense what it was or where it would come from. 

“He’d only wanted Harry,” Mrs. Figg said quietly. “And with a wave of his hand…”

She shook her head, unable to continue.

“What,” Dudley begged, leaning forward. “What did he do?”

She raised her head, and Dudley could see they were hard like diamonds. 

“It only takes them a thought to kill.”

“I— He—”

But Harry wasn’t dead. 

He’d wanted Harry, but Harry wasn’t dead. 

Dudley didn’t understand.

“I told you before: he has no mercy,” Mrs. Figg said, her voice hard like she was trying to control something deeper moving within her. “He didn’t need Cedric, didn’t even care to name him. ‘Kill the spare’, he said… and then Cedric was gone.”

Dudley’s heart clenched painfully.

“Cedric?” he choked. “He killed… Cedric?”

Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend?

Dudley’s hands went to his head, pulling at his hair so fiercely it hurt.

Who’s Cedric, your boyfriend?

Stupid, stupid—!

“He bound Harry,” Mrs. Figg was saying at the end of a long tunnel. “Cut him up to use his blood to create a body. Toyed with him — made them duel. But it went wrong — something happened, I don’t know what, and Harry managed to get away. Grabbed Cedric and the cup and appeared back at the start of the maze—”

“I don’t understand,” Dudley said thickly, feeling sick. “How did he kill… How did he…?”

“They have a spell,” Mrs. Figg said, quite calmly. “The spell only Harry has ever survived, remember?”

Dudley gagged. Some magic words and you could be out without a chance to fight?

“I told you they only need a thought,” she said, sounding quite blasé about the whole thing. 

Dudley tried to swallow around the rock in his throat, but it wouldn’t budge. This dark wizard killed Cedric because he’d been there with Harry. Harry, who stayed at his house in the Summer, with his mum and dad, with him.

He suddenly noticed that his breathing was coming fast and shallow and something was twisting in his gut that felt a lot like sick. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Figg startle and get up from her armchair but he didn’t pay her much attention until he felt her bony hip settle against his arm and an awkward hand settle on his back. 

The breath in his chest hissed out of him like a squashed balloon. 

“I’m… sorry,” Mrs. Figg said, not looking at him. “I forgot how it feels when it’s all… new.”

“New?” Dudley choked out, feeling quite pale and clammy. 

“The horror of it,” she said, quirking her mouth in displeasure. “The knowledge that there are people out there who will always have power over you, that there’s nothing you can do about it.” She hesitated. “The magical world can be a scary one.”

“Yeah,” Dudley agreed weakly, clenching and unclenching his fingers to have something to focus on. He took a deep breath and forced out: “It’s not just that. I… I said something— horrible… to Harry.”

Mrs. Figg blinked, her face drawing back in surprise.

“I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

“No,” Dudley said, shaking his head. “I— I teased him about… about Cedric… about the nightmares he had.” 

Dudley swallowed thickly. It seemed so thoughtless now. He’d thought at the time that it was just some stupid dream Harry kept having, one of those dumb dreams where you thought so strongly that someone was gone that you were crying out, but then you woke up and realised the truth and laughed it off. But Harry had really been there, had really seen someone die in front of him, had fought for his life… 

Mrs. Figg hesitated a moment, but said again: “I’m sure he’ll forgive you, if you’re sorry. He’s quite forgiving.”

“I am sorry,” Dudley said fiercely, and even then, he was quite shocked to realise it was true. Because it wasn’t just about the teasing: it was about everything. It was about thinking it was okay that Mum and Dad had locked Harry in a cupboard but gave him two bedrooms; about bullying Harry so much that others refused to go near him; about laughing every time Ripper chased Harry around in tears, begging for someone to call him off; about blaming Harry for every bad thing he, Dudley, had done. There were so many things he’d done wrong, even on that night. But Harry had still saved his life. Knowing now how deep his comment about Cedric must have really cut, Dudley couldn’t help but think that was a miracle.

Perhaps Mrs. Figg was right: Harry was quite forgiving. 

“Is that it?” Dudley asked, when the lump in his throat had disappeared and he could just about stop flashing back to every mean thing he’d done to Harry. “There’s nothing after that?”

Mrs. Figg shook her head. 

“He’s back at school now and I haven’t heard anything specific. But…” she paused, looking him up and down thoughtfully. She seemed to find what she was looking for, for she said, straight-faced and flint-eyed, “It’s only going to get worse. You-Know-Who is back. And he doesn’t care about folk like us. Worse, even: he thinks we’re beneath him. Even now, he is murdering us and your — our — government is covering up. Everything has changed and folk like you are carrying on oblivious because no-one is telling you. Hell, half of that’s ‘cause the Ministry won’t even admit he’s back, covering it up like no one will question the disappearances of his enemies, of those who could even have half a hope of standing in his way.”

“How do you stand it?” Dudley choked. “How do you not…” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

“I fight,” she said, eyes like fire. 

“You?” Dudley asked thoughtlessly. 

“There are many kinds of fight in a war like this,” Mrs. Figg said, eyes locked on his. “I play my part.”

“But there's nothing I can do,” Dudley said, looking away in disgust. 

Mrs. Figg laid a firm hand on his shoulder, and in his surprise, he looked back to her. 

“There are many kinds of fight in a war like this,” she repeated firmly. Dudley’s eyes darted from her flinted eyes to the sharp turn of her mouth. “Perhaps your part is closer to home than you think.”

There was a strange lilt to her words, as though she were speaking in code. 

Dudley frowned, searching her eyes for a hint of some kind. But Mrs. Figg only patted him on the shoulder and stood up. 

“Drink?”

Dudley, slightly nonplussed, replied, “uh, water? Please,” he added as an afterthought.

