Chapter Two

Miss Brown

It was a crisp, golden August morning, as fresh and perfect as the first bite of an apple. Sunlight streamed weakly in through the windows of a darkened hotel room, where Dudley Dursley was snoring. His wide chest rose and fell softly with his breaths, mouth half-open as he splayed his arms and legs in a tangle of itchy cotton blankets. On the wooden nightstand next to him sat an alarm clock, its hands currently pointing to 10:37. For one peaceful moment, nothing moved; his world, tumultuous as it had been lately, was at peace.

Until his mother screamed.

Dudley jerked awake, heart already racing, hands clammy from sweat. Scrambling out of his blankets, he pulled a thin t-shirt over his head as he raced into the kitchen, mind inventing possibilities—a murderer, a burglar—

The woman sitting opposite his mother in the kitchen seemed to be neither a murderer or a burglar. On the contrary, she looked rather more like a film star than anything else. She had dramatic features—a heart-shaped face, heavily lidded eyes shimmering with gold shadow, chestnut hair in carefully preened curls that gleamed under the fluorescent light of the kitchen. She was dressed fashionably, if rather girlishly, in a tight dress made out of some glimmering fabric, and was currently delicately sipping from a teacup, ignoring the fact that the woman she was talking to had just screamed bloody murder.

"Mum?" Dudley panted, slightly out of breath. "Is everything alright?"

The woman in the chair turned at the sound of his voice, and it was then that Dudley saw what had made his mother scream. Slashing across the side of her face, previously hidden from view, were three angry red scars. They trailed across her neck and down to the neckline of her dress before disappearing beneath the gauzy fabric. It was as if some horrible beast had mauled her face, leaving behind twisted masses of scar tissue that twisted her face into a sad grimace as she beamed at him.

"Hello," she said cheerily, apparently not at all conscious of the fact that Dudley was gaping at her. "You must be Dudley Dursley." The woman—a young woman, rather, right about Dudley's age—extended a hand glimmering with jeweled rings. Still rather shocked, Dudley took it, unable to take his eyes off the scars lining her face. She had a strong grip, Dudley noticed.

"Yeah, that's me," he mumbled, finally tearing his gaze from her scars to meet her hazel eyes.

"My name's Lavender Brown," she continued. "I work with the Muggle Protection Agency. I've just been talking to your mother about the recent explosion at your house."

"Wait a minute," Dudley said. "Muggles? So…you're…you're one of their sort, then? What are you doing here?"

The woman—Lavender, she had said—looked slightly miffed at being called one of their lot,but she shrugged it off. "The recent explosion, Dudley, at your house? That wasn't a gas leak. We—the Ministry of Magic—have reason to believe that there was a terrorist attack, targeting your house."

Dudley's mother paled slightly, her knuckles white as she reached for Dudley's hand. He gripped hers tightly, not quite believing what he was hearing.

They were done with the wizards. That bloke Diggle had said so. That whole business was over years ago, so why was this happening now? He said as much to Lavender, and she grinned ruefully.

"You're right. You-Kn—Voldemort is gone. But he's still got a few followers, scattered here and there. We believe that it was one of those followers who attacked your house."

"B—but," his mother spoke for the first time, her voice trembling slightly. "These people are magic! If they want to get at us…they could find us anywhere, with those owls and those dementors and all their other magical things! We can't be safe here!"

"No," Lavender's voice had lost its cheery tone. "You're not safe here. That's why I'm going to have ask you to move to a more secure location from the time being."

"A more secure location? What does that mean?" Dudley said.

"Currently," Lavender said, "There are five magical residences in Britain that have the security required to house civilians in danger of their lives. Of these, three are under Ministry control, and one is owned by Celestina Warbeck, the famous wizarding singer. Fortunately, there is one person who has agreed to take you in," Her eyes flickered to Dudley. "The Ministry of Magic has assigned you to stay in the house of Harry Potter."

"What?"

"What?"

