CHAPTER FORTY

Sleep beckoned to him, the sweet promise of rest tempting his eyes to snap shut. However, the high possibility of experiencing a petrifying nightmare restrained his eyes from closing, so he remained sitting at the end of his bed, head cradled in his hands. His eyes, half-closed due to drowsiness, blinked slowly for his vision to adapt to the darkened room. His survival rate for the remainder of the year, let alone the night, looked bleak and Dudley wondered if he would make it to New Year's. Realistically, he was a goner. How much longer could he survive this nightmare?

The saving grace occurred to him; he had sleeping pills stuffed at the bottom of his suitcase. Pop one of them, and he could easily drift off, to a restful sleep, and recharge both mentally and physically. Pulling his head up, he straightened up, stiffness settling into his bones. Everything ached, and he couldn't help but to remember the huge pressure that used to sit on his knees, his immense weight suffocating the joints in his lower limbs. A short walk down the hallway and he would be out of breath…

Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the painful memories, Dudley opened them a few seconds later, a renewed purpose surging him to the floor, arm disappearing under the bed to pull out his suitcase. He slowly eased out the case, adjusting vision flicking to the alarm clock on his bedside cabinet; 10:47pm; trembling hands unzipping the case and revealing the contents. The small bottle of sleeping pills, label adorned with a stark warning and instructions, cradled in his hand, and to him, it was his lifeline. One of these little suckers, and hopefully, he would soon be out like a light.

Doubt clouded his mind. What if his cunning plan didn't work? He needed these pills to zonk him out completely, so even if he dreamt of unspeakable nightmares, he could wake up with no torturous memories. Uncapping the lid and shaking a single pill into his open palm, Dudley stared down at the tablet.

'Hopefully, it knocks me out pretty quickly…'

01:16am.

The low noise of the portable television hummed in the bedroom, his finger pressing down on the remote to change the channel. Only a black and white horror film caught his attention, the rest presenting late night shopping, and Dudley drooped his eyelids, willing himself to sleep. The time since swallowing the pill had been dreadful. The opposite effect seemed to have occurred, as adrenaline coursed through him, ensuring that sleep was pretty low on his list of priorities. Thus, he was awake in the early hours of the morning and had long run out of patience for the tablet to work. The seconds creeped by and the heavy wind outside rattled the garden fence, the thrum of the television tuning out as he forced his eyes shut for the fifteenth time in two hours. However, this time, he gritted his teeth and whispered internally:

'Fall asleep! This stupid tablet needs to work! They go on and on about how these pills knock you out, well, it's done nothing!'

The skin by his eyes crinkled into crow's feet. Dudley continued to keep his eyes tightly shut, even when they began to sting. Falling asleep was inevitable, with the tablet in his system. But why was it taking so long?

Throwing his head back onto his pillow, Dudley buried himself up to his chin, encasing himself in his covers. Ten more minutes he held the tense expression, until silent sweet relief eased his face, relaxing slightly into confusion, eyebrows raised high and breath catching in his throat.

XXX

He sat in his favourite armchair. Technically, it had once belonged to his father, many days spent reading the newspaper or watching the television, the material grooved to the body shape. His father had sat in the armchair when the heart attack took hold, the open spread of the paper left lying on the seat, a stark reminder of his recent passing. Five years had come and gone, and the armchair was solely his, a new groove shaping the material and time spent watching hours upon hours of television, broadcast off the flat-screen TV.

Dudley, dumping his half-finished packet of chocolate biscuits on the coffee table, leant forwards and stretched his arms out, the distinct pop! of his shoulder joint relieving the ache. Slumping back in his armchair, stomach protruding over his elasticated waistband, Dudley drilled his gaze onto the screen, immersed in the latest instalment of Top Gear. The line-up of Ferraris made his heart flutter and once again, he regretted the decision to not take his driving test. He had always car-pooled to work with Dad… so why would he feel the need to drive himself?

However, now, he yearned to be behind the wheel, but the arthritis in his knees put a spanner in the works and his mother would join his father if she caught sight of him behind the wheel. Her frail old heart would simply give up at the thought of her precious little Duddykins potentially crashing a car, ending his life, similar to her freakish sister and deadbeat husband. Of course, mother and son knew the truth – they were murdered – but the cover story of the Potters dying in a car crash was spewed onto anyone who dared ask.

He often regretted not moving out, too lazy to bother looking for places, as he would have to cook, clean and do his laundry all by himself. Birds he picked up never lasted long, one night stands, and Mum had kicked up such a fuss about him flying the nest, that Dudley had decided to remain in his childhood home, continuing to feed off the palms of Mum and Dad.

The years had passed on by, and his fledgling career in boxing fell to the wayside. The weight piled back on as the exercise routine was put out to pass, his mother taking every opportunity to pile his plate high with her delicious home-cooked food, her only son wolfing down all he could, rejection and boredom settled in deep. Grunnings was a boring place to work and his social life was crumbling, so he had turned back to food. And weighing twenty five stone at the age of sixty was the result.