He followed Mrs. Figg into the kitchen and took the glass of water she offered him. He sipped it slowly as they leant on the kitchen island in silence. He didn’t know what Mrs. Figg was thinking of, but he was spending his time digesting all he’d been told. Every so often, though, his thoughts would swing back round to that strange phrase Mrs. Figg had uttered: perhaps your part is closer to home than you think…  

Dudley had much time to consider how to handle Harry when he came back, and had finally stumbled across the idea to meet Harry at the station. Since the first time his parents had dropped Harry off at King’s Cross, which they’d combined with Dudley’s trip to the surgeon, Dudley had never seen Harry off at the station, nor picked him up. He’d wanted nothing to do with the nonsense, not to mention that it would have brought up terrible memories of the surgery, and he’d honestly seen it as a waste of time. 

Now, however, he was sure it would be the opportunity to make amends. 

“Dad,” he asked, catching his dad lounging on the sofa in front of the TV a few days before Harry’s last day of term, “can I come with you to pick up Harry?”

His dad’s head turned swiftly, surprise etched clearly upon his face. Obviously, he had not expected such a request, especially since his family tended to pretend Harry didn’t exist during the school year. 

A moment later though, false understanding dawned on his dad’s face and he grinned at Dudley encouragingly. 

“Want a trip to London, eh son?” he chortled. “What’s the occasion?”

Dudley knew there was no point being honest and saying that he only wanted to see Harry; his parents would rush him right off to the doctors to check for brain damage. He hadn’t had much of an opportunity to share with them the depths of his awakening, and part of him wasn’t sure he could find the words to make them understand. After all, they hadn’t experienced the terrible self-clarity of the Dementors and he couldn’t imagine that someone could switch gears so abruptly without it, not that he would wish it on anyone anyway. 

In any case, Dudley fumbled for a reasonable excuse that didn’t stray too far into outright lies. 

“There’s a new limited edition game coming out,” he eventually said, which was not untrue. “Only being sold in some stores and there’s one near King’s Cross.” 

“Of course,” his dad chuckled. “A new game. Well, of course you can come, son. If we leave a few hours early, that should give us enough time to pick up the game first and have some father-son bonding.”

As soon as Mum heard that Dudley wanted to go to London, she insisted on coming too, wanting to make a day of it. 

So it was that on June 28th, they all headed up in the car to London to pick up Harry. 

Dudley was still feeling pretty pleased with his plan, new video game safely stowed in the car, until they reached the barrier between Platform 9 and 10 that Dad said he always found Harry hanging around by and caught sight of at least four wizards looking directly at them. 

No matter how much he tried to stifle them, Mrs. Figg’s words floated into his mind: it only takes them a thought to kill. 

The group of wizards started marching towards them and Dudley couldn’t stop the yelp that escaped him. Managing to avoid his mum’s grasp, he slipped behind her, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. 

The wizards, however, seemed more intent on his parents than him, and, feeling safe behind his shield, Dudley’s gaze eventually drifted to Harry, who he could see tucked away behind the gang of wizards like a protected general. Dudley couldn’t see much difference between the Harry that had left after the Dementor attack and the Harry standing here now, but he knew now that that didn’t mean much. 

Eventually, the wizards finished with his parents and Harry, smiling, waved goodbye to them. Without any further words, he headed towards the car, leaving Dudley and his parents to hurry behind. 

When they arrived at the car, Dudley and Harry quickly climbed in the back, whilst his mum and dad settled into the front, Dad loudly complaining about the ridiculous fines for leaving the car too long on the short-stay bays. 

And it was at this point that Dudley realised the great hole in his plan: no-one in the car had any idea how he’d changed over the past year. Asking Harry anything that indicated he wanted to hear about magic or even Harry’s well-being would bring a storm of worry and confusion on his parents’ side, and Harry would inevitably think him to be needling for a fight. One would feed into the other and Dudley would be trapped in a hell of his own making. 

So while his dad blustered away on the horrific London traffic and bloody motorcyclists, Dudley formulated a new plan, one that he was sure could not go wrong this time: he would wait until they got home and quietly invite Harry up to his room to talk. Yes, that would have to work. 

It didn’t work. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Harry stormed off to his room and Dudley’s tentative knocks garnered no response. 

Although disappointed, Dudley shrugged it off: he had at least a month before Harry would run off to his friends, which still gave him plenty of time to make his apologies. 

Yet over the next two weeks Dudley seemed unable to catch Harry on his own. Either he was holed up in his room, refusing to come out, or he was at the dinner table with all of them, which Dudley had not changed his mind about being a terrible time and place to start a conversation about Hogwarts and all that had happened. 

So it was with a hopeless weariness that Dudley lounged out in front of the living room TV and told himself for the tenth time that tomorrow would be the day. He was about to fish for the remote and turn the screen on when he heard the doorbell right and his dad roar in response “Who the blazes is calling at this time of night?”

Dudley didn’t pay it much more mind — what didn’t set his dad off, after all — until he heard a voice having a timbre he did not recognise. He stood hesitantly from the sofa, unsure whether to make himself known or keep hidden. Then he heard the kitchen door open, presumably his mum coming out to see who was there, and decided that since everyone in the house seemed to be checking it out, he might as well too. 

He cracked the living room door open and peeked round the frame. His mouth dropped open. 

“And this must be your son Dudley?” the stranger at the door said pleasantly, smiling at him.

Dudley had now heard enough stories to know who this old man with half-moon spectacles and a waist-length silver beard tumbling down his front and glittering in the moonlight was. 

Dumbledore. 

“Shall we assume that you have invited me into your living room?”

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore pushed forwards into the living room and settled himself in an armchair near the fire. Dudley couldn’t stop staring at him, half-awed, half-terrified.

“Aren’t— aren’t we leaving, sir?” Harry asked, apparently having followed them into the room, clutching a telescope and a pair of trainers.

