Hello everyone. Yes, I know I'm pretty dead around here but I have little time on my hands, and even less to read. BUT, I came up with this little oneshot at work and frankly, astonished even myself. It almost didn't go up. You'll find out why near the end. I WARN YOU: some of this may be too disturbing for a few to see. For those of you who know enough, enjoy.

Petunia shivered as the stubborn door closed behind her. Autumn had made an early debut… After bemoaning the bitter cold, biting wind, and ghastly cost of heating, she slipped her coat off the rack and administered it to her pimply arms. Good heavens! That certainly put a damper on bridge club this afternoon—then again she never cared for Yvonne's taste in décor and even less for her deviled eggs (not to mention the woman chatted on and on about her recently-enlisted son…who on Earth could dash so much energy into such a thing?). Putting the thought aside, she nearly balked upon noticing the small, spritely clouds emerging from her lips. Giving a scowl, she was about to barge out to acquire a space heater (she would not, for anything, venture in the basement for their old one) before a thought enlightened her:

The Dursley living room did, indeed, have a fireplace.

Now, ever since the incident last year, they frequently pretended the accursed thing was not even there. It was an unwritten rule to not even glance very long. When the freak's freaky friends poured out their chimney (where else could they have come from?!) Vernon nearly had an aneurism. Upon recovery, he mulled over boarding it up again, but for their safety Petunia convinced him otherwise. That boy could have his letters so long as they could have their furnishings; the devil had promised them no more unnecessary oddities (or arrivals) from his unnatural brethren, but the Dursley's knew better (which was why they hadn't said anything).

Petunia constantly scrubbed her arms something awful: even under the coat, they prickled like pine needles. It was absolutely freezing in here! Vernon would have to look into re-insulating the house: it simply would not do to leave it as is for the dire months to come. Why, they might be sitting at the kitchen table as idling icepops! Just think of what the neighbors would say! Finally she reached the fireplace and knelt down whist rubbing two scrawny hands: she would need her muscles warmed just to light the spark—and especially when lifting those logs. Perhaps it had been a blessing to avoid this feature like the plague; Vernon most likely would've disposed of the wood otherwise. Then she would've needed to rely on the stove (which foretold migraines from the gas bill…). She flexed her hands and set to work.

Where was Dudley? she wondered, stashing a tiny knot of kindling under the hearth. He was often home by now, even if it summer. Unless of course her adorably-forgetful boy had simply run off to Piers without leaving a note. Oh, bless him! With the starting point taken care of, Petunia felt around for the lighter Vernon kept by the photo of Marge. With no success, she stood and plucked up the picture for a better view…which proved rather hard with the house so dim. Nasty overcast. Standing once again, Petunia wove through the protuberant furniture and felt the left wall for the switch. It brushed her pinky and flicked upward.

The house remained unchanged.

Perfect. So the power was out, too! Well, that certainly explained a lot of things! One angry mutter later Petunia was back at the fireplace, glaring at the mantel…and halting once she saw the box lying on the opposite side. She nearly chortled; she had forgotten all about the matches kept up here as well. As she began work anew, the numbness in her fingers evaporated by a margin. With the last log in the hearth, she struck a match and lit the kindling.

Giving a sigh she bathed her hands in the flickering embers. It would be awhile before the final log caught—even more until the house felt more to her liking—but it was certainly better than sitting here in the dark. By the time Vernon returned, it might even be comfortable enough to put off buying the space heater while they regaled around the hearth—just like picture-perfect families on Christmas cards! Something would still have to be done about that nasty power outage, but the thought of Vernon giving a useless slacker at the electric company his well-earned 3rd-degree soothed dear Petunia enough to ease down on the sofa…

"Comfortable?"

The woman shrieked as she veered toward the left.

Sitting in the love seat, inches away, was a figure wearing a shadowy gray cloak. The hood was bunched around its neck, but with the fire too weak, Petunia could not make any other detail to report to the police. So instead she screamed again—or, rather, tried. Just as the sharp treble passed her lips, it died a mere instant later. Petunia grasped at her throat as the stranger spoke calmly.

