CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Ten minutes in the freezing cold of winter was all he could take, and soon enough, Dudley was dragging himself home, trudging through the snow back to Privet Drive. Once back in the kitchen of Number Four, he made a strong cup of black coffee, forcing the liquid down his throat, stopping to nibble on a dry slice of brown toast. The toast lodged uncomfortably in his stomach, but he took comfort in having eaten food, his one wish to not be visiting the bathroom in the next hour. Dudley took a seat at the kitchen table, hands cradling the empty mug, losing himself in his musings.

How easy it would be to just end it all… He could have ransacked his suitcase to find the sleeping pills, crush them into his coffee, drink it all down and…

"NO!" Shaking his head frantically, Dudley pulled his hands away and shoved the cup across the table. Tears blurred his vision. He did not want to die…

The palms of his hands rubbed against his eyelids as he trembled, panic building up within him. This constant fear was killing him… and judging from his current predicament, Dudley doubted he would live to see his sixteenth birthday.

Hands falling to the patterned tablecloth, he stared up at the clock on the wall, forcing his mind to wonder back to memories of when he was younger. Precious and untainted memories. Times he savoured and cherished. To dream of those times would be a relief…

His right cheek ached, and when he lifted his head, the skin was a blazing red. The clock, ticking loudly in the silence of the kitchen, displayed the time as quarter past five. Blinking the tiredness out of his eyes, Dudley startled upon realising that he had been asleep. Slapping his forehead in frustration, Dudley gritted his teeth, his temper threatening to explode.

"You stupid Muggle! How could you be so foolish! Falling asleep made you vulnerable! Pathetic!"

Outside, a fresh smattering of snow coated the garden and the sky was ever so slowly lightening, the first sign of a sun rise peeking through the darkness. Relaxing his face, Dudley slumped back in his chair, his hands falling onto his lap. He stared out the window and blanched. There was a fine line between reality and fantasy, and that line was threatening to merge.

A bundle of nerves, Dudley could not stop the tears that streaked down his face, brushing them away with a shaky hand. As soon as daylight broke, he would be out of the house. No set course was in mind, but the further away from home, the better.

Black Puffa Jacket enveloping him, Dudley trudged along the pavement, gloved hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. The snow, thick and pure white, crunched under his combat boots. Sparse snowflakes fluttered in the wind, the bitterness chilling his ears and cheeks. Blood-shot eyes darted around the neighbourhood streets. A thumping head-ache pounded his temples and his posture slumped, muscles and joints straining for rest. His entire body craved a re-charge, yet the mere thought of closing his eyes for a power nap frightened the life out of him.

Not that he would ever admit it…

Approaching the play park, the one he and his former gang 'owned' and where the incident occurred, Dudley shunted open the low-level gate, clumps of snow under his gloved hand smashing to the ground. He left the gate open and made his way over to the swings, continuing to uneasily survey the surrounding area. Brushing off the snow coating the swing seat and chain links, Dudley eased himself onto the seat, shuddering at the chill and dampness that permeated his tracksuit bottoms. He kept the soles of his boots on the ground, rocking back and forth gently on the swing, the not-too-distant memory of breaking the previous seat rushing back to him. He had been at his heaviest and the seat, worn down over the years, had broken loose from the chain link, plummeting him to the ground and leaving the seat half-supported. His friends had cracked up laughing, and Dudley had sat there, grinning stupidly, preparing to boast about how strong he was, when all he wanted to do was die of embarrassment because how could he have gotten so fat that he broke a bloody swing…

Repulsed by the memory, Dudley shook his head, denying the event a chance to be re-visited. The play-park seemed to be full to the brim of unwanted memories, with the one from only a few months ago playing on his mind. Potter had been sitting there, on the same ruddy swing seat, glaring at him and the others, and he had said stuff about Potter's Mum, then Potter had thrown himself off the swing and got all up in his face, that stick inches away from his skin…