Digging his nails into the fabric of the armchair, Dudley snorted loudly. He was due to retire soon, and the thought of retirement turned his mind to wondering about his only cousin. Potter, he had not seen since the age of twenty. They had bumped into each other in Oxford Street, some red-head hanging off his arm, and simply quiet mutterings were exchanged before they separated once again. He did not wish to meet up with Potter, let alone see his face.

"Bastard ought to have died with his parents."

Shuffling occurred in the kitchen, and Dudley clicked his tongue and craned his neck round. His elderly mother ambled towards him, holding a wooden tray. On the tray was a plate, heaped high with beef stew and dumplings. Dudley's eyeballs popped at the sight and he rubbed his hands together in glee as his mother came round to the side, settling the tray down onto his lap.

She cooed down at him. "Eat up all your lunch, Duddywump." Her eyes sparkled with affection and love as she softly pinched his left cheek, sharp nails imprinting marks onto his skin. Dudley waved her away and tucked straight in, as Petunia sat down on the settee and smiled warmly at her child.

It may be just the two of them, but it would always be the two of them.

Mother and Son together. Forever.

XXX

Nanny and Grandad Evans seemed… strange. The Dursleys didn't visit them often, 'bad blood' between them, according to a conversation eavesdropped on by their thirteen year old offspring. Apparently, they were always seeing the Potters, the other side of the family, and their other grandson, Harry. Dudley didn't really know Harry. He knew they were the same age, albeit he was older, (a fact he relished), and from a photograph chucked at the back of a memory book, looked nothing like him.

So, when he heard that he would be visiting them, and on that very same day, Dudley was not best pleased.

"But why are we seeing Nanny and Grandad?... I do love them, but Mum… they are weird. I overheard them once talking to Aunt Lily, about some man who tried to kill her and Uncle James… and they were talking about magic-"

"Dudley." His father cut him off. "M… Magic isn't real. You know that. It's in books and films, it's fiction! Yes, they're strange, all of them, but we are doing this for your Mother, okay?"

At the mention of his mother, Dudley looked over to Petunia, whose gaze wandered over the freshly cut garden grass. "Mum? Why are they so weird?"

"Mmh?" She blinked and turned towards her son. "Oh, Duddy. My sister has always been… odd, and my parents fell for her little act. But don't you worry," She smiled lovingly at him. "I'm not going to let you be cast aside. You are their grandson, and you deserve all their love and affection."

"They do write me cards and send presents though…"

"That's not enough!" Petunia huffed in annoyance. "They are always seeing Harry! He's not their only grandchild! You are more important than him, more talented, better behaved! And you are not… well, you're normal."

Dudley puffed out his chest. He was pretty damn amazing. However, the word 'normal' rattled him and he wanted to discover why.

"Why are they not normal? Does it have to do with when they were talking about that man who was going to kill them?"

Petunia, outrage etching onto her face, shook her head. "They shouldn't have been talking about that in front of a child!" The outrage quickly dropped and she sighed. "A burglar attacked them… It was years ago, but they like to dress it up and make themselves look the 'heroes.'"

"O-kay." Dudley scratched his head. What was his Mum going on about?!

"Anyway, we need to get ready. We're going in half an hour."

The drive to the Evans's home took forty minutes, and every minute consisted of dread. Sure, Nanny and Grandad loved him, cuddling him tight whenever they saw him, but… something was always off. The light in their eyes seemed to dim whenever they looked at him, and faded upon seeing his parents. It was like they were… disappointed in him, and Dudley had no idea why.

Climbing out the car, Dudley glanced over to the open front door, spotting his grandparents framed in the doorway. Behind them, he noticed a man wearing glasses, who pulled a funny face at him. Uncle James. Dudley frowned at this sighting. Aunt Lily's car, (Dad loved making fun of Uncle James for not being able to drive) was absent, and he wondered how they had got there. His parents moved over to the house, Petunia greeting her parents with a stiff hug and kiss, Dudley bringing up the rear. When he stepped over the threshold, he caught sight of Harry and his eyes narrowed.

Harry was standing there, staring at him, as if he were some sort of… freak.

Dudley glowered back whilst his Mum and Dad exchanged tense pleasantries with Potter's parents. This was not going to be enjoyable.

Despite the opportunity to re-connect and share memories, the family sat in silence and it creeped Dudley out. His mouth salivated at the aroma of the roast lamb his Nan had cooked, and he cut straight into a slice, not bothering to wait for anyone else. Gravy was poured, cutlery scraped, yet no talking. He blew on a potato, steam rising off, when his gaze met Harry's. The little freak hadn't even started eating yet, choosing to continuously jab at his greens. Dudley didn't blame him, vegetables were rank, but Potter was still weird and he really wished they weren't related.