Leaving? Dudley jerked round to look at Harry in horror. Harry couldn’t be leaving! Dudley hadn’t had a chance to say more than two words to him yet!

Oblivious to Dudley’s turmoil, Dumbledore said, “Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first. And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle’s hospitality a little longer?”

“You will, will you?” 

His dad had followed them into the room, and from the puff of his chest and red of his cheeks, Dudley realised with dawning horror that his dad was going to try and bluster his way through this. Rooted to the spot, Dudley tried to force his mouth to open and produce words that would stop the inevitable, but nothing came. There were no words to explain that they were now standing in a room home to the most powerful wizard in the world and that they should be grateful he was asking for nothing more. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said simple, “I shall.”

In the blink of an eye, he had drawn a stick of wood and with no more than a casual flick, the sofa behind them zoomed forwards and knocked their knees out. They all collapsed on it in a heap. Another casual flick set the sofa back against the wall. 

“We may as well be comfortable,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. 

Dudley was sure he could speak for his parents when he thought that the most powerful wizard in the world showing them that he needed to raise no more than a little finger to put them exactly where he wanted them, did not constitute comfortable. 

Another swish of the wand and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honeyed liquid into each of the five glasses. Once all were full, the glasses split off and floated individually over to a particular person. 

“Madam Rosmerta’s finest, oak-matured mead,” Dumbledore announced, raising his glass to Harry’s. Harry seemed to have no problem with taking the unknown drink and sipping it. Dudley glanced to his parents, who had looked to each other in turn, and they reached a silent fearful agreement that they would not trust the mysterious liquid. 

The glasses did not seem to like being ignored, however, bumping gently against their heads for attention. This only made Dudley more certain that the last thing he wanted to do was take one. He could not speak for Harry, who clearly knew this man, but Dudley was certainly not made less fearful of the most powerful wizard in the world, who had burst into their house unannounced, forced them to sit with him, and rudely poured himself a drink without so much as a by-your-leave, by being bashed around the head by a glass of liquid he didn’t know anything about. 

“Well, Harry,” Dumbledore said, oblivious to the distress he was causing, “a difficulty has arisen which i hope you will be able to solve for us. By ‘us’, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all, I must tell you that Sirius’ will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned.”

Dudley’s heart made a funny flop and he looked to Harry uncertainly; he had suddenly realised why Harry might have locked himself in his room for the past two weeks. From the tight look on Harry’s face, Dudley was sure he had guessed right. 

“Oh, right,” Harry said, emotionless. 

“For the main part, this is fairly straightforward. You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts and you inherit all of Sirius’ personal possessions.” Dudley had a feeling that the last people Harry wanted to be hearing this in front of was all of them. “The slightly problematic part of the legacy—”

“His godfather’s dead?” Dad said loudly. Dudley could have kicked him for his lack of tact, especially when he continued: “He’s dead? His godfather?”

Each word looked like another knife in Harry’s chest. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, and continued as though Dad had not interrupted, which Dudley thought might be the first reasonable decision he’d made that evening. “Our problem, is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

“He’s been left a house?” his dad interrupted again, sounding much more interested now. 

Dudley wished the ground would swallow him up. 

“You can keep using it as Headquarters,” Harry said quickly. “I don’t care. You can have it; I don’t really want it.”

“That is generous,” Dumbledore said, which Dudley thought was quite the understatement. “We have, however, vacated the building temporarily.”

“Why?” Harry asked, brow furrowed. 

“Well,” Dumbledore said, over Dad’s sudden mutterings of annoyance at the glass of liquid now bashing against his head with quite some force, “Black family tradition…”

Dudley stopped listening at this point, firstly because he honestly didn’t give two fucks about this house or Harry’s godfather’s family traditions, but also because he too was getting quite distracted by the incessant knocking of the glasses against his head. He raised his arms above his head to try and protect his skull, but the rim of the glasses still dug quite painfully into the flesh of his arms with each hit. 

Suddenly, his dad exploded, “ Will you get these ruddy things off us?” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dumbledore said, raising the stick again to vanish the glasses. “But it would have been better manners to drink it.”

Dudley thought this soap-boxing about manners was rather rich coming from someone who had forced his way inside their house, barely acknowledged them and full-on threatened them with magic. 

“You see,” Dumbledore said, once again turning away to act like they were not even there, “if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited—”

He flicked his wand again. There was a loud crack that made Dudley jump and suddenly, crouching on the shagpile carpet, was a the dirtiest and ugliest creature Dudley had ever seen in his life. His mum shrieked; Dudley drew his legs up off the floor and on the sofa in horror. 

“What the hell is that?” his dad bellowed.

“Kreacher,” Dumbledore said, answering nothing. 

The animal, to Dudley’s even deeper horror, began to croak loudly and fiercely, “Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t, Kreacher won’t!”

The thing could fucking speak!

“As you can see, Harry,” Dumbledore said loudly over the creature’s continued screeching, “Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership.”

“I don’t care,” Harry said with an utmost disgust that surprised Dudley. “I don’t want him.”

Dudley stopped paying attention to Harry and Dumbledore at this point, not least because the thing on the carpet was screeching quite loudly by this point and it was hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Kreacher, shut up!”

Dudley didn’t understand how, but Harry’s shout seemed to have an immediate physical effect on the creature. It grabbed its throat, still furiously mouthing words, but no noise escaped. Then it threw itself onto the carpet, beating the floor with its hands and feet, looking for all the world like an eerily silent wailing child. 

With a lurch in his chest, he realised that it reminded him, minus the lack of noise, of himself in those terrible memories. It was impossible to look away from the bawling creature now. He couldn’t believe that he was once again being forced to see himself so starkly. Wasn’t once enough?