"Come, Petunia, you grace the neighborhood with your harping as it is. Surely you don't believe they desire an encore in spades?"

Petunia didn't even gape at the insult, too choked up wringing her shaky hands. Hysterics! She was going to go into hysterics if she didn't regain herself soon! The tiniest peep wouldn't surface no matter how much she toiled and toiled. Tears sprung en masse against her vision; it was clear just what the intruder was. The question remained: what exactly did the fiend want? The boy was not here; he had gone off to stay the week with those urchins who broke forth from their chimney (the "W"-something's. Weasel's? Wheatey's?). This occurrence had overjoyed everyone and…oh, it was bitingly obvious was this was now! A bloody stunt orchestrated by that ungrateful brat! Just went to show one couldn't trust their kind in the least! Give them an inch and all. Still, that didn't remedy her vocals, and she clawed futilely as more tears trekked down her jaw. It was only then that the stranger gave a bored wave of his hand.

"—DOING HERE!? HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?! MY HUSBAND WILL BE HOME ANY MINUTE!"

The stranger chuckled and remained utterly collected before standing up.

Petunia backed away. His movements were silent and liquid. He was very tall, and could have outdone Vernon by 3 heads. With his form now in front of the hearth, Petunia could finally perceive half his face. It was pale but strong-jawed. His eyes were dark, like his hair, which was parted eloquently off to the side. Were she not so very petrified, Petunia might have admitted that some would find this man…strikingly handsome.

Even his voice was calm. "My name is Tom Riddle, and I am a Professor at Hogwarts."

Petunia's lungs braided around her throat.

A faint smile emerged. "I've become well-acquainted with your nephew, Mrs. Dursley. He appears to be a very promising young man. However," the smile receded, "he doesn't seem too enthusiastic about his home life. Why is that, I wonder?"

The woman said nothing.

"Yes. All too often, he will gladly change the subject. Leap at the chance, as a matter of fact. And rarely does he receive any word from this place." He gave a revolted sweep of the room. "Though, all things considered, that might not be quite unfortunate…"

She didn't even flinch.

His terrifyingly calm smile resurfaced. "I finally had the gumption to sit him down after class, and learned quite a few things about Harry, Mrs. Dursley. Quite a few interesting things indeed... A cupboard? That's quite troubling, even for your kind. Though I'm sure worse things have been done to a child, were that minor detail known publicly, it would have an interesting effect on your lives." Petunia swallowed. Riddle rewarded her with a broader smile. "As for how I received entry, it was this fanciful device called a 'door'. Surely you've heard of it, lest you crawled down the chimney." His eyes landed upon the slowly-ascending flames. "Though your neck alone might possess such capability, it is highly doubtful…"

The offense to her physical…uniqueness, brought Petunia to snap: "Out of my house this INSTANT! Or I'm calling the police!"

The stranger turned from the growing flames pleasantly. "Would you? I'd be so delighted to be saved the trouble. They would certainly be interested in the boy starved to death for 10 years as well." The merciless smile brought forth a sliver of teeth. "Tell me, Petunia," he asked as her heart froze, "what constitutes such treatment…" His voice began to deplete the amiable tone for one edged with steel. The smile had likewise faded. He took another step forward. "He still has flashbacks you know, gazing off blankly whenever offered a small meal, or frowning unconsciously if so much as given ill-fitting robes..."

He brought out his wand and Petunia sucked in a breath.

The daunting smile merely resurfaced. "You look a might chilled, Petunia: why don't you stoke the fire?"Petunia knew better and remained where she stood. The fire delightedly overcame the bottom log.

Him. This was all his doing. The freak had been nothing but trouble since the day he came and as expected, she was paying. Oh without question, the boy would not get away with this…entailing she would live. As the Muggle began to tear, Riddle tutted.

