Dudley Dursley

This is how many presents Dudley gets every year

Prisoner of Azkaban - Harry inflates Aunt Marge, inflicts damage, meets Cornelius Fudge but doesnt get expelled

-uses memory charm to make Marge forget about becoming an inflatable woman

Order of The Phoenix - Harry uses Patronus Charm infront of cousin to save themselves from dementors, almost gets expelled

- dementors sent by ministry

-decides not to use memory charm this time

-sends magic letter infront of the exact same muggle + his parents to tell Harry that he's expelled

Previous Chapter:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003768423

Tags:

@Teddy.J.B @Pervaza972 @CatsAndRoblox

Chapter Two: Horace Slughorn

Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a small folded up pull-out chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fug his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of most of its colour, so that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.

The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of one blared:

“HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE?

Rumors continue to fly about the mysterious recent disturbance at the Ministry of Magic, during which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was sighted once more.

‘We’re not allowed to talk about it, don’t ask me anything,’ said one agitated Obliviator, who refused to give his name as he left the Ministry last night.

Nevertheless, highly placed sources within the Ministry have confirmed that the disturbance centered on the fabled Hall of Prophecy.

Though Ministry spokeswizards have hitherto refused even to confirm the existence of such a place, a growing number of the Wizarding community believe that the Death Eaters now serving sentences in Azkaban for trespass and attempted theft were attempting to steal a prophecy. The nature of that prophecy is unknown, although speculation is rife that it concerns Harry Potter, the only person ever known to have survived the Killing Curse, and who is also known to have been at the Ministry on the night in question. Some are going so far as to call Potter ‘the Chosen One,’ believing that the prophecy names him as the only one who will be able to rid us of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

The current whereabouts of the prophecy, if it exists, are unknown, although (ctd. page 2, column 5)”

A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the headline:

“SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE”

Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture of a man with a lionlike mane of thick hair and a rather ravaged face. The picture was moving—the man was waving at the ceiling.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has succeeded Cornelius Fudge as Minister of Magic. The appointment has largely been greeted with enthusiasm by the Wizarding community, though rumors of a rift between the new Minister and Albus Dumbledore, newly reinstated Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, surfaced within hours of Scrimgeour taking office.

Scrimgeour’s representatives admitted that he had met with Dumbledore at once upon taking possession of the top job, but refused to comment on the topics under discussion. Albus Dumbledore is known to (ctd. page 3, column 2)”

To the left of this paper sat another, which had been folded so that a story bearing the title “Ministry Guarantees Students’ Safety” was visible.

“Newly appointed Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, spoke today of the tough new measures taken by his Ministry to ensure the safety of students returning to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this autumn.

‘For obvious reasons, the Ministry will not be going into detail about its stringent new security plans,’ said the Minister, although an insider confirmed that measures include defensive spells and charms, a complex array of countercurses, and a small task force of Aurors dedicated solely to the protection of Hogwarts School.

Most seem reassured by the new Minister’s tough stand on student safety. Said Mrs Augusta Longbottom, ‘My grandson, Neville—a good friend of Harry Potter’s, incidentally, who fought the Death Eaters alongside him at the Ministry in June and—“

But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage standing on top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring master. Once or twice she clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too deeply asleep to hear her.

A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a residue of old underwear, sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that coated the very bottom. Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet emblazoned with the words:

“—issued on behalf of—

The Ministry of Magic

PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES

The Wizarding community is currently under threat from an organization calling itself the Death Eaters. Observing the following simple security guidelines will help protect you, your family, and your home from attack.

1.You are advised not to leave the house alone.

2.Particular care should be taken during the hours of darkness. Wherever possible, arrange to complete journeys before night has fallen.

3.Review the security arrangements around your house, making sure that all family members are aware of emergency measures such as Shield and Disillusionment Charms, and, in the case of underage family members, Side-Along-Apparition.

4.Agree on security questions with close friends and family so as to detect Death Eaters masquerading as others by use of the Polyjuice Potion (see page 2).

5.Should you feel that a family member, colleague, friend, or neighbor is acting in a strange manner, contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at once. They may have been put under the Imperius Curse (see page 4).

6.Should the Dark Mark appear over any dwelling place or other building, DO NOT ENTER, but contact the Auror office immediately.

7.Unconfirmed sightings suggest that the Death Eaters may now be using Inferi (see page 10). Any sighting of an Inferius, or encounter with same, should be reported to the Ministry IMMEDIATELY.”

Harry grunted in his sleep and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. An alarm clock, ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry’s relaxed hand, was a piece of parchment covered in thin, slanting writing. Harry had read this letter so often since its arrival three days ago that although it had been delivered in a tightly furled scroll, it now lay quite flat.

"Dear Harry,

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven P.M. as I am in need of your assistance in a matter to which I hope you and I can attend to. Afterwards I will escort you to Mould-on-the-Wold Cottage, where you will spend the remainder of your school holidays. Remus has been informed that I will be escorting you and has given his approval and expanded the Fidelius Charm on the Cottage to allow me and a couple others to visit. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore"

Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o’clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore’s words; Harry had sent back his “yes” with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: Either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.

But Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong—his reply to Dumbledore’s letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.

The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the streetlamp outside the window went out.

Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.

Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Even as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of crisps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, 'Who the blazes is here at this time of night?'

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky and close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, 'Good evening, Mr Dursley, it has been many years. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?'

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm’s reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and a pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore’s, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.

'Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,' said Dumbledore pleasantly. 'However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.'

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.

‘It is a long time since my last visit,’ said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. ‘I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing.’

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon—the vein pulsing in his uncle’s temple was reaching danger point—but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.

‘Ah, good evening Harry,’ said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. ‘Excellent, excellent.’

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say ‘excellent’ was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.

‘I don’t mean to be rude—‘ he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.

‘—yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,’ Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. ‘Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, Petunia, you look well.’

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry’s aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.

‘Albus Dumbledore,’ said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. ‘It’s been fifteen years since we met, but we have corresponded, of course.’

Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. ‘And this must be your son, Dudley? The last time I saw him he was only a year old.’

Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door. His large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.

‘I will be taking Harry shortly, but before I do I would like a word,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?’

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings with an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.

As Dumbledore set his hands on his lap Harry saw that his right hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been

burned away.

‘Sir—what happened to your—?’

‘Later, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Before Harry and I leave there is a matter we need to discuss first,’ said Dumbledore softly. ‘I shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle’s hospitality only a little longer.’

‘You will, will you?’

Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore simply, ‘I shall, but first Harry, is your trunk packed?’

‘Erm…’

‘Doubtful that I would turn up?’ Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.

‘I’ll just go and—er—finish off,’ said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.

It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed; at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed, screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding Hedwig’s cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs.

He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.

Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, ‘Professor—I’m ready now.’

‘Good,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Just one last thing, then.’ And he turned to speak to the Dursleys who were looking increasingly uncomfortable by the second. ‘As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in just over a year’s time—‘

‘No,’ said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore’s arrival.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Dumbledore politely.

‘No, he doesn’t. He’s a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn’t turn eighteen until the year after next.’

‘Ah,’ said Dumbledore pleasantly, ‘but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen.’

Uncle Vernon muttered, ‘Preposterous,’ but Dumbledore ignored him.

‘Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. 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 when your family and Harry’s guardians entered the arrangement fifteen years ago, when we all met here the night of that November first, and part of that arrangement was that when Harry spent time here that he be treated with love and respect.’

Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.

‘You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a part of your family. You constantly reminded him that he was only allowed to stay with you because you were being paid, you gave him the bare minimum food and toys, and the little attention you gave him was nearly entirely made up of snide comments and insults about who he is. In short you never treated him like he belonged. The best that can be said is that through the love of his guardians he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you.’

Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.

‘Us—mistreat Dudders? What d’you—?’ began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his finger for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon with a silencing spell.

‘The magic I evoked fifteen years ago 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; in other words, at 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.’

None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.

‘Well, Harry…time for us to be off,’ said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. ‘Until we meet again,’ he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he swept from the room.

‘Bye,’ said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry’s trunk, upon which Hedwig’s cage was perched.

‘We do not want to be encumbered by these just now,’ he said, pulling out his wand again. ‘I shall send them to Mould-on-the-Wold Cottage to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak…just in case.’

Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbledore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.

‘And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.’

Despite the fact that he had spent every waking moment of the past few days hoping desperately that Dumbledore would indeed come to fetch him, Harry felt distinctly awkward as they set off down Privet Drive together. He had never had a proper conversation with the headmaster outside of Hogwarts before; there was usually a desk between them. The memory of their last face-to-face encounter kept intruding too, and it rather heightened Harry’s sense of embarrassment; he had shouted a lot on that occasion, not to mention done his best to smash several of Dumbledore’s most prized possessions.

Dumbledore, however, seemed completely relaxed.

‘Keep your wand at the ready, Harry,’ he said brightly.

‘But I thought I’m not allowed to use magic outside school, sir?’

‘If there is an attack,’ said Dumbledore, ‘I give you permission to use any counterjinx or curse that might occur to you. However, I do not think you need worry about being attacked tonight.’

‘Why not, sir?’

‘You are with me,’ said Dumbledore simply. ‘This will do, Harry.’

He came to an abrupt halt at the end of Privet Drive.

‘You have not, of course, passed your Apparition Test,’ he said.

‘No, I’ve done two or three side-along-apparition when I was little, but not since I started at Hogwarts and I have never done any on my own,’ said Harry. ‘I thought you had to be seventeen?’