It was only when Harry jumped to his feet, grabbing his trainers and telescope, and slipped out of the room that Dudley wrenched his gaze away. He glanced automatically to Dumbledore, then to his parents, fearful of what might happen now that Harry wasn’t here. 

But his parents said nothing. Dudley could only assume that this was his dad’s way of trying to take back control: no small talk, no concedance and no anger; only thick, oppressive silence. Unfortunately. Dumbledore did not seem to care. He had begun humming to himself, twiddling his thumbs. Dudley couldn’t say he was surprised that his dad’s attempt at intimidation had failed. After all, why would such a powerful wizard be afraid of a few minutes’ silence, especially from some folk who couldn’t even defend themselves against him if they tried? 

Several times Dudley made to open his mouth to say something, but at the last second, glanced at his parents and held back. As many questions as he had about Harry and Hogwarts and You-Know-Who, and as much as he saw his parents through a new, less pleasing lens post-Dementor, he felt that he had at least support his parents’ move of silence, even being sharply aware of how little effect it was having on Dumbledore. 

Dudley could not have said how long it was until Harry appeared again but it certainly felt like it could have been hours. 

“Professor,” Harry said, eyes only on Dumbledore, “I’m ready now.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said. “Just one last thing then.” Dumbledore turned to Dudley’s mum and dad. “As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year’s time—”

“No,” his mum said suddenly, to everyone’s surprise.

“I’m sorry?” Dumbledore said, blinking in confusion.

“No,” his mum said, looking like she was sucking on a lemon, “he doesn’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley and Dudders doesn’t turn eighteen until the year after next.”

“Ah, but in the wizarding world,” Dumbledore said condescendingly, “we come of age at seventeen.”

Dad muttered something dismissive under his breath, but Dudley didn’t find the idea quite so ridiculous. After all, it was legal to fuck at sixteen, and in some ways, it probably made more sense to call someone an adult at the age by which they could have a kid. 

“Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country.” Dudley froze at the mention of magic in the house, trying his hardest not to look automatically to his parents, who he could be sure would be sour-faced in the best case scenario, and apoplectic with rage in the worst. “The wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day I left him on your doorstep fifteen years ago—”

Dudley’s eyes bugged out. What had happened this year that put Harry in even more danger than he had been before?

“—with a letter explaining about his parents’ murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own.”

Dumbledore paused here and Dudley frowned. There had been letter explaining what had happened to Harry’s parents?

“You did not do as I asked,” Dumbledore continued, and whilst there was no noticeable change in his voice or expression, there was nevertheless a feeling of frost in the air. Dudley’s parents drew him close. “You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted on the boy sitting between you.”

Dudley’s mum and dad both turned to him, confused.

“Us— mistreat Dudders? What d’you—?” Dad started furiously, turning back to Dumbledore, but Dumbledore only raised a finger and his dad was silenced as swiftly and thoroughly as Harry’s order had silenced Kreacher.

“The magic I evoked fifteen years ago,” Dumbledore continued, now uninterrupted, “means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house home. However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen —”

Dudley stared. So Harry had in fact had some sort of protection this whole time, despite his and his parents’ best attempts to make Harry unwelcome. Dudley could honestly only be grateful that they had not been more successful. For all he knew, perhaps Harry had only made it through his three encounters with You-Know-Who because they hadn’t been. But, Dudley thought, feeling quite cold, this protection was going to end soon and when it did, it might finally be the moment when You-Know-Who triumphed over Harry. 

“—in other words,” Dumbledore continued, oblivious to Dudley’s slowly churning mind, “the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time.”

He paused a moment to let that sink in. Dudley could picture his parents’ reactions, though he was steadfastly not looking at them. He could only hope that his parents would agree to let Harry come back, because if they didn’t, he would feel obliged to fight for it. 

“Well, Harry… time for us to be off,” Dumbledore said finally, standing up and brushing down his long black cloak. “Until we meet again,” he said, tipping his head to Dudley and his parents. Then, without a further word, he swept from the room. 

“Bye,” Harry said hastily and ran after Dumbledore. In a moment, he was gone. 

Dudley could only sit in shock. In less than an hour, his plans for the summer had fallen apart. And yet, perhaps more concerning, he had gotten a lot of new information to mull over. 

First of all: something had happened to put Harry in more danger than before and he wanted to know what it was. Dudley had avoided talking to Mrs. Figg so far this summer because he’d wanted to hear the truth from Harry directly, not least because something terrible had so clearly happened to him and it would have felt like going behind his back to find out from Mrs. Figg. Now though, he knew the reason for Harry’s behaviour was that that Sirius, Harry’s godfather, had died. Perhaps now it was time to find out the rest of the story.

Secondly, Dumbledore had said that he'd left a letter explaining Harry’s parents’ murder. That meant that at least one of his parents had known the truth, that it had not been a car crash that killed them, and Mrs. Figg had been right: his parents might not lie to him, but it was what they’d spent most of their lives doing to Harry. 

Finally, Harry would be returning one last time next summer. This gave Dudley just one more shot to make things right, and he was going to have to put his all into it. 

Apparently, though, his parents had been working through their own shock, for it was only now that his dad harrumphed quite loudly.

“Well I for one,” he said angrily, “am not inclined to let the boy back next summer! That… that…” — He clearly struggled here for a deprecating word for ‘wizard’ that did not involve a reference to magic — “That crackpot thinks he can barge in here without so much as by-your-leave and demand that we take the boy back again! Well I won’t have it! This is my house, and if I want to kick that good-for-nothing freak out, I bloody well will!”

“No!” 

Dudley and his mum stared at each other. They had both spoken at the same time. 

“Vernon,” his mum said cautiously, still looking at Dudley, confused. Then, shaking her head, she said in a lower, conspiritous tone, “the neighbours…”

Hid dad deflated slightly. He turned to Dudley for support.

