The Oven

Prologue

The nice policeman threw a blanket over Dudley Dursley's broad shoulders. The boy was in shock.

"Where's your father, Dudley?" he asked gently. "Do you know where he went?"

The boy's head shook slightly, but the policeman attributed the gesture more to the fact that the kid was trembling uncontrollably, than an actual sign of negation.

"Do you have any relatives, son? That you can stay with?"

No response.

"Oi! Brownie!"

Philip Brownstone, 42, turned in the direction of the voice to find his partner, Oliver Thomson, 35, gesticulating wildly from the doorway.

"I'll be back, Dudley. You just…stay there."

Thomson led him outside onto the once pristine, untouched lawn. Now blue lights flashed from the street; neighbors, police officers, and paramedics stomped through the grass to the house. Voices were talking quickly, in hushed tones, excited and horrified.

"Neighbor says the husband left a week ago," Thomson said gruffly, pulling a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and shoving one between his lips.

"Does neighbor know where the husband went?" Philip asked, agitated, watching his partner's hands roam around empty pockets for a lighter.

"Nah. Said he works for a drill company though. Might want to check out his employment if he doesn't show up." A glint of triumph entered Thomson's eye as he held up the coveted lighter and nonchalantly lit his fag.

"The boy hasn't spoken a word."

Thomson snorted. "You expect him to? Lad must be traumatized, seeing a thing like that, knowing that he'll never have Mum's homecooking again."

"I don't think it's an appropriate time for weight jokes, Thomson," Philip frowned.

"It's always an appropriate time for weight jokes, Brownie. Seeing things like this…it's amazing we're not in the asylum crying our eyes out twenty-four hours a day."

The two men stood there, shifting from one foot to the other on the damp grass. About twenty feet away sprinklers went off and a neighborhood woman, doused and shrieking, attempted to cover her now transparent white nightgown with her hands. Thomson snickered, but sobered quickly at Philip's disapproving glare.

"Neighbor said there's another boy."

Philip's eyebrows went up to his hairline. There had been no sign of another boy in the house, no pictures or possessions.

"A nephew," Thomson continued conversationally. "Neighbor said something about him attending St. Brutus's."

"St. Brutus's?"

"Yep. You know. St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys…" Thomson trailed off, dropping the now satisfied cigarette butt to the wet grass and grinding it in with his heel for good measure. "Although, neighbor also said there was something fishy about that. Said the boy was quiet, but quite polite. Never did anything remotely criminal."

"Then why would the family claim such a thing?" Philip asked, perplexed.

"Aunt and Uncle had an incredibly loud row right before Uncle left. Could be heard for blocks, Neighbor said. Uncle thought the nephew was a bad sort, apparently. That's why he left, she said. Wanted the nephew out, but the aunt held firm, said he had to stay. Some rubbish about her sister's blood and that sentimental sort of shite you expect from a woman."

"The nephew's not in the house. The uncle's not in the house. Do you suppose the uncle took the nephew?"

"Daddy hated Harry."

Thomson and Brownstone turned, almost in synchrony, to find 16-year-old Dudley Dursley standing five feet away, shivering underneath the blanket still struggling to cover his enormous shoulders.

"Dudley? Do you know where your cousin…Harry, was it? Do you know where he is?" Brownstone asked in a voice one usually uses when speaking to a frightened animal.

Dudley's eyes narrowed. "No. But he did this."

"He…Dudley…how could your cousin-"

"He did it! With that stick of his!" Dudley shouted, and though it was dark, they could see that his face was turning quite purple in the light emitting from the houses, streetlights, and emergency vehicles. The two officers exchanged glances. Philip Brownstone ran a nervous hand through his thinning blond hair.

"That…stick?" Thomson asked slowly, as though addressing someone holding a very large kitchen knife.

Dudley drew in a breath. "His….his…" He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no words came out.

"His what, Dudley?" Brownstone prodded gently. "It's okay, you can tell us."

"His..." and Dudley took in another shuddering breath, a curtain of determination settling over his features. "…wand."

"His…wand." Thomson looked at Brownstone, his eyes clearly indicating that it was time to phone the asylum.

"His wand, Dudley?" Brownstone asked, blatantly ignoring his partner. "What wand? What is a wand, exactly?"

"You know…his…magic wand."