‘You do,’ said Dumbledore. ‘So like when you apparated with Sirius or Remus you will need to hold on to my arm very tightly. My left, if you don’t mind—as you have noticed, my wand arm is a little fragile at the moment.’

Harry gripped Dumbledore’s proffered forearm.

‘Very good,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Well, here we go.’

Harry felt Dumbledore’s arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; the next thing he knew, everything went black; he was being pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breathe, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his eardrums were being pushed deeper into his skull and then—

He gulped great lungfuls of cold night air and opened his streaming eyes. He had forgotten that apparition felt as though he had just been forced through a very tight rubber tube. It was a few seconds before he realized that Privet Drive had vanished. He and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches. It took him quite a while for all his senses to return.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Dumbledore, looking down at him solicitously. ‘The sensation does take some getting used to.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Harry, rubbing his ears, which felt as though they had left Privet Drive rather reluctantly. ‘But I think I might prefer brooms…’

Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more tightly around his neck, and said, ‘This way.’

He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.

‘So tell me, Harry,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Your scar…has it been hurting at all?’

Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.

‘No,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort’s getting so powerful again.’

He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression.

‘I, on the other hand, thought otherwise,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.’

‘Well, I’m not complaining,’ said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort’s mind.

They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again.

‘Professor?’

‘Harry?’

‘Er—where exactly are we? This isn’t Mould-On-The-Wold village.’

‘This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.’

‘And what are we doing here?’

‘Ah yes, of course, I haven’t told you,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.’

‘How can I help with that, sir?’

‘Oh, I think we’ll find a use for you,’ said Dumbledore vaguely. ‘Left here, Harry.’

They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too.

Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.

‘Professor, are you sure we are alone right now, since I’ve arrived at Privet Drive the weather has felt very similar to just before a dementor attacks,’ said Harry, his hand still holding his wand.

‘For now we are alone, but you are partially right. Once the dementors left Azkaban they began breeding. That is what has been causing all this mist.’

They continued to walk in silence, but soon another question popped into Harry’s head.

‘Professor, why couldn’t we just Apparate directly into your old colleague’s house?’

‘Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance—‘

‘—you can’t Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds,’ said Harry quickly. ‘My Gryffindor friend Hermione Granger told me once.’

‘And she is quite right. We turn left again.’

The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but now that conversation had been established, he had more pressing questions to ask.

‘Sir, I saw in the Daily Prophet that Fudge has been sacked…’

‘Correct,’ said Dumbledore, now turning up a steep side street.

‘He has been replaced, as I am sure you also saw, by Rufus Scrimgeour, who used to be Head of the Auror office.’

‘I believe Remus mentioned at some point that he had worked with him when he used to be an auror and that we was one of the ones, like John Dawlish or Albert Runcorn, that he didn’t get along with…Do you think he’s good?’ asked Harry.

‘An interesting question,’ said Dumbledore. ‘He is able, certainly. A more decisive and forceful personality than Cornelius.’

‘Yes, but I meant—‘

‘I know what you meant. Rufus is a man of action and, having fought Dark wizards for most of his working life, does not underestimate Lord Voldemort.’

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not say anything about the disagreement with Scrimgeour that the Daily Prophet had reported, and he did not have the nerve to pursue the subject, so he changed it.

‘And…sir…I saw about Amelia Bones,’ this made Harry’s voice stager, he had known Madam Bones for most of his life as she was the aunt and guardian of his longtime friend Susan Bones. He was deeply saddened when he saw in the paper that she had been murdered as she had always been kind to Harry when he visited. The only silver lining was that Remus had sent an owl letting Harry know that Susan had not been home at the time of the assassination and thankfully survived.

‘Yes,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘A terrible loss. She was a great witch, and another child has lost their beloved guardian. Just up here, I think—ouch.’

He had pointed with his injured hand.

‘Professor, what happened to your—?’

‘I have no time to explain now,’ said Dumbledore. ‘It is a thrilling tale, I wish to do it justice.’

He smiled at Harry, who understood that he was not being snubbed, and that he had permission to keep asking questions.

Harry - Honestly, when I first saw him I was thinking he gave off those 'hated child' vibes 😔 He was a good character though it definitely took a few movies and some character development for me to take him more seriously

Hagrid - A hairy man. That's all I have to say.

Any of the dursley's - I hated them. Just as any normal person would. Although, I grew the tiniest bit of respect for Dudley in the deleted scene when he said to Harry, "I don't think you're a waste of space."

Ron - I honestly found him to be one of my first favorite characters! We had really similar personalities which probably is why I liked him so much, but I must add that Ron looked adorable in the first movie ✨

Hermione - Ok.. I'll probably get attacked for this but I honestly didn't like Hermione at first 🥲 I wasn't a big fan of how she was going on about how smart she was in the movies. I know she wasn't being narcissistic or was bragging but it was a bit annoying at first.

Snape - A man who is still suffering his childhood trauma and decided to not give up yet on the emo aesthetic. (💀)

Neville - Honestly, I don't really remember my first opinion on Neville. Though I did think for QUITE a while that his name was pronounced 'neh-veel' 😭

[END OF PART 1]

Here me out here, what if Dudley developed magical powers. Like what if he was muggle born. Clearly in runs in his moms side of the family somewhere. I’m really curious to hear what you all think, how you guys think that would change the story line and the scenes and what not?!?

It may seem like Umbridge committed another crime when she sent the dementors after Harry but when you think about it if Umbridge hadn't sent them Dudley wouldn't have realized wat a Bad person he was and he wouldn't have reconciled with Harry and Harry and Dudley wouldn't have had a better relationship, so in a way Umbridge did a good Thing sending the dementors after him, she may have been trying to end his life but she actually improved it in a way. It counts as Umbridge's only good deed in the series

Previous chapter: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003622070

Tags: @Bellatrisblack @CatsAndRoblox @Heli aesthetics

Chapter Two: A Peck of Owls

‘What?' said Harry blankly.

'He left!' said Mrs Figg, wringing her hands. 'Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off the back of a broom! I told him I’d flay him alive if he went, and now look! Dementors! It’s just lucky I put Mr Tibbies on the case! But we haven’t got time to stand around! Hurry, now, we’ve got to get you back! Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!

'But—'

The revelation that his batty old cat-obsessed neighbor knew what dementors were was almost as big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them down the alleyway.

'You’re—you’re a witch?'

'I’m a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how on earth was I supposed to help you fight off dementors? He left you completely without cover when I warned him—'

'This bloke Mundungus has been following me? Hang on—it was him! He Disapparated from the front of my house!'

'Yes, yes, yes, but luckily I’d stationed Mr Tibbies under a car just in case, and Mr Tibbies came and warned me, but by the time I got to your aunt's house you’d gone—and now—oh, what’s Dumbledore going to say? You!' she shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the alley floor. 'Get your fat bottom off the ground, quick!'

'You know Dumbledore?' said Harry, staring at her.

'Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn’t know Dumbledore?' Thinking back to the night he kept trying to forget, Harry did remember Dumbledore mentioning a Figg, he just never thought it was the Dursley's neighbor who had been living with her cats as long as Harry had been visiting the Dursleys. 'But come on—I’ll be no help if they come back, I’ve never so much as Transfigured a teabag—'

She stooped down, seized one of Dudley’s massive arms in her wizened hands, and tugged.

'Get up, you useless lump, get up!'

But Dudley either could not or would not move. He was still on the ground, trembling and ashen-faced, his mouth shut very tight.

'I’ll do it.' Harry took hold of Dudley’s arm and heaved, "this would be much easier for Allison" he thought: With an enormous effort he managed to hoist Dudley to his feet. Dudley seemed to be on the point of fainting: His small eyes were rolling in their sockets and sweat was beading his face; the moment Harry let go of him he swayed dangerously.

'Hurry up!' said Mrs Figg hysterically.

Harry pulled one of Dudley’s massive arms around his own shoulders and dragged him toward the road, sagging slightly under his weight. Mrs Figg tottered along in front of them, peering anxiously around the corner.

'Keep your wand out,' she told Harry, as they entered Wisteria Walk. 'Never mind the Statute of Secrecy now, there’s going to be hell to pay anyway, we might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg. Talk about the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery...This was exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of—what’s that at the end of the street? Oh, it’s just Mr Prentice...Don’t put your wand away, boy, don’t I keep telling you I’m no use?'

It was not easy to hold a wand steady and carry Dudley along at the same time. Harry gave his cousin an impatient dig in the ribs, but Dudley seemed to have lost all desire for independent movement. He was slumped on Harry’s shoulder, his large feet dragging along the ground.

'Why didn’t you tell me you’re a Squib?' Harry asked Mrs Figg, panting with the effort to keep walking. 'Whenever the Dursley were going out and my parents couldn't pick me up Petunia had me watched by you—why didn’t you say anything?'

'Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys would never have let you come if they’d thought you enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know...But oh my word,' she said tragically, wringing her hands once more, 'when Dumbledore hears about this—how could Mundungus have left, he was supposed to be on duty until midnight—where is he? How am I going to tell Dumbledore what’s happened, I can’t Apparate—'

'I’ve got an owl, you can borrow her,' Harry groaned, wondering whether his spine was going to snap under Dudley’s weight.

'Harry, you don’t understand! Dumbledore will need to act as quickly as possible, the Ministry have their own ways of detecting underage magic, they’ll know already, you mark my words—'

'But I was getting rid of dementors, I had to use magic—they’re going to be more worried what dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk, surely?'

'Oh my dear, I wish it were so but I’m afraid—MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!'