“I say let him stay,” Dudley said. When his dad frowned, Dudley searched for a reasonable excuse for saying this and slowly, inspiration swam forth: “Look, Dumbled— uh, that man,” he corrected quickly as he caught the looks in his parents’ eyes, “said Harry only needed to come back one more time before he’s gone for good. If we fight him on it, he’ll probably only come back and make more threats, but if we let Harry come back this one last time, he’ll leave us alone and we won’t even have to deal for Harry for more than two weeks!”

It was one of the longest seconds of Dudley’s life, watching his dad’s eyes move from angry disbelief to shining pride. 

“Nice one, Dudders,” his dad roared, throwing his arm around Dudley’s shoulder and squeezing. “A shrewd businessman! Give them breadcrumbs and call it bread! We give up very little and reap a promising reward!”

“Yeah,” Dudley said, nodding shakily. As soon as Dudley had indicated he disagreed, Dad had turned his opinion around, just like always. In doing so, Dudley realised that there was in fact a fourth thing from tonight to consider: Dumbledore had looked at Dudley and seen the damage as clearly as if he'd been a Dementor. 

The next morning, Dudley made his way down the now familiar route to Mrs. Figg’s grey picket fence. He let himself in without knocking and called out a greeting. 

“Who’s that?” Mrs. Figg called back. 

Rolling his eyes, Dudley shouted, “Dudley!”

“Who’s Dudley?”

Dudley frowned and made his way into the kitchen. Mrs. Figg had told him about so-called obiviliation and whilst he couldn’t see any reason why Mrs. Figg would have been obivilated, he was more than a little concerned. 

Mrs. Figg was in her usual flowery armchair, facing the window. When she heard him come in, she looked round over the top of the chair. 

“Who’s this then?” she asked, and now that Dudley could see her face, he could see that the jump of her eyebrows indicated she was being sarcastic. Letting out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, Dudley rolled his eyes and went for the fridge. 

“Hold on, hold on!” Mrs. Figg hollered, struggling to her feet. “Only regular visitors are allowed access to the fridge!”

Dudley, one hand already on the can of diet coke in the fridge door tray, looked over to her. She was standing on the threshold of the kitchen and the living room, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. 

“Okay,” Dudley sighed, taking the coke out, closing the fridge and leaning against the kitchen counter. “The truth is I wanted to come visit—” Mrs. Figg hmpfed and Dudley continued over her more loudly, “ but, I was trying to make amends with Harry.”

“And that makes you incapable of coming to visit?” Mrs. Figg said, nose in the air. 

Dudley fiddled with the tab on the coke can, not looking at her. 

“It’s… Something happened to Harry,” he admitted gruffly, though he assumed she knew. “And I didn’t want to go behind his back to find out what it was. Wanted to hear it from him, if he’d tell me.” He looked up to her, and saw she’d uncrossed her arms and was watching him more sympathetically now. “He was miserable, more than usual. I just… I wanted to respect what he wanted me to know.”

“And now?”

Dudley went back to playing with the tab of the can. 

“I found out his godfather died,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Mrs. Figg agreed softly, “he did.”

She was not looking at him angrily anymore. 

“Can you… Can you tell me what happened this time?” Dudley asked quietly. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Figg said, and patted the back of her armchair. “Come sit.”

And she told him everything. 

Dudley had learnt from his mistake with going to the train station last time. This time, he decided, he would stay at home and listen for the door opening, and catch Harry before he could slip into his room. 

Once again, of course, his dad got in the way. 

“Dudders, come have a look at this!” he called as he entered the house. 

Dudley peered out of his room and saw his dad shouldering his way past the door, carrying a large unopened cardboard box. Reluctantly, Dudley slunk down the stairs, side-eying the door for any sign of Harry. 

“Come on,” his dad beckoned eagerly, gesturing to the kitchen. With a final, sorrowful glance at the door, Dudley followed him through. Perhaps Harry would be busy taking his trunk out of the car until Dad had shown him whatever it was he was excited about. The moment before the door closed behind Dudley, however, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry dash up the stairs. 

Of course. 

Dudley sighed. He would have to fall back to last year’s plan. Hopefully it would be more successful than last year. 

He had no more luck this year than last. It was endlessly frustrating how he could only manage to catch Harry when other people are around. In fact, it got to the point that Dudley swore to himself that, if it came to it, he would confront Harry regardless of who was there, even if it was his parents. As Dudley knew well, this was his last chance and he wouldn’t throw it away by being a coward. Sometimes you needed to take the hit to make the knock-out. 

On the few occasions he slipped out of the house, he visited Mrs. Figg. Harry, whilst still locking himself in his room and quite bitter whenever he opened his mouth around them, did not seem so lost as the year before, so Dudley asked for the latest news without guilt. 

He didn’t know how to feel on hearing about Dumbledore’s death: on the one hand, the one time he’d met Dumbledore, he hadn’t made a very good impression on Dudley, turning up unannounced and waving his wand threateningly; on the other hand, he understood that Dumbledore had been the only thing preventing You-Know-Who from coming out into the open, excepting perhaps Harry.

As such, if there was one thing he understood before the two wizards came round to explain that there was a good chance You-Know-Who would be after them once the protections on Harry broke, it was that the world had gone to shit. 

His dad flip-flopped every day since they'd been told on whether he was going to let the wizards take them away for their own protection. Dudley knew there was no point trying to make a case either way before the final day, so he let Dad order them to pack, unpack, and repack as he wished. 

The evening before, Dudley made his final journey over to Mrs. Figg’s. She knew they would be leaving, being part of this secret group that Dumbledore had apparently ruled over, but didn’t know many of the details to better keep the plan out of enemy hands. In any case, Dudley told her he wouldn’t be round for a while and asked, cautiously so as not to offend, whether she would be sticking around. 

