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Chapter I - In the Middle of Nowhere

Give me a fucking break!

After a very long and tiring journey south-east bound, in total silence, we had arrived at no-fucking-where at all. I remembered this nowhere from my eleventh birthday though; there upon the beach lay the same rotten row boat that had carried us to the island upon which a solitary building, a light house, which stood sentinel over the raging waters of the North Sea- a dismal prospect, to say the least. Then again, it's said that beggars can't be choosers, so I tried not to grumble as much as I was entitled to; I wasn't the one rowing the boat at the very least.

Dudley had been woken up right after Uncle Vernon showed up fit to fight in some war waged against the fowl kind. The Cheering Charm had worn off while he was asleep and he was all nerves for ten straight minutes. Not much was accomplished by the adults fussing over their precious Duddikins in that time span. After that, another ten or fifteen minutes were all that we needed to gather up whatever was necessary and hit the road… for over two hours…

How it was possible to travel from Surrey to where I knew from a sign to be the outskirts of somewhere called Bridlington in a little over two hours without magical assistance was a feat unexplainable. How we weren't pulled over more than thirty times as one might expect indeed a small miracle in itself. Two hundred and fifty miles, divided by, let's say, two and a half because I never liked odd numbers, would be about a hundred miles per hour travel speed. This country needed to learn a thing or thirty about counter-terrorism; I had most probably destroyed a whole park after all and our flight from the crime scene was as subtle as a Concord breaking the sound barrier over a city. All in all, I couldn't complain.

The voyage –pronounced as the French would for extra sarcasm- from the shore to the island's pier took virtually the same amount of time as the car travel; why must it always be stormy here, for fuck's sake! Silence wasn't broken until we disembarked.

Four hours' silence is just about my limit. So I couldn't let a nice gibe pass me by; Dudley was panting like a racer dog, "Hey, Big D, nice workout, eh?"

Aunt Petunia's lip was pursed and there was a dangerous throbbing to Uncle Vernon's vein. I was pronounced family close to five hours ago, though, so this friendly thrust would be ignored. Let the duel commence!

I was mighty disappointed by the lackluster "shut up, Potter!" parry. I decided to let it slide and show a little concern over him who was the "innocent victim caught in the crossfire," though not so innocent as one might deduce. "Oi, D! Mind if I call you D? You alright?"

Two flights of stairs up, onto the solid ground. I could just prostrate myself and kiss it, which would've been embarrassing. I refrained—the embodiment of self-control, that's me.

Dudley managed to talk even though he was still panting from the exertion –for which, I gave him some credit. Internally, of course; I wouldn't get caught praising Dudley, no sir, no bloody way!- "What the fu- fudge is it to you!"

Oh, boy! Wasn't he angry!

Aunt Petunia frowned but otherwise just kept her focus on the muddy path. Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, was beaming over the almost-swearword. Such a functional family is rare upon this Earth. He did get the cue Aunt Petunia was sending after a while, "Boys, why don't we get out of this rain and find us dry beds?"

Dudley wasn't above showing his displeasure via growls and groans, but seriously, why was me not getting a tongue lashing such a bad thing? It was surely a good thing no matter what your point of view might be, right?

Anyway, the place was dismal; every surface without was covered with either dust or moss. The hinges of the once upon a time sturdy oaken door was supposed to be decorated as fleur-de-lys probably, but the rust had eaten away any detail one would expect to find. Even the door seemed to be falling apart.

Uncle Vernon shoulder his way in and considering his mass, the door must've been stronger than it appeared to be not reduced to splinters. It wasn't pretty within by any means; three chairs and a table that should have health hazard signs on them, two room kind things –thankfully one had two beds and a radio that looked like it had seen better days, much better days. Oh, by the way, what's the rationale behind three chairs? I mean a table, four sides, a chair to a side, or two chairs at two sides if it's rectangular. Sometimes it was really hard to understand people.

I found a pack of fags on the mantel. They looked utterly poisonous what with the moss covering the pack and the fags. "Anybody got a light?" I asked.

"I won't have that kind of behavior!" screeched Aunt Petunia.

"To light a fire. You know, the storm, the cold, survival- would've helped us greatly." Baiting people is so much fun!

Aunt Petunia was looking at me through narrowed eyelids. Oh, boy! "Vernon, give him something to light a fire with." Aunt Petunia orders, everybody obey. Leathers and a whip would go perfectly well with her attitude… Umm, and now I wouldn't mind an Obliviator.

Thank Merlin's smelly armpits somebody had left some firewood from sometime in this century; they would burn quicker than otherwise and give off less heat probably but we could probably survive the night with this much if somebody watched over the fire. Joy! Guess who that person would be?

I lit the fire and threw the pack I had found in it just in case Dudders began to show withdrawal symptoms.

It was getting very late but Uncle Vernon requested a word and sent Aunt Petunia and Dudley to their separate rooms, "Do you have some paper in your pack?"

"I should have some leftover waterproof parchments. There should also be a few quill and some ink too," I replied.

"I have a pen," he pointed out, showing the ballpoint pen in his hand.

"A ballpoint-" I sucked in a breath through my teeth, "not a good idea." I placed the parchment requested and added the quill and the ink I had offered. "So, what's the deal? Are you writing your will, Uncle?" I gave him my most innocent grin.

"That 'I don't care what's going on in real life; I'm just a clown' attitude won't take you anywhere!" he declared in a berating tone but he went ahead and explained his reason, "I'm writing a letter to Marge. We have a common acquaintance who's a criminal lawyer and he's supposed to be good at this sort of things if what he says is true." Uncle Vernon grunted, "We'll see how good he is, now won't we?"