His friends had laughed. Dudley vividly remembered their laughter. Their naivete to the true meaning behind the situation had only increased the tension between the cousins. The spike of fear he had felt at being physically threatened was nothing compared to the full-blown terror he now experienced daily. God, he had been so laid-back and without a worry four months ago…

Dudley wrung his hands in his lap, his heart rapidly beating. No other soul had been spotted, but he was continuously on the look-out, watching and waiting for another person in Little Whinging to emerge onto the scene. The thought of being around anyone made him feel sick to the stomach, as what if like before, he lost control of himself? That day in Costa Coffee, going all psycho, willing to kill that bloke… Dudley couldn't remember the exact words he had spoken to the man, but judging from his actions… they couldn't have been friendly.

His wish to be alone was shattered by the sighting of Mark Evans, who appeared in the distance, dragging a sled behind him. The hood of his thick winter coat was down and attached to the coat were a pair of hand-knitted mittens, mittens that Dudley had mocked him for. The familiar face caused Dudley to inhale sharply as he quickly pulled himself to his feet, legs threatening to buckle underneath him. He had to get away, before Evans noticed him… before it was too late…

Eyes glued to the distant figure, Dudley lurched out of the play park and towards Primrose Gardens, the long road providing him with ample hiding spaces in front gardens, for him to wait in until Evans was out of sight. Unfortunately, as he was so wrapped up in escaping from Evans, Dudley didn't realise that he was heading into the path of three others until he knocked into them. Well, he knocked into the one on the left, who reeled back to maintain their balance, the other two gawping in disbelief.

Holding his head, the ache dulling to a lighter pounding, Dudley forced his eyes off his vanishing target and onto the trio who blocked his way, and who he saw made him wilt internally.

Gordon. Malcom. Dennis.

They were similar to the Three Stooges, (he had caught some clips when channel surfing), but now, he was very afraid. They knew he was messed-up and they would not be wise enough to keep their mouths shut.

"Oi, Dudley. Watch where you're going next time!" Malcolm sneered up at him, (they were all shorter than him) and snarled: "You nearly flattened me!"

Cringing at the reference to his fluctuating weight, Dudley side-stepped them, stepping off the kerb and onto the edge of the road.

"Can't think of anything to say, can ya? You fucking loser, to think, we thought you were cool. Thought you were one of us, but nah, seems that freakishness runs in your family."

By the time Dennis had finished spouting words, Dudley was five feet away and back on the pavement. However, the amount of disrespect they were currently showing grounded him to a halt and he clenched his fists in utter fury. His jaw set, his back fully straightened and his pupils condensed slightly, before he slowly turned round to face down his aggressors. They stared dumbly at him, whereas Dudley relished his renewed confidence and decided to waste no time. The gold ring glinting, Dudley unfurled a cruel smile onto his lips and crooned out an order:

"Bring me Evans."

The three Muggles looked blankly at him for a brief moment, then they turned and in unison, marched towards the play-park. Behind them, Dudley's smile widened. It was time for revenge.

XXX

He watched them jump Evans. Put him into a head-lock and pull him away from his beloved sled. Drag him towards the alley-way. Their graffitied alley-way, where the Dementors came to suck out his soul. Throw him onto the slush-coated ground. Watched him cower as the trio submerged on him with tactical kicks.

Evans sobbed, crying out at every kick, curling into a tight ball. As he shrunk further in on himself, the trio looming over him hesitated, until a sharp cold voice cut through their haze of uncertainty.

"Hit him harder."

The cruelty in their faces would have made Mark Evans sob his heart out had he dared to look up, but upon hearing Dudley's cold-hearted command Mark curled up as much as possible. The kicks soon transitioned into a battering and he cried out when his left arm was jolted up, and almost pulled out of his socket. He screamed as he was yanked to his feet, the sudden pain in his arm causing him to howl, his wrist held in a vice-like grip by none other than Dudley himself, who had batted his Muggle 'minions' away to the side-lines.

Pressing his face close to Evans, Dudley hissed: "Heed this warning. This is your last chance. Stop messing with me, and I'll leave you the hell alone. You are ruining my life."