“Not much for me here after you’re all gone,” she shrugged. “And not that appealing in the current climate.” They both knew she wasn’t talking about the weather. “I’ll probably head off to somewhere sunnier, maybe Majorca. My parents used to have a summer home there when I was a child.”

“Stay safe,” Dudley told her, and held out his hand to shake. She gripped it with surprising strength. 

“One last thing,” he said before he turned to leave. “What’s a good way to get someone to talk to you? Y’know, a sign you’re ready to listen or summat?”

Mrs. Figg smiled.

“I’ve always found a good cup of tea to do the trick.”

Dad had gone out for a walk an hour or so before they were due to leave, claiming he ‘had some things he needed to think about’. Dudley and his mum had spent the next hour hovering nervously in the living room and glancing at the carriage clock on the mantle piece every few minutes.

Finally, about ten minutes before they were supposed to be on the road, Dudley caught sight of his dad striding determinedly up the drive. Not a moment later, the front door slammed closed and Dad yelled up the the stairs, “Oi! You!”

There was no sound of movement from upstairs, which didn’t surprise Dudley. He imagined Harry was even more sick of his dad’s seesawing on this issue than him. It wasn’t until his dad bellowed a further “BOY!” that they heard some movements.

From the living room, they could hear the roar of, “You took your time! Get down here, I want a word!” quite clearly. His dad stomped into the room, and Harry followed shortly after. 

“Yes?” asked Harry, feigning obliviousness. 

“Sit down!” Dad barked. Harry only raised an eyebrow. “Please,” Dad added, looking like the word physically pained him on its way up his throat. 

Harry sat. Dad began pacing. 

Finally, face contorted in concentration, his dad stopped in front of Harry abruptly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. 

“What a surprise,” Harry said flatly.

“Don’t you take that tone—” Mum started, but Dad waved her down. 

“It’s all a lot of claptrap,” Dad said, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “I’ve decided I don’t believe a word of it! We’re staying put; we’re not going anywhere.”

Harry looked up at Dudley’s dad with what looked like a mixture of exasperation and amusement, but said nothing.

“According to you,” his dad continued, resuming his pacing up and down the living room, “we — Petunia, Dudley and I — are in danger. From- from-”

“Some of ‘my lot’, right,” Harry said, looking bored. This was probably the twentieth time they’d been through this, so Dudley couldn’t blame him. 

“Well, I don’t believe it!” his dad snapped, coming to a halt in front of Harry again. “I was awake half the night thinking it over, and I believe it’s a plot to get the house.”

“The house?” repeated Harry blankly. “What house?”

“This house!” his dad roared, his face flushed with anger. “Our house! Prices are sky-rocketing round here! You want us out of the way and then you’re going to do a bit of hocus-pocus and before we know it, the deeds will be in your name and—!”

“Are you out of your mind?” Harry demanded. “A plot to get this house? Are you actually as stupid as you look?”

“Don’t you dare—!” Mum tried, but Dad waved her down again, eyes still narrowed on Harry. 

“Just in case you’ve forgotten,” Harry said heatedly, “I’ve already got a house, my godfather left me one! So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?”

Dudley, despite himself, had to stifle a laugh. It had taken the attack to let him see it, but Harry had a knack for tragically truthful sarcasm. In fact, this statement seemed to have given Dad pause for thought. 

“You claim,” Dad said, setting off a pace up and down the living room again, “that this Lord Thing-”

“Voldemort,” Harry said impatiently, “and we’ve been through this about a hundred times already. This isn’t a claim; it’s fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley and Mr Weasely—” Harry paused here for a moment as Dad hunched his shoulders angrily, but soon ploughed on, “— Kingsley and Mr Weasely explained it as well. Once I’m seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I’d come and try to rescue you.”

Harry’s and Dad’s eyes met and for a moment, they seemed to give each other pause. Dudley was sure they were both wondering the same thing, but Dudley didn’t need to wonder. Despite everything, despite his righteous hatred for them, Harry would come for them if he needed to. If there was one thing Dudley had learnt from all the stories he’d heard of Harry so far, it was that Harry could not turn his back on someone when he thought it was in his power to help.

Finally, Dad looked away from Harry and began pacing again. Dudley was starting to feel a bit motion sick watching him. 

“I thought there was a Ministry of Magic,” Dad said suddenly and dismissively, waving a hand. 

Dudley was quite surprised to hear him refer to it so casually. 

“There is,” Harry agreed.

“Well then, why can’t they protect us?” Dad demanded furiously. “It seems to me that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harbouring a marked man, we ought to qualify for government protection!”

Dudley could not say with a straight face that he agreed with his dad’s interpretation that they were innocent victims in this. To his surprise though, Harry laughed; a true, unsarcastic laugh. Dudley stared: he had so rarely seen Harry smile that it was almost strange to see it appear so naturally on his face.

“You heard what Mr. Weasely and Kingsley said,” Harry said in response. “We think the Ministry has been infiltrated.”

Dad strode to the fireplace and back, breathing heavily with unbridled frustration.

“All right,” he spat, stopping in front of Harry, yet again. “All right, let’s say, for the sake of argument, we accept this protection. I still don’t see why we can’t have that Kingsley bloke.”

“As I’ve told you,” Harry said, clearly only barely holding on to his temper, “Kingsley is protecting the Mug— I mean, your Prime MInister.”

“Exactly — he’s the best!”

“Well, he’s taken,” Harry said flatly. “But Hestia Jones and Deadalus Diggle are more than up to the job—”

“If we’d even seen CVs…” Dad started, but Harry had clearly had enough. He stood abruptly, startling Dudley, and advanced on his dad. 