"Dudley, you're not…are you speaking in code?" Brownstone was desperate now. "Is there someone listening in? Someone who wants to hurt you?" Feverishly. he looked around the yard at the raucous of tragedy's aftermath: at the gossiping neighbors who were trying their best to cry; at the paramedics forcing the sheet-wrapped body-laden gurney through the doorway; and back at Dudley Dursley, parentless, looking at him, Philip "Brownie" Brownstone, with wide, mad eyes.

"He's a wizard!" Dudley screamed. "Don't you get it? He's a wizard! Harry! And he did magic! And then Mummy stuck her head in the oven! Harry did it! Harry Potter!"

The paramedics came for Dudley next, wrapping him securely in a straight jacket, coaxing him with gentle words that couldn't be heard over his unfaltering shouts of, "Harry Potter killed my Mummy!"

"That…poor lad," Philip breathed, a hand over his mouth, his eyes watching three struggling paramedics heave Dudley into an ambulance separate from that which held his mother's body,

"Poor us, I say," Thomson murmured over another cigarette. "Taxpayer's money. That's what's going to feed that baby whale."

"Thomson, have you no heart?"

Thomson turned and considered his irritated partner thoughtfully for a moment. "No, I don't think so. But, hey…have you ever considered calling me Ollie?"

"No."

"But…Brownie and Ollie…I think partners should have special names for each other. And I quite like that name. Ollie…."

Elsewhere…

The wind was angry and cold, giving the trees a violent sort of thrashing, and causing the leaves, still green, to disperse from their resident branches and scatter, haphazardly, to the ground. The ground was wet and thick with mud, and the naked boy lying upon it shivered and curled into himself, attempting to seek warmth in his own skin. Despite his unconscious state, he found himself innately aware that there was no one else and there never would be - aware that he was alone.

It was a loud crash of thunder that awoke him, followed almost immediately by a sharp crack of lightning. Rain began pelting down upon his young skin, hard and unrelenting, and the boy bit his lip and trembled as the merciless precipitation mixed with his own tears.

He didn't know where he was and he didn't know how he got there. Neither did he know why he was outside in this messy weather, nor why he hadn't even a scrap of clothing with which to attempt to cover himself.

Worst of all, he realized, panicking now - he didn't even know his own name.

Shite, he thought, as the world crashed down around him. He wondered if it was normal not to know your own name or your location or who your parents were or what you were supposed to be doing right now or where you belonged. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe this was just the beginning – he had been born here, among these trees, sprouted up from the dirt like an ordinary plant in the wilderness.

He smacked his forehead, inwardly admonishing himself for thinking such idiocy. People weren't plants, and he was definitely a person, wasn't he? He had fingers and toes and a mind that was desperately trying to rationalize this situation.

He also knew that people led lives and had identities. They had names and backgrounds and relationships with other people and a whole catalogue of memories organized within their heads.

So it was peculiar then, wasn't it, that this boy had no name and no background. He had a head, of course, but where were his memories?

The boy bit his lip and attempted to rise to his feet, but instantly slipped back down to the ground. His head was light, like he hadn't eaten in a long time and getting up so fast left him feeling very, very dizzy.

He sighed and surveyed his surroundings, wondering how close he was to civilization. It looked like he was in a forest; there were so many trees and no lights. He struggled to his feet again and wobbled over to a trunk to lean against, attempting to regain some modicum of strength with which to continue, but he found that standing and just thinking left him furiously searching his mind for things that weren't there, and he began to panic again and the tears returned.

"Who am I?" he choked. He felt very young and very vulnerable and feeling this way felt very strange to him, like it wasn't something he usually felt. He wondered if he usually felt anything at all, or if he normally was quite an unfeeling person.

Maybe, he thought, I'm a bad person. A wicked person. A terrible person.

Perhaps he had been thrown out of wherever he had come from, rejected by his society because of some horrible misdeeds. Maybe they had stripped him of his clothes and of his memory as a punishment and left him out here to fend for himself and quite possibly, to freeze or to starve to death.

That, he decided, would be a rather severe punishment. He would have had to do something incredibly heinous to deserve a sentence of that particular caliber.

Maybe he'd killed someone.

And with the sudden thought, came a blast of pain in his forehead along with another orotund round of thunder.

He trembled and gasped and cried as he waited for the pain to subside. He was certain that that couldn't possibly be normal, thoughts leading to pain like that. He had to get out of here, and find other people before he was too weak to move.

Yes, he thought as he pushed himself away from the tree trunk. I've just got to move about a bit and I'll be okay.

But it only took a step for him to slip to the ground and it only took one more moment of searching for something in his mind that held nothing for the boy to give up and retreat back into unconsciousness.