Heart slamming against his chest, eyes bulging wide, Mark Evans trembled from head to toe. His bully and tormenter had finally lost it. Gone full-out psycho! Dudley's eyes were blood-red (must have been contacts from Halloween), a few strands fell loose from his tied-up hair and the skin was stretched tightly around his lips. Mark was bewildered at the accusations thrown at him, holding enough common sense to tell himself to agree to whatever Dudley was saying, to nod to escape with his limbs intact.

At the nodding of the head, Dudley dropped the arm, smirking at the way Evans cradled the limb to his chest, and pinned the boy with a vicious glare.

"Breathe a word of this to anyone… and you're dead. Off you go now."

Questions about his injuries would be asked and his parents would enquire as to whether it was the 'older neighbourhood boys' being too rough with him, (adults seemed to talk a lot in small towns), but Mark would never mention Dudley's name to them, or any of the others to his parents. To mention those names would equal a severe beating, thus he would remain quiet and as far away from Dudley Dursley and his gang as possible.

Watching Evans skitter off, Dudley schooled his facial features into a neutral expression, tucking his hairs behind his ears. The deed was done. Evans would surely stop attacking him now… After all, he had confronted the threat and petrified them to within an inch of their life…

'But Evans isn't the threat, he's not the freak!'

'He is! He's the one doing this to me!'

'He's not the freaky voice! You know this!... Why am I having an argument with myself?! Bloody hell... I'm totally losing it…'

Dudley twitched and spun round to face Gordon, Malcolm and Dennis. Their eyes were glazed and they stood to attention, awaiting orders. Scoffing at such weak offerings, Dudley dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "Return to your homes and forget this last hour. Leave my sight!"

As one, they marched past him, down the alleyway and turned a corner, now out of sight. Dudley smirked and set off back towards the play-park. Upon arriving, the harsh winds having picked up and the snowflakes now battering him, Dudley decided to climb up onto the picnic table. The sky bombarded a heavy snowstorm, forcing the population of Little Whinging to stay inside, however Dudley stood tall on the table and surveyed the desolate winter landscape.

'This pathetic little town is all mine.'

He spat out a harsh laugh, only to cease the laughter at the sudden onslaught of pain in his head. Releasing a pained cry, Dudley collapsed to his knees, gloved hands cradling his head. His brain seemed to be on fire, and his legs writhed on the table, his chest failing to inhale enough oxygen to satisfy his need to stay conscious. He desperately gasped for breath, black spots dancing over his vision, his body slowing down the movements. Dudley let his arms fall away, too weak to hold them up and allowed his eyes to roll to the back of his head, exhaustion overwhelming him.

His body twitched momentarily, before the pressure building on his chest abruptly dropped away. He found that he could breathe again, and sucked in a huge breath, the tint of his skin pinkening. His eyes floated back down, the natural colour of his irises returning. The snowflakes decorated his face, lying delicately on his lashes and in his hair, settling on his tongue as he lapped up sweet oxygen. However, fatigue and the freezing cold had settled into his bones and to muster up enough energy and strength to move, would be a challenge.

After a little while, he forced himself up into a sitting position, the back of his coat soaked through and entire face numb from the cold. Slowly, he eased himself off the bench, placing his feet on the ground. Wishing for either a sugary snack or drink to boost up his blood sugar levels, Dudley stood up and immediately wavered on the spot. He felt nauseous and light-headed, and despite what may be awaiting him at Number Four, wished to return home.

His house was a short distance from the play park, but the battle to get there would be difficult, and it was only the prospect of drowning himself in a steaming hot shower that made him drag himself home.

As soon as he stepped foot over the threshold, dripping fresh snow all over the doormat, his mother rushed into the hallway, screeching:

"Dudley! You're going to get a chill! Why were you out in this weather for so long?! You need to get straight into the shower, or you'll catch a fever!"