“These accidents aren’t accidents — the crashes and explosions and derailments and whatever else has happened since we last watched the news. People are disappearing and dying and he's behind it — Voldemort. I’ve told you this over and over again: he kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs, they’re caused by Dementors, and if you can’t remember what they are, ask your son!”

Dudley’s hands jerked up to cover his mouth. His parents turned to stare at him, and he slowly lowered his hands again and asked, shakily, “There are… more of them?”

“More?” laughed Harry disbelievingly. “More than the two that attacked us you mean?” This hadn’t been what Dudley had meant, but Harry continued oblivious, “Of course there are, there are hundreds, maybe thousands by this time, seeing as they feed off fear and despair—”

“All right, all right,” Dad snarled, “you’ve made your point—”

“I hope so,” Harry interrupted him, “because once I’m seventeen, all of them — Death Eaters, Dementors, maybe even Inferi, which means dead bodies enchanted by a Dark wizard,” he added for their benefit “— will be able to find you and will certainly attack you. And if you remember the last time you tried to outrun wizards, I think you’ll agree you need help.”

Mum was looking at Dad; Dudley was staring at Harry. All of them seemed at a loss for words.

Finally, Dad blurted out, “But what about my work? What about Dudley’s school? I don’t suppose those things matter to a bunch of layabout wizards—”

“Don’t you understand?” Harry shouted, temper well and truly lost now. “They will torture you and kill you like they did my parents! ”

Dudley didn’t need to be genius to know how much this outburst must have cost Harry. Harry had always handled any word of his parents preciously as a child, tucking away facts about them like delicate flowers, even when those ‘facts’ had been dismissive lies from Mum and Dad. For him to reference the murder of his parents so thoughtlessly, he must be at breaking point. In fact, he was panting heavily, looking directly into Dad’s eyes as a challenge.

It was now or never.

“Dad,” Dudley said loudly. “Dad — I’m going with these Order people.”

“Dudley,” Harry said, with clear relief, “for the first time in your life, you’re talking sense.”

Dudley thought this was a bit harsh, but he couldn’t begrudge it much: after all, despite Dudley’s best efforts, Harry didn't know who he was now.

“They’ll be here in about five minutes,” Harry said, and with a last, strong look at them, he left the room. 

“Diddy,” Mum wavered, turning to him once Harry had gone, “do you really mean it?”

“Yes,” Dudley said. 

“But Dudders,” his Dad blustered, “your school, your friends…”

To Dudley, who was perhaps the only one of them apart from Harry who truly understood the current climate, it was no choice at all. However, he knew that it was time to use his power over his parents for something good and said only, “I’m going.”

The doorbell rang at that moment and they all froze. Dudley couldn’t deny that the thought of a wizard other than Harry in this house set him on edge. 

There was some murmuring of noise outside, then a moment later, a small man in a mauve top hat strode into the living room, with a happy, “Good day to you, Harry Potter’s relatives!”

Despite his attempts to fight the instinct, Dudley shrank behind his mum slightly. A stranger with a wand was not someone he wanted to pay much attention to him, even if Harry did seem to think he was alright. After all, Dumbledore hadn’t treated them well and Harry had been quite friendly with him. 

“I see you are packed and ready. Excellent!” the strange man continued. “The plan, as Harry has told you, is a simple one.” He pulled out a great pocketwatch from his lime-green waistcoat and examined it. “We shall be leaving before Harry does…”

He continued speaking, but Dudley wasn’t listening anymore. They were leaving before Harry? Slowly, his mind was twisting into gear. 

Distantly, he could hear his dad spluttering, “Know how to—? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!” but Dudley was still working through the news that Harry, apparently, wasn’t coming with them. Of course, he knew that Harry hadn’t put any of his stuff in the car with theirs, but he’d thought that was part Dad-not-giving-a-shit-about-Harry’s-stuff and part Harry-knowing-he’d-have-to-take-it-all-out-again-the-next-day-as-Dad-changed-his-mind. He hadn’t thought…

Dudley’s thoughts were cut short by a loud voice screeching ‘Hurry up!’ that made him and his parents jump. The man in the mauve top hat pulled out his stopwatch and nodded at it.

“Quite right, we’re operating to a very tight schedule,” he said, tucking the watch back into his waistcoat. “We are attempting to time your departure from the house with your family’s Disapparition, Harry; thus, the charm breaks at the moment you all head for safety.” He turned to Dudley’s mum and dad. “Well, are we all packed and ready to go?”

A moment of silence passed.

“Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus,” the woman murmured. 

“There’s no need,” Harry muttered awkwardly.

At the same time, Dad grunted unemotionally, “Well, this is goodbye, then, boy.” He threw his arm out to shake, but seemed unable to face it at the last minute, instead closing his fist to swing it backwards and forwards like a pendulum. 

Of course, Dudley thought. To shake Harry’s hand would be treating him as an equal worth acknowledging. 

“Ready Diddy?” Mum asked, messing around with her handbag and not even bothering with a fake farewell to Harry. 

This was too much for Dudley. He was staring at Harry, trying to piece together the words that seemed stuck in his throat. 

“Come along then,” Dad said, puffing up importantly and striding to the door. 

Into the awkward silence, Dudley let the only words he could grab ahold of escape without thought.

“I don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand, Popkin?” Mum simpered, fussing with his hair motheringly.

Dudley, words still struggling to find form in his mouth, raised his hand to point at Harry.

“Why isn’t he coming with us?”

His parents froze as suddenly as if they’d been petrified. 

“What?” his dad asked loudly. 

“Why isn’t he coming too?” Dudley asked dumbly.

“Well he—” his dad struggled. “He doesn’t want to,” he said finally, turning to glare at Harry and add, “you don’t want to, do you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Harry responded immediately. 

“There you are,” Dad said firmly, as though that settled it. “Now come on, we’re off.”

