Disclaimer: Harry Potter, all places and characters, the names etcetera belongs to Mrs J.K Rowling, her publishers (such as Bloomsbury Publishing Plc and Scholastic), and Warner Brothers™. All rights reserved. This is not meant as theft or insult—I wrote it for the enjoyment myself, and (hopefully) of other people. No copyright infringement is intended. I own the stories themselves.
Author's Note: Today's the elections in Sweden. Let's choose: tax cuts for the rich, or decent welfare? I know exactly where I stand!
Rating: G
Word count: Total: 913 words.

Refuge

'Mum, where are we going?'

For the seventeenth time during their 'brief' car trip, Petunia had to shut her eyes tight and slowly count to ten. 'I don't know, Diddykins,' she said uncertainly. 'But we have to follow these people. He … the man that killed Harry's parents … might be coming after us, so we've got to go with them and trust them. We might be attacked otherwise.'

Vernon grunted from the driving seat as he turned the car to head north-west, though he did not comment his wife's words.

'What will happen to Harry?'

Unexpectedly, Vernon spoke. 'Will you stop worrying about the boy?' he asked irritably.

Petunia, on her hand, answered not, though bit her lip.

'Don't worry,' the witch that had collected them so many hours ago said, 'he's going to the Weasley's house. And then, when the summer holidays are over, I'm sure he'll return to Hogwarts. His school,' she added sharply, seeing Vernon wrinkle his nose at the mention of the school's name. Vernon had deliberately shared his views upon magic, and its performers, throughout the car trip.

They had not spoken much after that.

The Dursleys had been taken to France, through magic, after travelling by car. They were to stay for a year. The wizards had prepared a place on an English-speaking school in Lyon for Dudley and they had found a small but roomy house outside the city for them, in a peaceful neighbourhood not very much unlike Little Whinging. Vernon had conveniently managed to make the company let him work from an office complex in the very centre of the city. Slowly but steadfastly, Petunia began to build a relationship with the neighbouring wives.

The only thing they found difficult was to cover up the reason behind their stay. They could not, naturally, tell the truth behind their hasty move from their home—despite from the obvious facts few people would believe them, they would adventure the safety of themselves as well as that of Harry. Vernon's work had, therefore, been an excellent disguise. Although, instead of saying he had been transferred to France because of their move, they said he had been hastily transferred instead, which caused surprisingly little suspicion.

A little less than a year later, though, the little man and the witch had re-entered their lives again. On a rainy Sunday morning, they had received a visit from the short man and the witch, who had originally brought them there.

Dudley had opened the door. The family had been under the impression it was one of their neighbours, inviting them to Mass once again. After having three interrupted Sunday breakfasts in a row, they had finally given in and joined her, foolishly thinking this would put an end to her invitation. Though they had been proven very wrong: instead of leaving their Sunday mornings in peace, the lady had began inviting them to the Thursday evening Mass, as well. At the moment, they were running short of excuses not to join her. As nearly all their new neighbours attended church regularly, it would raise suspicion not to.

Though when Dudley had come back to the kitchen, white-faced, they had realized it was much worse than a plea for church attendance.

'Who was it?' asked Vernon., putting marmalade on his already deliberately buttered piece of bread. 'That cult bat again?'

Dudley had not had time to answer that, until the answer appeared in person being him: it was the witch that had brought them there.

'Hello! I'm sue you remember me. I'm here to tell you that the war is over. Your nephew defeated You-Know-Who, so it's safe for you to return to your house in Little Whigning.

'Who do we know?' Vernon asked with irritation.

'You know … Vol– Vol–'

'Voldemort?' Petunia suggested, well aware since her sister's life time that wizards found it difficult to even pronounce the wizard's name.

'Yes.' The witch shuddered, nodding at them. 'I'll give you some time to finish your breakfast, and then we'll get you packed, so you can return to your home.'

After their return, no one mentioned Harry. They never mentioned his name, even, until a rainy autumn night while watching the late news.

'Petunia, dear?'

'Yes?'

'I've been thinking. What do you think we should do about the boy's room?' Petunia knew he was talking about their nephew.

Together they had walked up to the room in question in silence, and opened his room for the first time in a year. It looked exactly as they remembered it, though the big owl cage, usually standing on the desk, was missing. In the corner, though, was a pile of books, a broomstick and several robes which Petunia recognized as the ones the students wore at Hogwarts—she remembered them from her younger sister's adolescence.

'What d'you reckon we should do with the stuff? Burn it?' Vernon jeered.

'No,' said Petunia resolutely. 'We'll put it down in the cupboard under the stairs, just in case he returns to collect it.'

'But –'

'No, Vernon. We're keeping it. Now, help me carry the lot of it downstairs.'

Though she had kept it in vain; Harry never returned. Petunia waited, and waited, for months and years. But Harry never fetched his things.

And Petunia would never be able to dispose of it.

Author's Note: Regarding the poor neighbour's attempt at getting the Dursleys to go to Mass: I don't want to harass churchgoers. I'm active in my church myself. I'm not saying I believe it will be interpreted like this, but … Just to be clear. And if you don't go, well, it's OK too—of course. And, well, the novel-length thing is going along smoothly. With any luck, it's going to be ready for publication around Christmas. And finally: Today's the elections of Sweden, my country of origin. And I'm left-wing. And Christian. Face it.