There was a loud crack and a strong smell of mingled drink and stale tobacco filled the air as a squat, unshaven man in a tattered overcoat materialized right in front of them. He had short bandy legs, long straggly ginger hair, and bloodshot baggy eyes that gave him the doleful look of a basset hound; he was also clutching a silvery bundle that Harry recognized at once as an Invisibility Cloak. He guessed he was partially wrong earlier when he thought no one would be using a cloak.

'’S’ up, Figgy?' he said, staring from Mrs Figg to Harry and Dudley. 'What ’appened to staying undercover?'

'I’ll give you undercover!' cried Mrs Figg. 'Dementors, you useless, skiving sneak thief!'

'Dementors?' repeated Mundungus, aghast. 'Dementors here?'

'Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!' shrieked Mrs Figg. 'Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!'

'Blimey,' said Mundungus weakly, looking from Mrs Figg to Harry and back again. 'Blimey, I...'

'And you off buying stolen cauldrons! Didn’t I tell you not to go? Didn’t I?'

‘I—well, I—‘ Mundungus looked deeply uncomfortable. ‘It...it was a very good business opportunity, see...’

Mrs Figg raised the arm from which her string bag dangled and whacked Mundungus around the face and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it made it was full of cat food.

‘Ouch—gerroff—gerroff, you mad old bat! Someone’s gotta tell Dumbledore!’

‘Yes—they—have!’ yelled Mrs Figg, still swinging the bag of cat food at every bit of Mundungus she could reach. ‘And—it—had—better—be—you—and—you—can—tell—him—why—you—weren’t—there—to—help!’

‘Keep your ’airnet on!’ said Mundungus, his arms over his head, cowering. ‘I’m going, I’m going!’

And with another loud crack, he vanished.

‘I hope Dumbledore murders him!’ said Mrs Figg furiously. ‘Now come on, Harry, what are you waiting for?’

Harry decided not to waste his remaining breath on pointing out that he could barely walk under Dudley’s bulk. He gave the semiconscious Dudley a heave and staggered onward.

‘I’ll take you to the door,’ said Mrs Figg, as they turned into Privet Drive. ‘Just in case there are more of them around...Oh my word, what a catastrophe...and you had to fight them off yourself...and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs...Well, it’s no good crying over spilled potion, I suppose...but the cat’s among the pixies now...’

‘So,’ Harry panted, ‘Dumbledore’s...been having...me followed?’

‘Of course he has,’ said Mrs Figg impatiently. ‘Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent...Right...get inside and stay there,' she said as they reached number four. ‘I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Harry quickly.

‘I’m going straight home,’ said Mrs Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. ‘I’ll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Good night.’

‘Hang on, don’t go yet! I want to know—‘

But Mrs Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.

‘Wait!’ Harry shouted after her; he had a million questions to ask anyone who was in contact with Dumbledore; but within seconds Mrs Figg was swallowed by the darkness. Scowling, Harry readjusted Dudley on his shoulder and made his slow, painful way up number four’s garden path.

The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans, rang the bell, and watched Aunt Petunia’s outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.

‘Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite—quite—Diddy, what’s the matter?’

Harry looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arm just in time. Dudley swayed for a moment on the spot, his face pale green, then he opened his mouth at last and vomited all over the doormat.

‘DIDDY! Diddy, what’s the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!’

Harry’s uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus mustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forward to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.

‘He’s ill, Vernon!’

‘What is it, son? What’s happened? Did Mrs Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?’

‘Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?’

‘Hang on—you haven’t been mugged, have you, son?’

Aunt Petunia screamed.

‘Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?’

In all the kerfuffle, nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, which suited him perfectly. He managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall toward the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly toward the stairs.

‘Who did it, son? Give us names. We’ll get them, don’t worry.’

‘Shh! He’s trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!’

Harry’s foot was on the bottommost stair when Dudley found his voice.

‘Him.’

Harry froze, foot on the stair, face screwed up, braced for the explosion.

‘BOY! COME HERE!’

With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.

The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes.

‘What have you done to my son?’ he said in a menacing growl.

‘Nothing,’ said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn’t believe him.

‘What did he do to you, Diddy?’ Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley’s leather jacket. ‘Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?’

Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.

‘I didn’t!’ Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. ‘I didn’t do anything to him, it wasn’t me, it was—‘

But at that precise moment a screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of Uncle Vernon’s head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry’s feet, and turned gracefully, the tips of its wings just brushing the top of the fridge, then zoomed outside again and off across the garden.

‘OWLS!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. ‘OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!’

But Harry was already ripping open the envelope and pulling out the letter inside, his heart pounding somewhere in the region of his Adam’s apple.

“Dear Mr Potter,

We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

As you have already received an official warning for a previous offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on August 12th.

Hoping you are well, Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

improper use of magic office Ministry of Magic”

Harry read the letter through twice. He was only vaguely aware of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia talking in the vicinity. Inside his head, all was icy and numb. One fact had penetrated his consciousness like a paralyzing dart. He was expelled from Hogwarts. It was all over. He was never going back.

He looked up at the Dursleys. Uncle Vernon was purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; Aunt Petunia had her arms around Dudley, who was retching again.

Harry’s temporarily stupefied brain seemed to reawaken. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand. There was only one thing for it. He would have to run—now. Where he was going to go, Harry didn’t know, but he was certain of one thing: At Hogwarts or outside it, he needed his wand. In an almost dreamlike state, he pulled his wand out and turned to leave the kitchen.

‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ yelled Uncle Vernon. When Harry didn’t reply, he pounded across the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. ‘I haven’t finished with you, boy!’

‘Get out of the way,’ said Harry quietly.

‘You’re going to stay here and explain how my son—‘

“If you don’t get out of the way I’m going to jinx you,’ said Harry, raising the wand.

‘You can’t pull that one on me!’ snarled Uncle Vernon. ‘Your sissy parents told us that you’re not allowed to use it outside that madhouse you call a school!’

‘The madhouse has chucked me out,’ said Harry. ‘So I can do whatever I like. You’ve got three seconds. One—two—‘

A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen; Aunt Petunia screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, but for the third time that night Harry was staring for the source of a disturbance he had not made. He spotted it at once: A dazed and ruffled-looking barn owl was sitting outside on the kitchen sill, having just collided with the closed

window.

Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s anguished yell of ‘OWLS!’ Harry crossed the room at a run and wrenched the window open again. The owl stuck out its leg, to which a small roll of parchment was tied, shook its feathers, and took off the moment Harry had pulled off the letter.

Hands shaking, Harry unfurled the second message, which was written very hastily and blotchily in black ink.

“Harry

Dumbledore is at the Ministry, he’s trying to explain what happened. WHATEVER STUPID IDEA YOU WERE THINKING OF DOING WHEN YOU GOT YOUR EXPULSION LETTER DON’T DO IT! STAY WITH YOUR MUGGLE FAMILY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE AND WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T HAND OVER YOUR WAND!

Tonks”

Dumbledore was trying to explain what had happened...So was he expelled or not? How much power did Dumbledore have to override the Ministry of Magic? Was there a chance that he might be allowed back to Hogwarts, then? A small shoot of hope burgeoned in Harry’s chest, almost immediately strangled by panic—how was he supposed to refuse to surrender his wand without doing magic? He’d have to duel with the Ministry representatives, and if he did that, he’d be lucky to escape Azkaban, let alone expulsion.

His mind was racing...He could run for it and risk being captured by the Ministry, or stay put and wait for them to find him here. He was much more tempted by the former course, but he knew that despite her recent silence his cousin had his best interests at heart...and, after all, Dumbledore had sorted out much worse than this before...

‘Right,’ Harry said, ‘I’ve changed my mind, I’m staying.’

He flung himself down at the kitchen table and faced Dudley and Aunt Petunia. The Dursleys appeared taken aback at his abrupt change of mind. Aunt Petunia glanced despairingly at Uncle Vernon. The vein in Uncle Vernon’s purple temple was throbbing worse than ever.

‘Who are all these ruddy owls from?’ he growled.

‘The first one was from the Ministry of Magic, expelling me,’ said Harry calmly; he was straining his ears to catch noises outside in case the Ministry representatives were approaching, and it was easier and quieter to answer Uncle Vernon’s questions than to have him start raging and bellowing. ‘The second one was from my adoptive second cousin, she’s sort of like the Ministries law enforcement.’

‘Ministry of Magic?’ bellowed Uncle Vernon. ‘People like you in government? Oh this explains everything, everything, no wonder the country’s going to the dogs...’

When Harry did not respond, Uncle Vernon glared at him, then spat, ‘And why have you been expelled?’

‘Because I used a defensive spell-‘

‘AHA!’ roared Uncle Vernon, slamming his fist down on the top of the fridge, which sprang open; several of Dudley’s low-fat snacks toppled out and burst on the floor. ‘So you admit it! What did you do to Dudley?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harry, slightly less calmly. ‘That wasn’t me—‘

‘Was,' muttered Dudley unexpectedly, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia instantly made flapping gestures at Harry to quiet him while they both bent low over Dudley.

‘Go on, son,’ said Uncle Vernon, ‘what did he do?’

‘Tell us, darling,’ whispered Aunt Petunia.

‘Pointed his wand at me,’ Dudley mumbled.

‘Yeah, I did, but I didn’t use—‘ Harry began angrily, but...

‘SHUT UP!’ roared Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in unison.

‘Go on, son,’ repeated Uncle Vernon, mustache blowing about furiously.