"I understand this might be difficult for you," Lavender said soothingly. "But we assure you, as the Auror—that's the wizard police, kind of—in charge of your case, Har—Auror Potter is more than qualified to take care of you, and has been so kind as to grant you residence. Personally," she said, "I'd consider yourselves lucky. You're probably the safest family in all of Britain." Rising, she extracted a folder from her purse and slid it onto the table. "Here's more information about your move, if you'd like. A representative from the Ministry will be here in two days' time to pick you up for departure. If you have any questions, call this number," She slid a slip of paper onto the table. "Now I'm sorry, but I've really got to run. Goodbye."

Picking up her purse, she tottered out the door in her high heels, leaving Dudley's head spinning and his nerves burning with questions. They were going to stay with Harry? Harry was going to let them stay with him? People were attacking their house?

Distraction was provided by Vernon slamming the door open, carrying the newspaper and a hefty bag of groceries. "Just went to see the insurance agent," he said cheerily. "They said they'll cover everyth…Pet?" he said, catching a glance of Petunia's pale face. "Dudley? What's going on? What happened?"

Dudley sighed. This was going to be hell.

Four figures stood on a damp, drizzly street in London, their heads bent close together as they pored over something. At first glance, this would seem sinister and somewhat ominous. A second look, however, would show that two of the figures were rather bulky and out of shape, not to mention the fact that the third, a woman, was wearing a salmon-colored pea coat. In fact, the only figure that seemed properly intimidating was the fourth, a tall, strongly built black man who towered over the rest; this effect was alleviated by his cape-like clothing, which was a garish shade of purple.

The four figures, were, in fact, not secret assassins, but Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the current Minister of Magic. The Dursleys did not know this—all they knew was that they were standing in the rain, looking for a house that didn't exist.

"All right," Vernon Dursley growled. "Where is this house anyway? Some rat-hole tucked away, I bet. As if that foolish boy wouldn't squander any money he got his paws on,"

"I assure you, sir," said Kingsley's cool, deep voice, "that your living conditions are perfectly hospitable. At the moment, your nephew's residence is under a Fidelius Charm—it is rendered untraceable, unplottable, and for all intents and purposes nonexistent—unless, of course, you are given entrance."

"Given entrance?" Dudley asked. "What does that mean, given entrance? Do we need, like, a ticket or something? 'Cause we don't have any—"

Kingsley Shacklebolt's mouth twitched slightly, and Dudley tried to push down the swell of annoyance that he was being condescended to.

"Not at all," Kingsley said. "It's as simple as this." From his pocket, he extracted a plain white piece of paper, which he tapped with—a wand, Dudley thought they were called. The next moment, he gasped—words had appeared onto the paper, written in an angular scrawl that seemed burned into the cream parchment.

Harry James Potter currently resides at 12 Grimmauld Place, London

Dudley glanced up at the townhouses in front of them, scanning the golden numbers glistening on the doors. 10…11…13? "I don't—" he said in confusion, glancing at Kingsley.

"Think about what you just read," Kingsley replied, glancing briefly back at Dudley's parents. Dudley repeated the words in his head for a second, then gave a shout of terror. Out of the crack between numbers 11 and 13, a house was emerging, shooting up like a fast-growing weed, pushing the other houses out of the way until a vast townhouse emerged. Dudley's mother gave a small squeak. Kingsley did not seemed perturbed in the slightest—rather, he strode toward the house, motioning for them to follow. Dudley exchanged a glance with his father—Vernon Dursley seemed rather stunned—before jogging after him, up a pair of stone steps, to a peeling green door upon which an elaborate knocker in the form of a mass of twisted snakes was placed.

He knocked thrice, three heavy thuds, and then the door opened.

Ahem. I may or may not be procrastinating writing their meeting. Anyway…love it? Hate it? Have suggestions? There's this cute little box below. It'll only take a second…

Thanks to all my great reviewers! I was so overwhelmed and grateful at your positive responses. You make my life!