Dumping his soaked coat and snow-stained gloves onto the doormat, Dudley unlaced his boots and wrenched them off, the frantic mollycoddling shredding his nerves to pieces.

"Mum!" He snapped. "Go away! I'm fine! I'm not going to catch a fever!"

"But Duddy-" She attempted to reach forwards to feel his forehead with the back of her hand, but he reared away.

"I'm not ill! Let me get into the shower, I'm freezing here!"

He stormed up the stairs, only to hesitate at the top of the landing upon hearing his father shuffle into the hallway. "Leave the boy be, Love. He's a man now, doesn't always need his Mum flapping about."

"I know, but he looks exhausted, Vernon! I don't think he's been sleeping well!"

"Everyone has bad nights. You know next year is very important for him. If there was anything else going on, he would tell us. He's our son, Dudders wouldn't keep anything from us."

On the landing, Dudley rolled his eyes at their obliviousness. They knew nothing. His father continued to waffle on, but Dudley had heard enough and to emphasise this, slammed the bathroom door behind him.

By the time he had finished showering, his skin was burnt red, similar to a boiled lobster and the bathroom resembled a steam room. Shunting open the bathroom window, Dudley wiped the steam off the mirror, staring at his reflection. His freshly washed hair clung to his neck and his eyes stung, he had to make sure he was safe, hands clenching his towel around his waist tightly. His skin prickled from the intense heat.

"Duddy! Dinner!" The knock to the bathroom door startled him out of staring at his reflection and he hurried out onto the landing, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor. Mum could pick them up later. That was her job after all.

Entering his bedroom, Dudley dried off, then pulled on a fresh set of pyjamas and his dressing gown, shoving his feet into his slippers. Feeling slightly more refreshed, Dudley muttered to himself: "Just have to make it through dinner. Pretend everything's fine and eat. Eat enough to keep me going till tomorrow."

He headed downstairs after his little pep talk and entered into the dreaded domain of heavenly scents, and to his dismay, spotted his Dad finishing carving up a roast lamb. His stomach growled in hope. Rich satisfying food. Regardless of the pitiful amount of vegetables on the plates, Dudley decided to plea with the voice, to play a tactical card.

'Please let me eat this dinner and digest it properly. You can't use me for whatever you want if I starve to death! Even them… those people who eat healthy every single day of their lives have a cheat meal! Please, I'm begging you, let me eat!'

A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead as he stared at his full plate. Slices of roast lamb, golden roasted potatoes, huge Yorkshire Puddings, sage and onion stuffing and minimalistic vegetables – carrots and peas, all swimming in gravy. This type of dinner was a rare treat on his diet, and it was much-loved in the Dursley household by the two Dursley men, that to be forced to upchuck it in an hour's time was literally heart-breaking to Dudley.

"Duddy? You can take your dinner now, sweetheart." Mum looked at him with concern, but he stayed rooted to the spot, awaiting permission. Apart from his frantic thoughts, there was no response to his plea and Dudley suddenly felt stupid for begging the Dark Lord to be able to eat.

"Dudley?"

"Mmh, yeah, cool." He moved over to the counter and picked up his plate. "Smells good, Mum." He went to sit at the table, setting the plate down in front of him. His nostrils flared in appreciation and despite the possible consequences, wasted no time digging in.

Now at the head of the table, Dad chuckled. "That's my boy. I bet you miss your mother's meals when you're at Smeltings. Good cook, isn't she?" He winked merrily at Petunia, who smiled lovingly back at him. "So, Son." Vernon ripped apart a slice of lamb with his cutlery. "Your ring. Are you the only one who got one?"

Half a Yorkshire pudding chewed in his mouth, Dudley mumbled: "Yeah. Cause I'm the Champion. Said I deserved it."

"Rightly so. Always knew you were the best boxer at Smeltings. Said so myself from the day you joined. Best be careful you don't get it damaged, Dudders."

Ripples of annoyance flooded his mood, but he was so wrapped up in the warm food, that Dudley found himself agreeing with his father.