For some odd reason, I found it hard to swallow. Then I realized that it was my throat, it had tightened. "Thank you," I croaked out and turned to the fire. It wasn't very strong but it did make my eyes sting.

He folded the parchment after a minute or two. "I'll need that ruddy bird of yours," he deadpanned. "Tell it to drop this letter at Marge's. The address is Dwelly Lane, Edenbridge, Kent TN8 6QA.1"

I opened Hedwig's cage door and coerced her to leave her perch for my hand. She did so rather reluctantly. She was quite possible affronted at being called an 'it." "Hedwig doesn't need an address, do you girl? You're a clever girl!" Hedwig perked up.

Now whoever said flattery doesn't work?

I accepted the letter from Uncle Vernon and let Hedwig grasp it instead of binding it to her leg. Some show of confidence would go a long way to make up. I opened a window and let her fly into the raging storm.

While I was over at the other side of the small room, I turned on the radio. The batteries weren't dead yet but there was only static.

Uncle Vernon spoke up, "Why don't you turn it off and go to sleep? It's getting late and we can't do anything but wait anyroad."

"Thanks Uncle but I think I'll stick around a little while."

"Suit yourself," he said and turned at a dirty window through which he couldn't have seen much.

"Say," I called and when I was sure I had his attention, I pointed at the double barrel shotgun that was inconspicuously lying on the table, "how do you use that thing anyhow?"

"It's easy; you break it by pulling this lever clock-wise," he pulled the lever in question at the back of the rifle, "and then press the barrel down," he did and the barrel moved down while the rest of the rifle was secure under his arm, "then you load the shells," he pulled the two that were already in the rifle out and placed them back in the grooves, "and lastly you close it," with an audible 'click' the rifle was ready to shoot again, "when it's ready, you pull one of the two triggers here; one shoots the left barrel, the other the right but I don't know which is which."

"Looks deadly enough," I commented.

"Not as deadly as a flamethrower… or a wizard's stick," the last part was said in a deep undertone.

I cleared leather so to speak and showed the intricately carved piece of wood and the phoenix feather buried within. "It certainly was impressive; I could see the shapes, you know- the ones the flames turned into. There was a fox which turned into a tiger. There was a dragon, too." I hesitated before showing weakness in front of my uncle, but I wanted to talk to someone, so it might as well be him, "I could've enjoyed the sight if I wasn't about to faint." I just smiled at this admission of inadequacy. I had to make a comeback now, "but Uncle, if you call someone's wand a stick, it's kind of a grave insult; sticks are just too thin and shapeless."

The double-entendre just flew over without notice…

"Wand, right." He grunted a little bit. He held out his hand for the object in question, "Might I?"

I'm not sure if my hesitation showed or not but Uncle Vernon certainly didn't react to if even if it had, but in the end, I relented and gave the wand to him, "There you go."

He studied it for some seconds and then raised it to eye level between the two of us. He seemed to be looking at it in a different light altogether, "How deadly is this wand?"

I accepted the wand back. Now how to answer the question? It was uncomfortable, to say the least, talking about how in the right –or wrong, depending on your point of view- hands, it could be quite deadly. So I did what every normal person would do and ignored the question. "They'll have contained the fire by now, so we're going to have more visitors than only this lawyer friend, I expect. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"Yes, you're right. We both should get some sleep." Thank Merlin he got the hint. It wouldn't be highly complimenting to Wizards and Witches all around the world to admit to carrying around an instrument with the potential of a nuclear bomb as if nothing was amiss.

I renewed the fire from the cinders the rotten logs had become, turned off the radio and entered the small room with the two beds. I was ambushed by Dudley right away.

"So what did Dad talk to you about?" He inquired.

I suppressed a groan, a very loud one. "As if you weren't listening in!"

"Yeah, well… Anyway, so you're going to have a trial, huh? Lawyer and all that…" He screwed his face and went to the bed he had claimed as his own.

I returned to my own bed and faced him. "I don't really knows, Dudders. That really depends on what tricks Dumbledore has up his sleeves." Dumbledore's words sure had a lot of weight but I had used an illegal spell on a Dementor, which was basically a Ministry property. I was on thin ice at best.

"So you're in deep shit, aren't you?"

This was funny! "My, Dudley! How fast you grow up!"

He showed his annoyance through a frown, "Shut up and answer the question!"

I laughed out loud at his face which looked more like a potato than a human face. My laughter didn't help that problem any either. "Yes, Dudley," I replied through laughs, "I'm so deep in it, I'm eating and breathing it." That statement did sober me up a bit; admitting that fact to someone was the thing necessary for it to sink in, it turned out. Yet I wasn't really sure if I wanted to return to the real world right this moment.

I let my head hit the pillow and stared at the odd patterns of the stones about four meters over my head. It looked very low, suffocating even. I listened to the waves crashing at the rocks and the storm sending raging winds. Not long after I thought Dudley asleep, I heard a muttered 'thanks' in a very low tone. I might not even hear it if I hadn't been listening to everything around me. I thought about asking if that was all I was going to get after saving his fat ass and getting into a shit load of a trouble doing it but I decided against it. I accepted the gratitude gracefully, albeit a little moodily, "you're welcome, Duddikins- anytime..."

1 The address is to a "Haxted Kennels" in Edenbridge. It's close to Surrey but not close enough to visit it every weekend. It's also appropriate as Marge is known to breed dogs.