Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is property of JK Rowling. All speech is taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and is not mine. No infringement intended
When I first read The Order of the Phoenix, I was ridiculously curious about what Dudley's worst memory could have been, and when I began to write my own little ficlets, I began to actually think about it. I came up with this idea with more than a little help from JKR, especially in the seventh book when Dudley leaves a cup of tea outside Harry's bedroom door and worries about where he is going. It seems to me as though Dudley is trying to take care of Harry in his own little way, and that feeling must have stemmed from somewhere.
And it hit me like a train
Coldness grips my throat and paralyses me. My hands grapple with the darkness that meets my eyes. I can hear him close by. I can hear the frantic breaths dart from his mouth and the desperate fumble as he searches for that stick. I am comforted.
Until fear hits my heart and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the air.
'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!' Harry is wailing. His voice claws at me.
Somewhere, panicking and urgent, Harry calls, 'Dudley, keep your mouth shut! Whatever you do, keep your mouth shut!'
And then he's crying again. 'Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me!'
I swallow a sob, pleading with myself to please, just please. Please don't open your mouth.
Harry cries out to his parents who don't come running while he grunts and shouts nonsense. And still his parents don't come to him. But his cries are louder now, his begging more earnest. I am reaching out, looking for him.
A light pierces me, and the coldness is shattered. Harry is there, illuminated by the fierce glow of a stag. He bends down to me, his look questioning. I don't meet his gaze.
Abruptly, he whirls away from me with his stick raised, as footsteps rattle towards us. A slight figure stands before him, that Figg lady from across the road. Words are spoken but I can't hear them clearly. Harry's screams linger in my mind. Hands tug at me uselessly. They are easy to resist. And then stronger hands take over, pulling me to my feet. Harry wraps my arm around his shoulders and begins to lead me home.
They talk constantly all the way. I feel sick. He was crying for his parents and they never came. But now he is taking me home and talking to our neighbour as though nothing ever happened. He has forgotten the terror he felt. I have the echoes of it bouncing around in my head. I close my eyes and concentrate hard on something else. Boxing. My new computer game. That night's dinner.
Silence settles and slowly, I become aware that we are stood in our porch.
'Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite –'
The concern in my mother's voice is what does it. Harry screams and screams for his parents and they don't come. My mother is always there, answering me before I have asked for her. A feeling that I can't name bubbles in my stomach, in my throat. I can't hold it back. I throw up on the doormat.
'Diddy!'
Mum's reaction makes me feel worse. She calls for Dad, who is there in an instant. Together, they carefully, lovingly, help me inside and sit me down. Their conversation is only about me. Did I eat something strange? Did I fall over? Had I been mugged? This last one wrenched an hysterical cry from my mother and the police were mentioned. But not Harry. He had been screaming for this help and no-one came to him. And now, he was sweating and shaking from the effort it had taken to bring me back home, and no-one had even said, 'Hello.'
I am too caught up with this realisation to keep track of my parents' shrill questions. I only want them to take notice of Harry. It is too much effort to explain this to them, and so I raise a hand to point him out to them, and hope that they will understand my meaning.
'Him,' I mumble.
This does not start the chain of events I had hoped for. I try to redirect the conversation at each unwelcome turn, but the shock and fear of the evening is too much to cope with and I cannot explain myself properly. With every sentence I begin that I don't know how to finish, I make things worse, and, as the shouting reaches its peak, I give up. These are not the parents that Harry wants anyway. They don't understand him. Looking at him, with red sparking out of that stick in his hand, I don't understand him either. Because how is it possible to be as OK as this when you know that your parents never answer your cries?