"Now, now, Petunia, no need for that. I understand you creatures are helpless to your instinctive destruction. A fact learned long ago." He leered, "Aside, there are many other things you can be ashamed of." He turned his back to her, facing the hearth again. "Take your husband: not the brightest or thinnest of men, but one could overlook that given his skills as a parent."

Here Petunia glanced up. Riddle rewarded her acknowledgement with another bone-chilling smile. "He really does seem to think sheltering and indulging your son is the best for him. Excusing everything he does, congratulating mistreatment of others, chortling when he throws a tantrum—have you earnestly listened when he begins to scream? He sounds exactly like a p-"

"VERNON IS AN ASTOUNDING FATHER!" Petunia spouted. "A-and he's the best husband I could ask for!"

Riddle hummed. "Pity that."

Petunia's outburst unearthed further rage; she demanded: "What is it you want?! We don't have the boy, he's gone to be with his freaky friends at God knows where! Only glad to be rid of the disgraceful-

"AAH!"

Petunia jumped as a spear of light whipped past her cheek, a rigid sting taking its place moments later. Within a minute of stunned silence, something began dribbling down her jaw. Warm. Sticky.

Riddle faced the hearth yet again, idly rolling a wand between his fingers. "I trust you know wizards have…methods of harming those who've harmed them—likely the reason you tormented Harry—I find it hard to believe your sister would carry out such a feat, but I digress… Truly a credit to your species to forget there more of us out there. Some who might even care for the boy." He glared at his wand. "Of course, it also escaped your knowledge that he is, in fact, a boy didn't it? A boy denied care when most needed…"

Petunia said nothing.

Riddle took up the smile again, craning his head and (thank all that was holy) weaving both hands behind his back.

Her voice was colorless. "What do you want?"

Here Riddle emitted a cold, hearty laugh that cooled living tissue.

"Rectifying that disgraceful swine you call a son? Introduce your husband to a basilisk? Collect 10 years of Harry's life? None of which are possible. But, there are alternatives to get by…" He turned to the flames, which occasionally nibbled the uppermost log. Petunia felt a rotten pit forming in her stomach. How could she have foreseen this? It wasn't as though she enjoyed it: the boy just had to be reminded there would be consequences for his actions. If anything he should be grateful they had ever taken him in! They could have carted him away to an orphanage but she and her sentimentality wouldn't have it! Now look where she ended up: no good deed goes unpunished indeed…

"Did you know some wizards aren't past harming children as well?"

Petunia froze.

Riddle turned halfway, extremely nonchalant. "Naturally our methods are more…clean, but they suffice." His eyes landed back upon the fire, and an eerie grin settled upon his face.

"Why don't you ask your son?"

Petunia shrieked wildly in horror. Realization hit her like a cold brick. In a mad second, she reached out and began clawing at the firewood, disregarding the cruel laughter as her fingers sung with pain. It was only when her accursed reflexes jerked the uppermost logs from the pile, that it occurred they possessed a poker. Without even thinking she grabbed the object, blisters be damned, and dove its barbed end into the hearth. Now she could claw at roaring embers in peace. Her mind seemed to forget everything else, hoping against hope that-

"Your husband came home early, did you know?" Riddle mentioned. "Seems someone phoned him to inform his house was broken into." An unacknowledged grin blossomed as Petunia unceasingly dug at the flames. Where was her boy? Had he hidden him in here? Shrunk him down beyond her notice? "I had the highest temptation to make that literally so, but it would warrant bothersome attention. He arrived just in time to see the burglar…"

Petunia deafly searched with the glowing iron. Goodness knew what this beast did to her Dudley! And all this time she was…Riddle didn't bother containing the smile when she screamed.

She dropped the poker and her hands flew to her mouth. Sweat began to pour that had nothing to do with the fire. The injuries all but forgotten as she saw the terrified face. Upon the handle lay eyes and a mustache. The former of which mirroring her exact expression of horror.

And it was still tucked in the flames.

With a shriek, Petunia dragged the glowing end out of the bedding, snagging the base of the fire. Every log tumbled upon the rug, but te woman was too busy gaping to care. The handle's narrow face was wretched with agony, its barbed point flaring red.