‘All dark,’ Dudley said hoarsely, shuddering. ‘Everything dark. And then I h-heard...things. Inside m-my head...’

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia exchanged looks of utter horror. If their least favorite thing in the world was magic, closely followed by neighbors who cheated more than they did on the hosepipe ban, people who heard voices were definitely in the bottom ten. They obviously thought Dudley was losing his mind.

‘What sort of things did you hear, popkin?’ breathed Aunt Petunia, very white-faced and with tears in her eyes.

But Dudley seemed incapable of saying. He shuddered again and shook his large blond head, and despite the sense of numb dread that had settled on Harry since the arrival of the first owl, he felt a certain curiosity. Dementors caused a person to relive the worst moments of their life...What would spoiled, pampered, bullying Dudley have been forced to hear?

‘How come you fell over, son?’ said Uncle Vernon in an unnaturally quiet voice, the kind of voice he would adopt at the bedside of a very ill person.

‘T-tripped,’ said Dudley shakily. ‘And then—‘

He gestured at his massive chest. Harry understood: Dudley was remembering the clammy cold that filled the lungs as hope and happiness were sucked out of you.

‘Horrible,’ croaked Dudley. ‘Cold. Really cold.’

‘Okay,’ said Uncle Vernon in a voice of forced calm, while Aunt Petunia laid an anxious hand on Dudley’s forehead to feel his temperature. ‘What happened then, Dudders?’

‘Felt...felt...felt...as if...as if...’

‘As if you’d never be happy again,’ Harry supplied tonelessly.

‘Yes,’ Dudley whispered, still trembling.

'So,' said Uncle Vernon, voice restored to full and considerable volume as he straightened up. 'So you put some crackpot spell on my son so he’d hear voices and believe he was—was doomed to misery, or something, did you?'

'How many times do I have to tell you?' said Harry, temper and voice rising together. 'It wasn’t me! It was a couple of dementors!'

'A couple of—what’s this codswallop?'

'De—men—tors,' said Harry slowly and clearly. 'Two of them.'

'And what the ruddy hell are dementors?'

'They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban,' said Aunt Petunia. Two seconds’ ringing silence followed these words and then Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word. Uncle Vernon was goggling at her. Harry’s brain reeled. Mrs Figg was one thing—but Aunt Petunia?

'How d’you know that?' he asked her, astonished.

Aunt Petunia looked quite appalled with herself. She glanced at Uncle Vernon in fearful apology, then lowered her hand slightly to reveal her horsey teeth.

'I heard—that awful greasy boy—telling her about them—years ago,' she said jerkily.

'If you mean my mum and dad, why don’t you use their names?' said Harry loudly, but Aunt Petunia ignored him. She seemed horribly flustered.

Harry was stunned. Except for very rare outbursts, where she would often refer to Harry's mother as a freak, he had never really heard her mention her sister. He was astounded that she had remembered this scrap of information about the magical world for so long, when she usually put all her energies into pretending it didn’t exist.

Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it once more, shut it, then, apparently struggling to remember how to talk, opened it for a third time and croaked, 'So—so—they—er—they—er—they actually exist, do they—er—dementy-whatsits?'

Aunt Petunia nodded.

Uncle Vernon looked from Aunt Petunia to Dudley to Harry as if hoping somebody was going to shout 'April Fool!' When nobody did, he opened his mouth yet again, but was spared the struggle to find more words by the arrival of the third owl of the evening, which zoomed through the still-open window like a feathery cannonball and landed with a clatter on the kitchen table, causing all three of the Dursleys to jump with fright. Harry tore a second official-looking envelope from the owl’s beak and ripped it open as the owl swooped back out into the night.

'Enough—effing—owls...' muttered Uncle Vernon distractedly, stomping over to the window and slamming it shut again.

"Dear Mr Potter,

Further to our letter of approximately twenty-two minutes ago, the Ministry of Magic has revised its decision to destroy your wand forthwith. You may retain your wand until your disciplinary hearing on 12th August, at which time an official decision will be taken.

Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion will also be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries.

With best wishes, Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

improper use of magic office Ministry of Magic"

Harry read this letter through three times in quick succession. The miserable knot in his chest loosened slightly at the thought that he was not definitely expelled, though his fears were by no means banished. Everything seemed to hang on this hearing on the twelfth of August.

'Well?' said Uncle Vernon, recalling Harry to his surroundings. 'What now? Have they sentenced you to anything? Do your lot have the death penalty?' he added as a hopeful afterthought.

'I’ve got to go to a hearing,' said Harry.

'And they’ll sentence you there?'

'I suppose so.'

'I won’t give up hope, then,' said Uncle Vernon nastily.

'Well, if that’s all,' said Harry, getting to his feet. He was desperate to be alone, to think, perhaps to send a letter to Allison, Terence, or his family.

'NO, IT RUDDY WELL IS NOT ALL!' bellowed Uncle Vernon. 'SIT BACK DOWN!'

'What now?' said Harry impatiently.

'DUDLEY!' roared Uncle Vernon. 'I want to know exactly what happened to my son!'

'FINE!' yelled Harry, and in his temper, red and gold sparks shot out of the end of his wand, still clutched in his hand. All three Dursleys flinched, looking terrified.

'Dudley and I were in the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk,' said Harry, speaking fast, fighting to control his temper. 'Dudley thought he’d be smart with me, I pulled out my wand but didn’t use it. Then two dementors turned up—'

'But what ARE dementoids?' asked Uncle Vernon furiously. 'What do they DO?'

'I told you—they suck all the happiness out of you,' said Harry, 'and if they get the chance, they kiss you—'

'Kiss you?' said Uncle Vernon, his eyes popping slightly. 'Kiss you?'

'It’s what they call it when they suck the soul out of your mouth.' Aunt Petunia uttered a soft scream.

'His soul? They didn’t take—he’s still got his—'

She seized Dudley by the shoulders and shook him, as though testing to see whether she could hear his soul rattling around inside him.

'Of course they didn’t get his soul, you’d know if they had,' said Harry, exasperated.

'Fought ’em off, did you, son?' said Uncle Vernon loudly, with the appearance of a man struggling to bring the conversation back onto a plane he understood. 'Gave ’em the old one-two, did you?'

'You can’t give a dementor the old one-two,' said Harry through clenched teeth.

'Why’s he all right, then?' blustered Uncle Vernon. 'Why isn’t he all empty, then?'

'Because I used the Patronus—'

WHOOSH. With a clattering, a whirring of wings, and a soft fall of dust, a fourth owl came shooting out of the kitchen fireplace.

'FOR GOD’S SAKE!' roared Uncle Vernon, pulling great clumps of hair out of his mustache, something he hadn’t been driven to in a long time. 'I WILL NOT HAVE OWLS HERE, I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS, I TELL YOU!'

But Harry was already pulling a roll of parchment from the owl’s leg. He was so convinced that this letter had to be from Dumbledore, explaining everything—the dementors, Mrs Figg, what the Ministry was up to, how he, Dumbledore, intended to sort everything out—that for the first time in his life he was disappointed to see Sirius’s handwriting. Ignoring Uncle Vernon’s ongoing rant about owls and narrowing his eyes against a second cloud of dust as the most recent owl took off back up the chimney, Harry read Sirius’s message.

"Tonk’s just told us what’s happened. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do, no matter what the Dursley's say."

Harry found this such an inadequate response to everything that had happened tonight that he turned the piece of parchment over, looking for the rest of the letter, perhaps words of encouragement from Remus, but there was nothing there.

And now his temper was rising again. Wasn’t anybody going to say 'well done' for fighting off two dementors single-handedly? Both Nymphadora and Sirius were acting as though he’d misbehaved and they were saving their tellings-off until they could ascertain how much damage had been done.

'—a peck, I mean, pack of owls shooting in and out of my house and I won’t have it, boy, I won’t—'

'I can’t stop the owls coming,' Harry snapped, crushing Sirius’s letter in his fist.

'I want the truth about what happened tonight!' barked Uncle Vernon. 'If it was demenders who hurt Dudley, how come you’ve been expelled? You did you-know-what, you’ve admitted it!'

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. His head was beginning to ache again. He wanted more than anything to get out of the kitchen, away from the Dursleys.

'I did the Patronus Charm to get rid of the dementors,' he said, forcing himself to remain calm. 'It’s the only thing that works against them.'

'But what were dementoids doing in Little Whinging?' said Uncle Vernon in tones of outrage.

'Couldn’t tell you,' said Harry wearily. 'There shouldn't be any here.'

His head was pounding in the glare of the strip lighting now. His anger was ebbing away. He felt drained, exhausted. The Dursleys were all staring at him.

'It’s you,' said Uncle Vernon forcefully. 'It’s got something to do with you, boy, I know it. Why else would they turn up here? Why else would they be down that alleyway? You’ve got to be the only—the only—' Evidently he couldn’t bring himself to say the word 'wizard.' 'The only you-know-what for miles.'

'I don’t know why they were here...'

But at these words of Uncle Vernon’s, Harry’s exhausted brain ground back into action. Why had the dementors come to Little Whinging? How could it be coincidence that they had arrived in the alleyway where Harry was? Had they been sent? Had the Ministry of Magic lost control of the dementors, had they deserted Azkaban and joined Voldemort, as Dumbledore had predicted they would?

'These demembers guard some weirdos’ prison?' said Uncle Vernon, lumbering in the wake of Harry’s train of thought.

'Yes,' said Harry.

If only his head would stop hurting, if only he could just leave the kitchen and get to his dark tiny bedroom and think...