He marched out of the room: they heard the front door open, but Dudley made no move to follow him, and after a few faltering steps, Mum stopped too. 

“What now?” Dad barked, reappearing in the doorway. 

The hundreds of words Dudley wanted to say jammed in his throat as they all tried to force themselves out at the same time. Dudley opened his mouth, hoping that the right words would appear, but it wasn’t to be. Staring at Harry, hoping for inspiration, he sifted through the starts and ends of all the questions he wanted to ask. Finally, with nothing better to ask, he managed to choke out, “But where’s he going to go?”

Mum and Dad looked at each other, looking scared, but Dudley couldn’t care about them now. There were much bigger things at play now. 

“But…” the woman, who was still in the room, started, looking bewildered, “surely you know where your nephew is going?”

“Certainly we know,” Dad said disparagingly. “He’s off with some of your lot, isn’t he? Right, Dudley, let’s get in the car, you heard the man, we’re in a hurry,” he said more encouragingly. 

Again, Dad marched for the front door, but Dudley was rooted to the spot. 

“Off with some of our lot?” the woman was asking, outraged. 

“It’s fine,” Harry assured her, “it doesn’t matter, honestly.”

“Doesn’t matter?” the woman repeated ominously. “Don’t these people realise what you’ve been through? What danger you’re in? The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti-Voldemort movement?”

“Er— no, they don’t,” Harry said. “They think I’m a waste of space, actually, but I’m used to—”

This was too much for Dudley, and the words came tumbling out in response. 

“I don’t think you’re a waste of space.”

It didn’t seem to be enough. He’d wanted to say ‘I’m sorry for all the things I did to you’. He’d wanted to say ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t a better cousin to you’. He’d wanted to say ‘I wouldn’t even be alive if it wasn’t for you’. He’d wanted to say… 

‘Was Cedric your boyfriend?’

But now that the words were out, he seemed unable to form any more.

“Well… er… thanks, Dudley,” Harry responded, blinking. 

No, Dudley told himself fiercely, he couldn’t leave it there. He had so much he needed to say, so much he wanted to ask. He had to force the words out!

“You saved my life,” he mumbled. 

“Not really,” Harry said, looking at him curiously, “It was your soul the Dementor would have taken…”

Dudley could see that this was it: finally his cousin was looking at him and really seeing him. This was his chance to say all the things he’d wanted to say to Harry and to ask Harry all the questions he had. He opened his mouth but like water sinking through sand, his words disappeared without a trace. Then it was too late: his mum had thrown her arms around him and started bawling. 

“S- So sweet, Dudders…” she sobbed. “S- such a lovely b- boy… s- saying thank you…!”

“But he hasn’t said thank you at all!” the woman responded indignantly. “He only said he didn’t think Harry was a waste of space!”

Dudley, overwhelmed with the effort of speaking, was unable to point out that he’d also said Harry had saved his life. 

“Coming from Dudley, that’s like ‘I love you’,” Harry said, looking almost amused. 

For a split second, there was something that might have been understanding blossoming between him and Dudley. Then, as quickly as it had come, Dad ruined it when he reappeared again at the living-room door and roared, “Are we going or not? I thought we were on a tight schedule!”

“Yes — yes, we are!” Deadalus, apparently, said, seeming to pull himself together. “We really must be off. Harry—” he tripped forwards and grasped Harry’s hand firmly with boy of his own. “—Good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the wizarding world rest upon your shoulders.”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking a little put off by such a statement. “Right, thanks.”

“Farewell, Harry,” the woman said, clasping his hand once Deadalus had removed his. “Our thoughts go with you.”

“I hope everything’s okay,” Harry said, glancing towards Dudley, who was still being fussed over by Mum. 

“Oh, I’m sure we shall end up the best of chums,” Deadalus announced optimistically, tipping his hat as he left the room. The woman followed closely behind him. 

Now that they were gone, Dudley managed to pull himself from Mum’s grasp and walked towards Harry. He saw Harry twitch slightly but ultimately, he didn’t reach for his wand. Dudley was reminded of what Harry had said after Dudley’s pathetic attempt to apologise and wondered if this was the same sort of admission for Harry. 

In any case, Dudley held out his hand. He wasn’t his father; he would treat Harry as an equal. 

“Blimey, Dudley,” Harry blinked, “did the Dementors blow a different personality into you?”

“Dunno,” Dudley muttered, because the truth and depth of Harry’s observation cut a bit too close. “See you, Harry.”

“Yeah…” Harry said, and without any further hesitation, he took Dudley’s hand and shook it. “Maybe. Take care, Big D.”

For the first time, Harry’s use of this name came without jeer. Perhaps Harry did understand after all, Dudley thought, the ghost of a smile reaching his face. 

Before he could let anything ruin this moment, Dudley left. Staring up at the clear sky, he took a deep, steadying breath. Then he clambered into the back of the car, Deadalus and the woman squished in next to him. Dad was drumming his fingers angrily on the steering wheel, glaring at Deadalus and the woman in the rearview mirror. 

Finally, Mum dashed from the house and got into the car. 

“Right,” Dad said impatiently. “Good. Now we can finally get going.”

He threw the car into first gear, and without leaving any chance for someone to object, pulled out of the drive. 

Dudley glanced back over his shoulder, to where he could still make out Harry’s silhouette in the front room. He wondered if this was the last picture he might have of Harry, just a blur through a window of a house they used to live in together. As he watched Harry, standing still and alone in the house he had hated for so many years, he wondered how much further Harry would have to travel down the dangerous path that the wizarding world had set for him. Then, as they turned the corner of Privet Drive, and Harry disappeared from view, Dudley wondered whether, at the end of this path, Dudley would return to Privet Drive, alone, to ask Mrs Figg to tell him just one more story: the story of how Harry had died.