"VERNON!" She screeched.

Riddle began idly twirling his wand as the woman raced to the kitchen. He made no attempt to stop her. Upon return, she lugged an overflowing bucket, drenched the entire carpet, and casting it aside. She again picked up the agonized poker.

"VERNON! VERNON! WHAT'S HE DONE TO YOU?!"

"I can see you're very agitated about your husband," the wizard cut in, "but you seem to have forgotten one minor issue…"

Racing back to the task at hand, Petunia fell to her knees and began scouring for her little boy. When she could find no sign of him, she beseechingly crawled to the man over her. "Please!" she begged, blistered hands grasping his robes, "tell me where my son is! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING IF YOU GIVE HIM BACK!"

Dousing the urge to kick her away, Riddle leaned. "He's right in front of you, Petunia. Don't you recognize him?"

Petunia wept into her stinging palms, hair matted to her tearful face. The tall wizard nearly rolled his eyes.

"I'll give you a hint: he's certainly much skinnier than before."

Here he slung her off. Without pause Petunia set off for Dudley. The poker wearily mouthed clues, but forged iron was incapable of speech… The woman searched high and low, diving under furniture, scoping behind curtains, even charging headlong into the basement—but with no avail. Riddle tsk-tsked as he watched her pitiful progress. Hysteric sobs morphed turned into dry hiccups, and her once-perfect house fell in disarray. When she had nowhere left to upturn, desperation once again targeted the man before her. Gone was her delusion of superiority.

Riddle withdrew his wand.

Petunia shook. "No, ple-!"The rug jerked from underneath her, and down she fell to the smoldering logs.

One of which mouthed "Mum!"

Petunia gaped at the rounded end and snatched the grazed firewood to her without thinking. Upon it singing a hole into her dress, she dropped the object quite unwillingly. Indecisive relief washing over her face, Petunia once again wept, bearing the sight of her husband and son before her. Riddle gazed at the spectacle and decided there was nothing else left. He-

"Wait!"

Uncaring eyes glanced back, to find an unsightly woman. Ashen. Reddened. Blemishes crawling about her elbows.

"P-p-please…turn my son and husband back, and I won't ever harm the boy again! I won't let anyone know you were here either!"

He lifted a brow. "You are too right in assuming that, Mrs. Dursley: your nephew won't ever return to this broken bilepit again. He is to be kept within the safety of Hogwarts, far away from filth." The barest shift of his eyes. "And on that topic, how do you plan to explain that to the neighbors?"

Petunia muffled her cool elbows. "A…a…accidents happen with fireplaces all the time."

A minor smirk. "In the summer?"

The woman stopped breathing, realizing what this all had been while the man just smirked wider.

"It was a simple effort to have the sky appear gray," he gazed at his wand reminiscently, "—the glamor triggered as soon as you breached your walk. The climate, even more so."

Petunia had no expertise to absorb the workings of magic, but she understood. He had…bewitched her house…possibly the entire neighborhood, to bring her here. He had the atmosphere bitterly insufferable, so she'd tend to her needs. He…knew they had a fireplace…knew she would strike a match and-

"The power was merely attending the breaker—I had already wasted enough magic—and of course I had to take the fuse if you had any idea to visit the contraption. Unlikely as it was," a demonic smile curled upon those lips, "you can't think to save a life…"

Petunia merely began to shake. It was only 2 seconds before she hit the floor, plummeting into sobs. Riddle had seen enough...but before he could leave for good, another minor detail caught his attention.

"Oh, and don't worry about your walrus and pig," he turned in exact unison with her, "Transfiguration usually wears off within a few hours."

Petunia let her head hang in resignation, until his parting footsteps silenced once more. "And Petunia,"

She looked up, and there her blood ran cold. The calm façade was gone—even a hint of playfulness, even if it sadistic, was memory. An unholy expression took root in the tall man's gaze.

"This could have gone far more worse…"

With no more time to waste on filth, Riddle Apparated in silence.