'Oho! They were coming to arrest you!' said Uncle Vernon, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an unassailable conclusion. 'That’s it, isn’t it, boy? You’re on the run from the law!'

'Of course I’m not, do you think I'd be here if I was?' said Harry, shaking his head as though to scare off a fly, his mind racing now.

'Then why— ?'

'He must have sent them,' said Harry quietly, more to himself than to Uncle Vernon.

'What’s that? Who must have sent them?'

'Lord Voldemort,' said Harry.

He registered dimly how strange it was that the Dursleys, who flinched, winced, and squawked if they heard words like 'wizard,' 'magic,' or 'wand,' could hear the name of the most evil wizard of all time without the slightest tremor.

'Lord—hang on,' said Uncle Vernon, his face screwed up, a look of dawning comprehension in his piggy eyes. 'I’ve heard that name...that was the one who...'

'Murdered my parents, yes,' Harry said.

'But he’s gone,' said Uncle Vernon impatiently, without the slightest sign that the murder of Harry’s parents might be a painful topic to anybody. 'That old crack-pot said so all those years ago. He’s gone.'

'He’s back,' said Harry heavily.

It felt very strange to be standing here in Aunt Petunia’s surgically clean kitchen, beside the top-of-the-range fridge and the wide-screen television, and talking calmly of Lord Voldemort to Uncle Vernon. The arrival of the dementors in Little Whinging seemed to have caused a breach in the great, invisible wall that divided the relentlessly non-magical world of Privet Drive and the world beyond. Harry’s two lives had somehow become fused and everything had been turned upside down: The Dursleys were asking for details about the magical world and Mrs Figg knew Albus Dumbledore; dementors were soaring around Little Whinging and he might never go back to Hogwarts. Harry’s head throbbed more painfully.

'Back?' whispered Aunt Petunia.

She was looking at Harry as she had never looked at him before. And all of a sudden, for the very first time in his life, Harry fully appreciated that Aunt Petunia was his mother’s sister. He could not have said why this hit him so very powerfully at this moment. All he knew was that he was not the only person in the room who had an inkling of what Lord Voldemort being back might mean. Aunt Petunia had never in her life looked at him like that before. Her large, pale eyes (so unlike her sister’s) were not narrowed in dislike or anger: They were wide and fearful. The furious pretense that Aunt Petunia had maintained all Harry’s life—that there was no magic and no world other than the world she inhabited with Uncle Vernon—seemed to have fallen away.

'Yes,' Harry said, talking directly to Aunt Petunia now. 'He came back a month ago. I fought him, that's why I've been here the entire summer instead of visiting home every few days, that's why I have been listening to the news so desperately to see if something has happened.'

Her hands found Dudley’s massive leather-clad shoulders and clutched them.

'Hang on,' said Uncle Vernon, looking from his wife to Harry and back again, apparently dazed and confused by the unprecedented understanding that seemed to have sprung up between them. 'Hang on. This Lord Voldything’s back, you say.'

'Yes.'

'The one who murdered your parents.'

'Yes.'

'And now he’s sending dismembers after you?'

'Looks like it,' said Harry.

'I see,' said Uncle Vernon, looking from his white-faced wife to Harry and hitching up his trousers. He seemed to be swelling, his great purple face stretching before Harry’s eyes. 'Well, that settles it,' he said, his shirt front straining as he inflated himself, 'you can get out of this house, boy!'

'What?' said Harry.

'You heard me—OUT!' Uncle Vernon bellowed, and even Aunt Petunia and Dudley jumped. 'OUT! OUT! Your pansy guardians could pay all the gold in the world but I won't put up with this non-sense anymore! Owls treating the place like a rest home, magical outbursts, you broke every furniture in the living room, your cross-dressing brother tormented Dudley any chance he got, Marge bobbing around on the ceiling, I don't care about your twisted mother's charm anymore—OUT! OUT! You’ve had it! You’re history! You’re not staying here if some loony’s after you, you’re not endangering my wife and son, you’re not bringing trouble down on us, if you’re going the same way as your useless parents, I’ve had it! OUT!'

Harry stood rooted to the spot. The letters from the Ministry, Nymphadora, and Sirius were crushed in his left hand. Don’t leave the house again, whatever you do. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE.

'You heard me!' said Uncle Vernon, bending forward now, so that his massive purple face came closer to Harry’s, so that Harry actually felt flecks of spit hit his face. 'Get going! You were all keen to leave half an hour ago! I’m right behind you! Get out and never darken our doorstep again! Why we ever agreed to host you each summer in the first place I don’t know. Marge was right, I should have put my foot down and rejected those nancy boys and old buffoon, we were too damn soft for our own good, thought we could do the honorable thing and get some extra pay out of it, and maybe make you normal, but you’ve been rotten from the beginning, and I’ve had enough—OWLS!'

The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it soared straight over his head, flying directly at Aunt Petunia, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on her head, turned, and flew straight up the chimney again.

Harry darted forward to pick up the letter, but Aunt Petunia beat him to it.

'You can open it if you like,' said Harry, 'but I’ll hear what it says anyway. That’s a Howler.'

'Let go of it, Petunia!' roared Uncle Vernon. 'Don’t touch it, it could be dangerous!'

'It’s addressed to me,' said Aunt Petunia in a shaking voice. 'It’s addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet Drive—'

She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope had begun to smoke.

'Open it!' Harry urged her. 'Get it over with! It’ll happen anyway—'

'No—'

Aunt Petunia’s hand was trembling. She looked wildly around the kitchen as though looking for an escape route, but too late—the envelope burst into flames. Aunt Petunia screamed and dropped it.

An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the table.

'REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA.'

Aunt Petunia looked as though she might faint. She sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her hands. The remains of the envelope smoldered into ash in the silence.

'What is this?' Uncle Vernon said hoarsely. 'What—I don’t—Petunia?'

Aunt Petunia said nothing. Dudley was staring stupidly at his mother, his mouth hanging open. The silence spiraled horribly. Harry was watching his aunt, utterly bewildered, his head throbbing fit to burst.

'Petunia, dear?' said Uncle Vernon timidly. 'P-Petunia?'

She raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed.

'The boy—the boy will have to stay for the summers, Vernon,' she said weakly.

'W-what?'

'He stays,' she said. She was not looking at Harry. She got to her feet again.

'He...but Petunia...'

'If we throw him out, we'll lose his adoptive parents as allies,' she said. She was regaining her usual composer, though she was still very pale. 'So if something does come after us we'll be defenceless. We’ll have to keep him for now.'

Uncle Vernon was deflating like an old tire.

'But Petunia, dear—'

Aunt Petunia ignored him. She turned to Harry.

'You’re to stay in your room,' she said. 'You’re not to leave the house. Now get to bed.'

Harry didn’t move.

'Who was that Howler from?'

'Don’t ask questions,' Aunt Petunia snapped.

'Are you in touch with wizards?'

'I told you to get to bed!'

'What did it mean? Remember the last what?'

'Go to bed!'

'How come—?'

'YOU HEARD YOUR AUNT, NOW GET TO BED!'

Link to previous story: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003619147

Story description at the bottom

Tags: @Bellatrisblack @CatsAndRoblox

Chapter One: Dudley Demented

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flower bed outside number four.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn, and used to his robes he only wore baggy T-shirts. Harry Potter’s appearance did not endear him to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight down into the flower bed below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room and watching television with his aunt and uncle.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke. ‘Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. ‘Not in the house.’

Uncle Vernon grunted.

‘Watching the news...’ he said scathingly. 'I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares what’s on the news—Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news—'

'Vernon, shh!' said Aunt Petunia. 'The window’s open!'

'Oh—yes—sorry, dear...'

The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated out of the window again.

'Dudders out for tea?'

'At the Polkisses’,' said Aunt Petunia fondly. 'He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular...'

Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.

The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight—after a month of waiting—would be the night—

'Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week—'

'Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,' snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers...

He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again...and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had happened yet...

He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not recognized for what it really was by the Muggles—an unexplained disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident...but the baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news on the drought in the Southeast ('I hope he’s listening next door!' bellowed Uncle Vernon, 'with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!'); then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress’s divorce from her famous husband ('as if we’re interested in their sordid affairs,' sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).

Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the newsreader said, 'And finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in Barnsley, has learned to water-ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more...'

Harry opened his eyes again. If they had reached water-skiing budgerigars, there was nothing else worth hearing. He rolled cautiously onto his front and raised himself onto his knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window.

He had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession.

A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath, and the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys’ living room, and as though Harry had been waiting for this signal, he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waist-band of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a sword. But before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his head collided with the Dursleys’ open window, and the resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.

Harry felt as if his head had been split in two; eyes streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street and spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright again when two large purple hands reached through the open window and closed around his throat.

'Put—it—away!' Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry’s ear. 'Now! Before—anyone—sees!'

'Get—off—me!' Harry gasped; for a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle’s sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand. Then, as the pain in the top of Harry’s head gave a particularly nasty throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he had received an electric shock—some invisible force seemed to have surged through his nephew, making him impossible to hold.

Panting, Harry fell forward over the hydrangea bush, straightened up, and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through various nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into his jeans and tried to look innocent.

'Lovely evening!' shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs Number Seven, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. 'Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!'

He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious neighbors had disappeared from their various windows, then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back toward him.

Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon’s outstretched hands could resume their strangling.

'What the devil do you mean by it, boy?' asked Uncle Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury.

'What do I mean by what?' said Harry coldly. He kept looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see the person who had made the cracking noise.

'Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our—'

'I didn’t make that noise,' said Harry firmly. 'I was just as startled as the neighbors.'

Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsey face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon’s wide, purple one. She looked livid.

'Why were you lurking under our window?'

'Yes—yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?'

'Listening to the news,' said Harry in a resigned voice.

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.

'Listening to the news! Again?'

'Well, it changes every day, you see,' said Harry.

'Don’t you be clever with me, boy! I want to know what you’re really up to—and don’t give me any more of this listening to the news tosh! You know perfectly well that your lot...'

'Careful, Vernon!' breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry could barely hear him.

'...that your lot don’t get on our news!'

'That’s all you know,' said Harry.

The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia said, 'You’re a nasty little liar. What are all those—' she too lowered her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word, '—owls—doing if they’re not bringing you news?'

'Aha!' said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. 'Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn’t know you get all your news from those pestilential birds!'

Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something to tell the truth this time, even though his aunt and uncle could not possibly know how bad Harry felt at admitting it.

'The owls...aren’t bringing me news, just letters from friends,' said Harry tonelessly, this was a boldfaced lie.

'I don’t believe it,' said Aunt Petunia at once.

'No more do I,' said Uncle Vernon forcefully.

'We know you’re up to something funny, if your pansy guardians we're paying us any less...' said Aunt Petunia.

'We’re not stupid, you know,' said Uncle Vernon.

'Well, that’s news to me,' said Harry, his temper rising, and before the Dursleys could call him back, he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall, and was striding off up the street.

He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his aunt and uncle later and pay the price for his rudeness, but he didn't care, he was more mad at his adoptive parents for still forcing him to stay with them every summer. They supposedly did it to keep him safe through a charm his mother had placed on him, but from what he heard a few minutes ago he wasn't sure the charm was working.

Harry was sure that the cracking noise had been made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It was exactly the sound his adoptive parents made whenever they vanished into thin air. Was it possible that one of them had come to see him at Privet Drive? Then where were they now, Harry couldn’t help think it was a witch or wizard he didn’t already know who had come. As this thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely deserted again and Harry thought someone using an invisibility cloak was unlikely...

He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had pounded these streets so often lately that his feet carried him to his favorite haunts automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as he lay among Aunt Petunias dying begonias, he was sure of it. Why hadn’t they spoken to him, why hadn’t they made contact, why were they hiding now?

And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his certainty leaked away.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a magical sound after all. Perhaps he was so desperate for the tiniest sign of contact from the world to which he belonged that he was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises. Could he be sure it hadn’t been the sound of something breaking inside a neighbor’s house?

Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach and, before he knew it, the feeling of hopelessness that had plagued him all summer rolled over him once again...

Tomorrow morning he would be awoken by the alarm at five o’clock so that he could pay the owl that delivered the Daily Prophet—but was there any point in continuing to take it? Harry merely glanced at the front page before throwing it aside these days; when the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and that was the only kind Harry cared about.

If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from his best friends, Allison, Tracey, and Terence, though any expectation he had had that their letters would bring him news had long since been dashed.

Terence and Allison knew nothing, while Tracey had been writing stuff like “I’m not supposed to tell you anything about you-know-what,” or “It’s not safe through letter, I’ll explain everything when I see you next.”

His adoptive family hadn’t been any better, neither his parents or siblings had sent him any letters, they only gave him a nightly message through Harry’s enchanted two-way mirror that once belonged to his biological father, but all there responses always felt very scripted and rehearsed. ‘We’ll see you soon Harry, we promise.’

But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date. Tracey had scribbled “I’ll see you soon” inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in her letters and his families mirror face chats, that she was in the same place as them, but why would Tracey be at Mould-on-the-Wold Cottage instead of her home in London. He could hardly bear to think of her and his siblings having fun at the Cottage when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he was so angry at Tracey that he had thrown her birthday present to him of Honeydukes chocolates away unopened, though he had regretted this after eating the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for dinner that night.

And what were his family so busy with? Why wasn’t he, Harry, busy? Hadn’t he proved himself capable of handling much more than they? Had they all forgotten what he had done? Hadn’t it been he who had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed..?’

Don’t think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking moments too.

Trying to take his mind off that night Harry tried thinking about his cousin Nymphadora. At this point in the summer he couldn’t tell if he was furious at her or worried for her. She hadn’t written him a single letter since Cedric’s death, which either meant she was ignoring him somewhat like his family was, or that she was in danger thanks to her job as an auror. Harry knew nothing tragic couldn’t have happened or someone would have told him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be dealing with a dangerous situation.

He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along he passed the narrow alleyway down the side of a garage where his godfather sometimes picked him up or dropped him off. Sirius, at least, seemed to understand how Harry was feeling; admittedly his responses in the two-way mirror were just as empty of proper news as the rest of his family, but at least they contained words of caution and consolation instead of tantalizing hints:

‘I know this must be frustrating for you...’ ‘Keep your nose clean and everything will be okay...’ ‘Be careful and don’t do anything rash...’

Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road, and headed toward the darkening play park, he had (by and large) done as Sirius advised; he had at least resisted the temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for the Cottage by himself. In fact Harry thought his behavior had been very good considering how frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet Drive this long, reduced to hiding in flower beds in the hope of hearing something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing.

Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who had who duelled a wizard in broad daylight and nearly ended up in Azkaban for the death of the twelve muggles his duelist had caused.

Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the parched grass. The park was as empty as the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings he sank onto the only one that Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around the chain, and stared moodily at the ground.

He would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flower bed again. Tomorrow he would have to think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, he had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night, because even when he escaped nightmares about Cedric he had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling he had when he was awake.

Often the old scar on his forehead prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself that his friends or Sirius and Remus would find that very interesting anymore...In the past his scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger again, but now that Voldemort was back they would probably remind him that its regular irritation was only to be expected...Nothing to worry about...old news...

The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn’t been for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, not allowed to even visit anyone, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why was Tracey allowed at Harry’s childhood home when Harry himself wasn’t? How much longer was he supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around in Harry’s head, and his insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of the smell of warm, dry grass and the only sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the park railings.

He did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted his musings and he looked up. The street-lamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the park. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along.

Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakably his cousin, Dudley Dursley, wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang. Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year’s hard dieting and the discovery of a new talent had wrought quite a change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly told anyone who would listen, Dudley had recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast. 'The noble sport,' as Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more brutal than when he used to just use primary school kids as punching bags as an adolescence. Harry was not remotely afraid of his cousin as the Dursleys were terrified any physical harm done to Harry would be taken out on them by Harry's adoptive parents, but he still didn’t think that Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately was cause for celebration. Neighborhood children all around were terrified of him—even more terrified than they were of 'that Potter boy,' who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooligan who attended St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.

Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass and wondered whom they had been beating up tonight. Look round, Harry found himself thinking as he watched them. Come on...look round...I’m sitting here all alone...Come and have ago...

If Dudley’s friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn’t want to lose face in front of the gang, but he’d be terrified of provoking Harry...It would be really fun to watch Dudley’s dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond...and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, Harry was ready—he had his wand...let them try...He’d love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell every summer—

But they did not turn around, they did not see him, they were almost at the railings. Harry mastered the impulse to call after them...Seeking a fight was not a smart move...He must not use magic...He would be risking expulsion again...Dudley’s gang’s voices died; they were out of sight, heading along Magnolia Road.

There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what you’d have done...

He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever Dudley turned up was the right time to be home, and anytime after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home after Dudley again, so, stifling a yawn, still scowling, Harry set off toward the park gate.

Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all owned by large, square owners who drove very clean cars similar to Uncle Vernon’s. Harry preferred Little Whinging by night, when the curtained windows made patches of jewel-bright colors in the darkness and he ran no danger of hearing disapproving mutters about his “delinquent” appearance when he passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley’s gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.

'...squealed like a pig, didn’t he?' Malcolm was saying, to guffaws from the others.

'Nice right hook, Big D,' said Piers.

'Same time tomorrow?' said Dudley.

'Round at my place, my parents are out,' said Gordon.

'See you then,' said Dudley.

'Bye Dud!'

'See ya, Big D!'

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had faded once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his ease, humming tunelessly.

'Hey, Big D!'

Dudley turned.

'Oh,' he grunted. 'It’s you.'

'How long have you been ‘Big D’ then?' said Harry.

'Shut it,' snarled Dudley, turning away again.

'Cool name,' said Harry, grinning and falling into step beside his cousin. 'But you’ll always be Ickle Diddykins to me.'

'I said, SHUT IT!' said Dudley, whose ham-like hands had curled into fists.

'Don’t the boys know that’s what your mum calls you?'

'Shut your face.'

'You don’t tell her to shut her face. What about ‘popkin’ and ‘Dinky Diddydums,’ can I use them then?'

Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting Harry seemed to be demanding all his self-control.

'So who’ve you been beating up tonight?' Harry asked, his grin fading. 'Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—'

'He was asking for it,' snarled Dudley.

'Oh yeah?'

'He cheeked me.'

'Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? ’Cause that’s not cheek, Dud, that’s true...'

A muscle was twitching in Dudley’s jaw. It gave Harry enormous satisfaction to know how furious he was making Dudley; he felt as though he was siphoning off his own frustration into his cousin, the only outlet he had.

They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harry was often dropped off by Sirius and which formed a shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.

'Think you’re a big man carrying that thing, don’t you?' Dudley said after a few seconds.

'What thing?'

'That—that thing you’re hiding.'

Harry grinned again.

'Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s’pose if you were, you wouldn’t be able to walk and talk at the same time...'

Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.

'You’re not allowed,' Dudley said at once. 'I know you’re not. You’d get expelled from that freak school you go to.'

'How d’you know they haven’t changed the rules, Big D?'

'They haven’t,' said Dudley, though he didn’t sound completely convinced. Harry laughed softly.

'You haven’t got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?' Dudley snarled.

'Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?'

'He was sixteen for your information,' snarled Dudley, 'and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I’d finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out—'

'Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry’s wand?'

'Not this brave at night, are you?' sneered Dudley.

'This is night, Diddykins. That’s what we call it when it goes all dark like this.'

'I mean when you’re in bed!' Dudley snarled.

He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin. From the little he could see of Dudley’s large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look.

'What d’you mean, I’m not brave in bed?' said Harry, completely nonplussed. 'What—am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or something?'

'I heard you last night,' said Dudley breathlessly. 'Talking in your sleep. Moaning.'

'What d’you mean?' Harry said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.

Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter then adopted a high-pitched, whimpering voice. '‘Don’t kill Cedric! Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric—your boyfriend?'

‘I—you’re lying—‘ said Harry automatically. But his mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn’t lying—how else would he know about Cedric?

‘‘Dad! Help me, Dad! He’s going to kill me, Dad! Boo-hoo!’’

‘Shut up,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Shut up, Dudley, I’m warning you!’

‘‘Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He’s killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He’s going to—Don’t you point that thing at me!’

Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand directly at Dudley’s heart. Harry could feel fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his veins—what wouldn’t he give to strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he’d have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers—

‘Don’t ever talk about that again,’ Harry snarled. ‘D’you understand me?’

‘Point that thing somewhere else!’

‘I said, do you understand me?’

‘Point it somewhere else!’

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?’

‘GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—‘

Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water. Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless—the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.

For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that he’d been resisting as hard as he could—then his reason caught up with his senses—he didn’t have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.

Dudley’s terrified voice broke in Harry’s ear.

‘W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!’

‘I’m not doing anything! Shut up and don’t move! There’s something here!’

‘I c-can’t see! I’ve g-gone blind! I—‘

‘I said shut up!’

Harry stood stock-still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense that he was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up—he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing...

It was impossible...They couldn’t be here...Not in Little Whinging...He strained his ears...He would hear them before he saw them...

‘I’ll t-tell Dad! H-he’ll kick you out,’ Dudley whimpered. ‘W-where are you? What are you d-do—?’

‘Will you shut up?’ Harry hissed, ‘I’m trying to lis—‘

But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.

There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.

‘C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I’ll h-hit you, I swear I will!’

‘Dudley, shut—‘

WHAM!

A fist made contact with the side of Harry’s head, lifting Harry off his feet. Small white lights popped in front of Harry’s eyes; for the second time in an hour he felt as though his head had been cleaved in two; next moment he had landed hard on the ground, and his wand had flown out of his hand.

‘You moron, Dudley!’ Harry yelled, his eyes watering with pain, as he scrambled to his hands and knees, now feeling around frantically in the blackness. He heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, stumbling.

‘DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!’

There was a horrible squealing yell, and Dudley’s footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.

‘DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!’ Harry muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders.

‘Where’s—wand—come on—Lumos!’

He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help him in his search—and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his right hand—the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet, and turned around.

His stomach turned over.

A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly toward him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.

Stumbling backward, Harry raised his wand.

‘Expecto Patronum!’

A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn’t worked properly; tripping over his feet, Harry retreated farther as the dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain—concentrate—

A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the dementor’s robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry’s ears.

‘Expecto Patronum!’

His voice sounded dim and distant...Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand—he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t work the spell—

There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter...He could smell the dementor’s putrid, death-cold breath, filling his own lungs, drowning him—Think...something happy...

But there was no happiness in him...The dementor’s icy fingers were closing on his throat—the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head—‘Bow to death, Harry...It might even be painless...I would not know...I have never died...’

He was never going to see his sister again, his best friends, or the rest of the people he was privileged to call his family—

And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for breath—

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry’s wand; its antlers caught the dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike and defeated.

‘THIS WAY!’ Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. ‘DUDLEY? DUDLEY!’

He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled on the ground, his arms clamped over his face; a second dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head toward Dudley’s face as though about to kiss him...

‘GET IT!’ Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping back past him. The dementor’s eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley’s when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness. The stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.

Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harry stood quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to normality. After a moment he became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he was drenched in sweat.

He could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging...

Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking. Harry bent down to see whether he was in a fit state to stand up, but then heard loud, running footsteps behind him; instinctively raising his wand again, he spun on his heel to face the newcomer.

Mrs Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand hurriedly out of sight, but—

‘Don’t put it away, idiot boy!’ she shrieked. ‘What if there are more of them around? Oh, I’m going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!’

https://www.instagram.com/tv/CduQtf6LmMS/?igshid=YmMyMTA2M2Y=

Previous Chapter:

Chapter 1: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003585181

Tags: @Diantha Angelina Black @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack

Chapter Two: The Invitation

By the time Harry arrived in the kitchen, the three Dursleys were already seated around the table. None of them looked up as he entered or sat down. Uncle Vernon’s large red face was hidden behind the morning’s Daily Mail, and Aunt Petunia was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her horselike teeth.

Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley’s plate with a tremulous ‘There you are, Diddy darling,’ Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn since he had come home for the summer with his end-of-year report.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had managed to find excuses for his bad marks as usual: Aunt Petunia always insisted that Dudley was a very gifted boy whose teachers didn’t understand him, while Uncle Vernon maintained that ‘he didn’t want some swotty little nancy boy for a son anyway.’ They also skated over the accusations of bullying in the report—‘He’s a boisterous little boy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!’ Aunt Petunia had said tearfully.

However, at the bottom of the report there were a few well chosen comments from the school nurse that not even Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could explain away. No matter how much Aunt Petunia wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfitters didn’t stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what Aunt Petunia’s eyes—so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors—simply refused to see: that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale.

So—after many tantrums, after arguments that shook Harry’s bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia—the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all Dudley’s favorite things—fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers—and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle Vernon called “rabbit food.” To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had insisted that the whole family follow the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter to Harry. He noticed that it was a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get more to eat than Harry.

But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent Hedwig to his family with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Mould-on-the-Wold cottage with a large box stuffed full of non-perishable food such as granola bars, beef jerky, dried fruits, and crackers with little jars of peanut butter, jam, and honey. Harry’s Aunt Andromeda and Uncle Ted had sent a tin of homemade cookies of different varieties plus some different flavour juice boxes. Finally his beloved cousin Nymphadora had sent him a handful boxes of chocolate frogs and a bag of assorted soft drinks. Of course for his birthday and any other time he was home in Cotswolds Harry was treated to a proper meal. So Harry, looking forward to a real breakfast when he got back upstairs, he ate his grapefruit without complaint.

Uncle Vernon laid aside his paper with a deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his own grapefruit quarter.

‘Is this it?’ he said grumpily to Aunt Petunia.

Aunt Petunia gave him a severe look, and then nodded pointedly at Dudley, who had already finished his own grapefruit quarter and was eyeing Harry’s with a very sour look in his piggy little eyes. Uncle Vernon gave a great sigh, which ruffled his large, bushy mustache, and picked up his spoon.

The telephone rang. Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of his chair and set off towards the landline. Quick as a flash, while his mother was occupied with the kettle, Dudley stole the rest of Uncle Vernon’s grapefruit.

Harry heard Uncle Vernon answering the telephone, then to Harry's surprise he called out for him, though his voice was full of disgust.

'You,' he barked at Harry. 'In the living room. Now.'

Aunt Petunia set the teapot down on the table and looked curiously around to see what was going on. Bewildered, wondering what on earth he was supposed to have done this time, Harry got up and followed Uncle Vernon out of the kitchen and into the next room. Uncle Vernon closed the door sharply behind both of them. Uncle Vernon looked livid.

'It's your freakish little brother, tell him you have two minutes.' He handed Harry the receiver, Harry had long since given up trying to explain to his muggle family that he had no little brother but they remained purposefully ignorant, instead he put the receiver to his ear.

'Hi Canini, my uncle is only giving me two minutes so be quick.'

Her voice was full of excitement, 'Harry go to the mirror right away, there is something incredible I want to tell you and I couldn't wait for you to go back to your room!'

'Ok, ok, ok. I will be right there.' Harry told her, then hung up the receiver and made his way towards the stairs. In the back ground he could hear Uncle Vernon getting upset over his missing Grapefruit. Outside in the hall he nearly ran into Dudley, who had been lurking behind the door, clearly hoping to overhear Harry being told off. He looked shocked to see the cheeky grin on Harry’s face.

'Great breakfast,' said Harry. 'really filling, no?'

Laughing at the astonished look on Dudley’s face, Harry took the stairs three at a time, and headed towards his bedroom where even from the other side of the door he could hear Canini's excited voice.

The first thing he saw when he entered was that Hedwig was back. She was sitting in her cage, having a short rest after her night hunting. Harry gave her a treat and his letter for Sirius. He then turned his attention to the books on his desk. Hidden between two of his school textbooks was a magical two-way mirror that had once belonged to his father, that Sirius had gifted him when he first started staying the summers with the Dursleys. When he held it up to his face it wasn't his own staring back.

