'Your rooms are next to each other, so you won't be too far way. This is you room, Mr and Mrs Dursley.' She pushed open a door to a large wood panelled room. A four poster bed made of a dark wood dominated the space. His parent's suitcases were waiting at the foot of it.

'There's a bathroom down the hall and a sink in the corner. There's a fine view across the mountains and I've cast a warming charm so hopefully you won't be bothered by drafts.'

His father made a non committal noise and stalked into the room. His mother made to follow him but Demelza rested her hand on her arm. She barely reached her shoulder.

'I know it'll be hard at first, a difficult transition, but we hope you'll be comfortable here.' His mother gave a curt nod and tried to move away but he saw Demelza increase the pressure slightly.

'I knew your sister. I was very fond of her.'

His mother's already closed expression clouded over completely and she shook off Demelza's arm roughly and walked into the bedroom.

Demleza sighed.

'Your bedroom is along the hall,' she said to Dudley and lead the way down the hallway. The carpet was thick and they made no noise. He could hear his father beginning to build up to a rant in the room behind them.

'I said the wrong thing, didn't I?' Demelza said. 'About your aunt.'

Dudley shrugged.

'We don't talk about her,' he said but he knew that didn't even begin to cover it. They didn't just not talk about her, she didn't exist. For years he thought Harry had simply materialised from nowhere, no parents, no past, no answers to questions.

'Painful topic,' Demelza said, misunderstanding him. She pushed open another door. 'This is you.'

The first thing he noticed were the double doors. He could see a balcony beyond them. A wrought iron bed was pushed against the far wall draped with what looked like a hand knitted blanket. His suitcase and rucksack were stacked on a wooden chest at the end of the bed.

'Thanks,' he said and he could hear the gruffness in his voice but she nodded and touched his arm gently.

'Come down if you get hungry,' she said and then she vanished down the corridor in the opposite direction to which they'd come. He couldn't help but think she didn't want to pass the door where his father's angry voice was carrying into the hall.

He pushed the door closed and turned to look at the room. It looked normal. There was a wardrobe with a wonky door that his mother wouldn't have given house room to and a thick legged table with an empty bowl on top. Someone had put a vase of yellow flowers on the windowsill. He unzipped his suitcase and opened the drawers.

He was stacking his dumbbells in a corner of the room when there was a small tap on his door. His mum slipped in, already wrapped in her dressing gown. She looked exhausted.

'You okay, Dudders?' she said and he nodded. She sat down on the edge of his bed and toyed with the edge of the knitted blanket.

'Dad's asleep.'

He nodded again and balanced the last dumbbell in its stand.

'I'm sorry about all this,' she said and he looked up at her. She wasn't crying. She sounded tired and lost.

'It's not your fault,' he said, crossing to the bed and hovering awkwardly before sitting down next to her. He thought about putting his hand on her shoulder.

'Your school,' she said. 'Your training.'

He felt the loss of it somewhere in his stomach but he shook his head.

'Not much use if we'd ended up dead,' he said and she flinched. 'It's okay, mum. This is where we need to be.'

She reached over and patted his hand.

'You're such a good boy, Dudley. Always have been.'

No I haven't, he thought but he let her pat his hand while she got back some of the steel in her spine.

'Maybe you can train with dad?'

'Yeah, maybe,' he said.

'Do you think you can sleep in here?' She looked round and he saw her take in the wardrobe with the incorrectly hung door. Her eyes narrowed.

He laughed and tried to imagine what she thought the alternative was. He was seventeen, far too old to be crawling into bed with his parents because he was afraid of the dark.

'I'll be fine, mum. It's just a room.'

She patted his hand again and stood, pulling the belt of her dressing gown tight around her.

'I've never liked old houses,' she said, glancing round at the dark corners the orange gas light didn't reach.

He listened to her door close down the hall and then, grabbing a pair of cotton tracksuit bottoms, went in search of the bathroom.

He woke when it was still dark. His stomach contracted with hunger. The house was silent and the floorboards creaking under his bare feet were loud in the quiet. He paused, listening, but all he could hear was the distant rumble of his father's snoring.

There was a narrow, dark staircase at the end of the hallway. He'd found it when he was looking for the bathroom. The wooden steps bowed in the middle, worn smooth with use. They wound down, twisting out of sight of the light from his torch.