"I'll keep it safe, Dad. This is lush, Mum." He shoved an entire potato in his mouth, groaning in delight. This was better than knocking out an opponent in a match. Suddenly, he swallowed the potato, his throat drying up. Evans. Hadn't he seen that stupid kid earlier? Brow furrowing in confusion, Dudley recalled the past few hours. He had gone out to get away and clear his head, then…. Nothing.

The memory of the day was incomplete.

Amidst his mother's swell of appreciation and his father's noisy eating, Dudley's happiness at the meal and comfort depleted and his mind turned to a possibility that terrified him out of his wits end. To visit a hospital to get himself checked out, mentally, it would be easy, no? All he would have to do is spin a tale to his parents about visiting London for a day trip with a 'friend', but instead, pop into a hospital in a pre-booked appointment without anyone finding out. Going by himself would be no problem… unless they wanted proof of age and because he was slightly under sixteen, they required for him to be accompanied by an adult…

Squeezing his knife and fork in misery, Dudley cursed his own birthday. 'Why did I have to be born in bloody June?!'

"Darling, would you like dessert afterwards?" His Mother's loving smile, no traces or hints of suspicion about her son's behaviour, settled him and he nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Glad that school is finished? You've worked very hard this year, sweetheart. All that hard work is going to pay off next year!"

"Too true, Petunia! Our boy will smash those exams!"

Dudley lost his smile, once again thinking: 'They know nothing.'

After finishing his dinner and a big bowl of chocolate ice cream with toffee sauce, Dudley lay down on the sofa in the living room, switching on the television. The channel landed on the film 'Speed' and he found himself sucked into the action, ignoring his Dad's declaration that he would be looking at paperwork upstairs and how his Mum was dusting down the portraits in the hallway. He let the dialogue in the film wash over him, simply wanting to rest and recover, until the night came to drag him to hell.

A roaring noise startled him and when he located the source of the noise, he narrowed his eyes in fury.

"Mum! Do you have to hoover now?! Can't you see I'm watching the telly?!"

Petunia turned off the hoover and chirped: "Sorry, Duddykins. I'll let you watch your little show. I might go and read my new book, it's called-"

He tuned her out at that point, drawling under his breath: "First off, it's a film. Second, I don't care about your book."

"Did you say something?"

"Huh? No, I didn't." He gestured to the TV. "Mum, I'm missing it."

Her beaming smile made him cringe, but he managed to muster up a poor imitation in response. "Let me put the hoover away, and I'll let you watch the television."

She left the room, carrying the hoover with her, and Dudley sighed in frustration. His attempt at a 'relaxing' evening was going awry, ramped up by the phone ringing mere seconds later.

"MUM! CAN YOU GET THAT?!"

A muffled response barely reached his ears. Huffing in frustration, as he was missing the film, he scooted up and reached over to yank the receiver off the hook.

"Goodness sake… Hello? Oh, hi, Aunt Marge…. I'm fine… I got back yesterday, yeah… yeah, looking forward to seeing you too… mmh, well… I'll go get Dad for you… yeah, speak soon." Receiver dangling in the air, heavy hands twisting in the phone cord, Dudley mouthed at his Mum, who hovered in the doorway.

"Aunt Marge. For Dad."

Whilst his mother hurried up the stairs to fetch his father, Dudley glared at the receiver, hearing the distant sound of Ripper barking down the line. That bloody dog. His bloody Aunt. They were a match made in heaven – he disliked both.

His Dad puffed his way into the living room, his Mum popping up once again. Dudley lay back down as his father picked up the receiver and propped it to his ear, taking the phone base with him as he strode into the kitchen. Dudley turned his gaze to the telly, but felt eyes resting on him.

"Mum," He glared up at her, "You're stressing me out."

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey. Can I get you anything? Any snacks?"

"No. I want to be alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Mum." His eyes flashed. "Leave."

Two seconds later, she was walking back up the stairs, leaving her son to watch the film in peace and quiet. Dudley sighed, deflating against the cushions and turned his attention back to the television.