His adopted little sister Canini Howling was staring back at him with her shoulder length blackish brown hair, and light hazel eyes. She had an olive skin tone and a round cute face that was starting to mature as she approached being twelve. Her face was still healing from the werewolf claw marks she had gotten protecting Harry and his friends a couple month back, Harry was still getting used to this change but he still knew his caring little sister was underneath them.

'Ok, what was so exciting that it could not wait,' Harry asked.

‘Paddy got tickets to the Quidditch World Cup! He bought the best money can buy!’

Harry’s jaw dropped. He known that the match between Ireland and Bulgaria was coming up, but it was near impossible to get tickets and Remus had told him not to get his hopes up.

‘I can’t believe it. This isn’t a practice right. Please tell me you are telling the truth!’ Harry was now just as excited as his sister.

‘She is telling the truth.’ Theodore had come into view, his blueish-grey eyes were shining with eagerness. ‘We are all going. We leave for the game on Sunday.’

Canini couldn’t contain her joy anymore, ‘And Mr Weasley got his hands on some good tickets too so we’ll be going with them! Ginny must be so excited!’

Harry soon learned all the details. Their family, plus the Weasley’s, and some friends of the Weasley’s would all be traveling to the World Cup together on the coming Sunday. Remus had even secured some wolfsbane potion so that him and Canini could still go and just would transform peacefully in private. Sirius had also bought an extra ticket so that Harry could bring his friend Terence who would not have had the ability to go otherwise.

After hours of talking they all said their goodbyes and Harry put the mirror back between his books. It was only then that he realized that Hedwig hadn’t left yet with his letter for Sirius. She must have realized Harry was in a call with his home and that he might tell Sirius what happened personally without her needing to fly there. He hadn’t told Sirius though, so with a soft swooshing noise, she spread her enormous wings and soared out of the open window.

Harry watched her out of sight, then crawled under his bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out some cookies and a chocolate frog. He sat there on the floor eating it, savoring the happiness that was flooding through him. He had sweets, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day, he would be leaving Privet Drive on Sunday, his scar felt perfectly normal again, and he was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything—even Lord Voldemort.

Previous story, and recap of year three.

Tags: @Diantha Angelina Black @MeowTasticCat @Bellatrisblack

Because neither Harry or any of his friends are in the canonical chapter one, my re-write version would play out near identically and so I will be skipping it, but if anyone needs a recap a good one can be found here: https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Harry_Potter_and_the_Goblet_of_Fire?so=search#Chapter_1:_The_Riddle_House

Chapter One: The Scar

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The thirteen year old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a thin bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin. He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside his window at 4 Privet Drive.

Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real...There had been two people he knew and one he didn’t...He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember...The dim picture of a darkened room came to him...There had been a snake on a hearth rug...a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail...and a cold, high voice...the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought...

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible...All Harry knew was that at the moment when Voldemort’s chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him...or had that been the pain in his scar? And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them...Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the name...and they had been plotting to kill someone else...him!

Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his tiny bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there were an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room, though perhaps not unusual to him. His wardrobe contained long flowing robes along with more common british attire. His small desk, which doubled as a bookshelve, was full of spell books, rolls of parchment littered much of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Athletes in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another.

Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch—in Harry’s opinion, the best sport in the world—couldn’t distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of a Wednesday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there wasn’t a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

And yet...and yet...Harry went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had nearly died by the touch of a cursed man. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

No, the thing that was bothering Harry was that the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Voldemort had been close by...But Voldemort couldn’t be here, now...The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible...

Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half-expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except ugly Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn’t as though they were ever any help to him awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were Harry’s only living biological relatives. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. And yet Harry had to stay with them every summer for mysterious reasons his true guardians were reluctant to tell him. Oh how Harry wished to sleep in his own bed, and wake up to Remus' breakfast every day. But underage wizards aren't allowed to preform magic outside of school so he might as well be stuck in a boring muggle home. Harry was just lucky that when he needed to confide in someone he still had options outside of Privet Drive, he had a two-way enchanted mirror to talk to his adoptive family with, and an owl to send messages to his friends from school. But still he found himself hesitating to tell any of them about his scar hurting him, or about his worries about Voldemort.

It was because of Voldemort that Harry had such an odd living arrangement, living with the Dursleys in the summer, and his Godfather Sirius Black on other Hogwarts breaks. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would still have his biological parents...

Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort—the most powerful Dark wizard for half a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years—arrived at his house and killed his father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power—and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded, and Harry Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for Harry to discover, not long after his eleventh birthday, that it had been him who defeated Voldemort; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew his name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he went. But he was used to it now: At the end of this summer, he would be starting his fourth year at Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days until he would be back at the castle again.

But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to school. He looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eye paused on the many birthday cards his friends and adoptive family had sent him at the end of July. What would they say if Harry wrote to them and told them about his scar hurting?

At once, Allison Runcorn’s voice seemed to fill his head, often stoic but occasionally concerned. 'Your scar is hurting? Harry, this hasn't happened since You Know Who was on the back of Quirrell's head...You should be more careful...'

Yes, that would be Allison’s advice: Just try not to run into Voldemort, not like he hadn't been trying that for over three years now. Harry stared out of the window at the inky blue-black sky. Since Harry didn't quite know how he survived that night he didn't really know how to repeat it if he came into contact with a full powered Voldemort again.

Harry decided to try imagining on of his other close friends responces, Tracey Davis, and in a moment, Tracey’s deep dark skin and stunning brown eyes seemed to swim before Harry and could imagine what she would say easily. ‘This is very troubling, you should tell Dumbledore right away, he will surely know what to do...’

Harry considered this, informing the headmaster, but he had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full-length wizard’s robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s beloved owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write?

“Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter.”

Even inside his head the words sounded stupid. Finally Harry tried to imagine advice from Theodore Nott. Theodore was a close friend of his and for over a year now had been fostered by Harry’s adoptive family, Theodore’s response was easy to imagine. ‘The scar is hurting again, but that is impossible. I will do some research to see if there is an explanation. Maybe you should try asking Moony and Padfoot, they might have an answer?’

Moony and Padfoot were old nicknames for Harry’s adoptive parents, Remus Lupin, and Remus’s husband/Harry’s Godfather Sirius Black. Remus might be one of the world most knowledgeable when it came to magical scars, but he had admitted to not knowing anything about Harry’s years ago. In any case, Harry didn’t like the idea of his whole family worrying over a few moments’ pain. Sirius would probably have him taken to St Mungo's Hospital and his adopted little sister Canini would probably ask him a hundred questions. With the stress of Remus getting outed to the wizarding world as a werewolf, Canini still mentally recovering from the battle she survived two months back, and everything else going on Harry just didn’t want to be a bother.

Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. Despite not wanting to be a bother Harry decided he had to yell at least someone. He felt like he needed advice from an adult wizard who he could ask without feeling stupid, who had had experience with Dark Magic...

It was a simple choice, and despite his hesitancy he knew it was the right one—Sirius.

Harry got up out of bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote “Dear Sirius”, then paused, wondering how best to phrase his problem. Harry’s lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia’s room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and reread his finished letter.

“Dear Sirius,

I am writing you rather than using the mirror so that only you hopefully see this letter as I know Moony would probably panic if he saw it.

Things are the same as usual here. Dudley’s diet isn’t going too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him they’d have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That’s a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn’t even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things.

I’m okay, but something has happened and I want you to know about it. A weird thing happened this morning, my scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don’t reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward? I am also worried because right before this happened I had a horrible dream that I can’t quite explain.

Write back as soon as you can.

-Harry”

Harry thought it sounded good and he would send it off once Hedwig had returned from hunting. He was originally going to go in detail with what had been in the dream, but the last thing Sirius needed to know was that Harry was having nightmares about Voldemort and the treacherous Peter Pettigrew, it was probably just that, a dream. He folded up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection, he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast.

Harry: Lumos Maxima!

Doesn't work.

Harry: LUMOS MAXIMA!

Doesn't work.

Harry: LUMOOOOOOOOOOS MAAAAXXXIMAAAAAAAAA!

Doesn't work.

Uncle Vernon comes into the room.

Harry pretends to sleep.

Vernon leaves.

Harry: LLLLLLUUUUUUMMMMMOOOOOOSSSSSSS MMMMMAAAAAXXXXIIIIMMMMAAAAA!

The spell still doesn't work.

Harry gets a tantrum.

Harry gets out of his room. He goes to Dudley's room.

Dudley: Harry? I'll tell Mommy and Daddy, then you'll be in big trouble

Dudley does an evil laugh.

Harry: Too bad. You'll never be able to tell them.

AAAAVVVAAAADDDDAAAA KKKKEEEEDDDDAAAAAVVVVRRRAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dudley dies, motionless.

Vernon and Petunia enter the room.

Petunia: Duddykins!!!!!

Petunia runs over to Dudley.

Harry: Crucio!

Petunia starts lying on the floor, suffering.

Vernon: Oi! You bad boy. You killed your cousin and made your aunt suffer. Fix this now boy or no memes for 100,000,000,000,000, days.

Harry chuckles.

Harry: No! You've made me your slave for long enough.

Harry points his wand at Petunia.

Harry: AAAAAVVVVAAAADDDDAAAA KKKKKEEEEEDDDDDAAAAAVVVVVRRRRRAAAAAAAA!

Petunia's body lays next to Dudley.

Vernon starts crying.

Vernon: Please, I'm your uncle, PLEASE!

Harry: No. AAAVVVVAAAADDDDAAA KKKEEEDDDDAAAAVVVVRRRRAAAA!!!!!!!

Vernon dies.

TO BE CONTINUED...