'Bloody brilliant,' he muttered, craning round to see where the steps lead. The hunger that had compelled him from his bed gave another twist in his guts and he started down the stairs knowing that creeping through a dark house filled with wizards was probably not a good idea. The stairs groaned under his weight and he winced. They were narrow and the walls crowded in on him, leading him down to a scrubbed wooden door. It was closed. He listened, trying to hear any noise beyond but there was only the sound of his quick breathing in the cramped space.

Carefully, quietly, he twisted the brass handle and pushed the door open.

He was in the kitchen. It was the door the girl had burst through when his mum had screamed earlier. A gas light was burning low in the middle of the table. He shuffled forward, sweeping his torch beam over the worktops and tables. If he could find something to eat he could retreat back upstairs to the relative safety of his room.

'Are you okay, sir?'

He almost dropped his torch. He spun to face the voice and lit up the small elf who was watching him impassively, his huge eyes reflecting the torch light.

'I...I...' Dudley stammered. His heart was heavy against his chest and he could feel the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. He took a steading breath. 'I was looking for something to eat.'

The elf beamed at him.

'Sir if hungry? Well, sir missed dinner. Gaan will get you something. If sir sits at the table.' He gestured to the long table and swept away down the kitchen, ignoring Dudley's shake of his head.

'Honestly, I can eat upstairs,' he said but the elf ignored him as it busied itself collecting a plate and bowl and spoon.

'Would sir like stew?' He was lifting the lid from a large cast iron pot and gazing inside. 'With some bread?'

Dudley watched as he touched the side of the pot and thick tendrils of steam rose from it. The savoury smell of slow cooked meat reached him across the kitchen and before he could change his mind he dropped into the nearest chair. Gaan hurried over with a bowl, gesturing behind him to the remains of a crusted loaf that floated to Dudley's side plate.

'Thanks,' said Dudley awkwardly as the elf put the bowl in front of him.

'You're welcome, sir.'

The big eyes watched him as he picked up his spoon. The stew was thick, full of chunks of meat and vegetables in a rich brown gravy. He tried the smallest amount. It was good. He began to attack the bowl with relish, breaking off chunks of the bread to dip in the meaty sauce.

'Sir likes it?' the elf asked and Dudley nodded. The elf beamed. 'Gaan will remember. Would sir like more?'

Dudley had scooped the last mouthful up with the heel of the bread. He shook his head. Without training regularly he would have to be conscious of how much he ate, especially if all the food was going to be as rich as this.

'No. I'm good,' he said, stacking his bowl and plate. 'Erm, thanks.'

The elf nodded and swept the dishes into his arms.

'Sir is welcome.'

'Erm,' Dudley said and the elf turned to look at him. 'You don't have to call me sir. It's...well, Dudley's fine.'

The elf placed the dishes in the sink. It seemed to be thinking.

'Sir has not met many house elves?'

Dudley shook his head.

'None, really. I mean, up until today I didn't even know you were a thing. We don't...we don't have you in my...world.'

The elf nodded and seemed to be weighing its words carefully.

'House elves live to serve wizards, sir. It is our life work.'

'Like servants?' Dudley asked. He had a sudden flash of a very different Upstairs Downstairs.

'Yes, sir. We serve. We is not...equal to wizards.'

'I'm not a wizard,' said Dudley.

'No sir,' said the elf and he smiled sadly. 'You is a muggle. It's a dangerous time for muggles. And for elves.'

Dudley didn't understand this. But then he was having a hard enough time understanding that he was talking to a living, breathing, thinking elf. He shook his head.

'So, you have to call me sir?' he said eventually.

'Sir would prefer it if I called him by his name?' the elf asked.

Dudley looked at him, at his alien face and his giant ears and his wide, curious eyes. He could feel the stew and the warmth of the kitchen dulling his senses, feeling the tiredness creeping along his limbs. He nodded his head and yawned.

'I really would,' he said and the elf gave a slow nod.

'Then it shall be so.'

Dudley raised his suddenly exhausted body from the chair.

'Thanks for the food. Goodnight.'

He pulled the door opened and had his foot on the first step when the light on the table was blown out and the elf spoke softly in the darkness.

'Goodnight, Dudley.'

Edit - slight change to account for time period as I'd forgotten it was happening in the 90s. Removed talk of phones and Downton Abbey.