Managing to finish his dinner in five minutes flat, Dudley contained a belch and squeaked his trainers against the marble floor. His mother shot him an annoyed look, the tension heightening thanks to his irritating distraction, albeit the noise stopped shortly afterwards, Dudley growing bored of the situation.

"So…" He piped up, instantly regretting speaking as all attention, glares, turned onto him. "Why all the silence? Someone died or something?"

His Uncle, usually so jovial and trying to make everyone laugh, looked so serious that Dudley suddenly considered that maybe someone had died, and he was the only one who had been kept out of the loop. The 'reunion' seemed to be more suited to a wake, and Dudley was running out of patience and sanity.

Scraping his chair back, he rose to his feet. "Mum, going toilet."

Not hearing a reply, and not bothering to wait for one, he rushed out of the kitchen and into the hallway. The bathroom was not his set location, in fact, he'd rather opt to stay in the car, the blistering sun rays shining down to melt him, than stay with his messed-up family. The car keys were in his Dad's jacket hung up on the coat rack and they were easy to find, clenched within his hands in triumph.

Dudley faced the door and stepped forwards, preparing to pull down the handle when a voice murmured behind him:

"Dudley, dear, where do you think you're going?"

It was Nanny. Time to lie.

Slowly turning round, Dudley pasted on a sheepish expression and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't feel that well, Nan." The keys hung from his coiled fingers and he gestured to them. "Was going to sit in the car for a minute."

His Nan appraised him with beady eyes, Dudley feeling a sweat break out onto his forehead. "You don't feel well, do you? Well, I can give you some Calpol if you want. No need to sit in the car, away from everyone."

'There is a need to get away from everyone! You're all acting mental!'

"Thanks, Nan, but I'm alright. I'm just gonna get some fresh air-"

"Cut the crap, Dudley. You're not ill. If anything, you're suffering from indigestion and I'm not surprised at the rate you scoffed your dinner down. Now, hand over the keys." She held her palm out, eyelid twitching in irritation.

Silently, heartbeat drowning out the tapping of his Nan's slipper, Dudley shook his head and backed away. The open palm squeezed into a fist and she cried out:

"GIVE ME THOSE DAMN KEYS!"

His eyes bulged in shock. His Nan had totally lost it!

"GIVE ME THEM, YOU LITTLE THIEF! YOU NEED A GOOD HIDING!"

Hands subconsciously grabbing the seat of his jeans, Dudley winced, expecting his Nan to swat him for disobedience. Instead, the next few seconds resembled a Looney Tunes cartoon. Nanny Evans pulled out a cricket bat and shooting him a cruel smile, arched her torso round to set up for a good aim before twisting back, the bat flying.

Dudley had no chance to dodge, and was blown off his feet when the cricket bat slammed into him, cracking his head against the doormat. Darkness descended upon him.

When he awoke, head lying on the bristled stained mat, he was greeted with seven pairs of eyes staring down at him.

Mum. Hands clasped together as if she were praying.

Dad. Strands of his moustache gripped between his fingers.

Aunt Lily. Fiery red hair framing a nonchalant expression.

Uncle James. Glasses sliding off the bridge of his nose.

Harry. Slight smirk curling his mouth.

Grandad. Frowning down at him in bemusement.

Nanny. Head cocked to the side.

Blinking groggily, Dudley weakly shielded his face and croaked: "M-Mercy. P-Please mercy."

Fearful of the cricket bat and severely disorientated, he trembled uncontrollably, his gaze falling onto a shiny object a few metres away. A set of keys… his Dad's car keys! If he could reach them, then it was a small step towards his escape plan. All he had to do was extend his arm and stretch his fingers far…

Touching the keys did not bring him safety. Instead, it sent him to hell.

XXX

The key issue with weighing twenty two stone at age fourteen was the constant battle to breathe. One flight of stairs, and he would be out of breath, gasping for oxygen. Sweat stained his skin, his clothes would rub at his stretched flesh, and he literally felt as if his whole body was eating himself up.

Dudley looked down at himself, temporarily ignoring his unfamiliar surroundings and sagged in despair for two reasons. One: he was shorter, not quite hitting six foot and two: he was morbidly obese once again. Clutching his head in his hands, desperation seeping in, Dudley's breath whistled in his throat and he dry-heaved.

Why was he like this?... Where was he?

He swallowed, dry throat feeling as rough as sandpaper, and let his hands drop to his sides, looking around the room he was in. Dudley stood in a very spacious tent, filled to the brim with beds, a functioning kitchen, rugs upon rugs and banners. Some bore the colours of the Irish Flag and the other, he wasn't sure of. Geography had never been his strong point. However, what baffled him the most, was how had he got there? Nausea resided in his stomach. It was a battle not to throw up everywhere. Also who did the tent belong too?

Utterly miserable, Dudley jumped out of his skin upon hearing a loud BANG! outside. He faced the opening of the tent, knees buckling and hands twisting into a sweaty mess. The flaps of the tent billowed, and an intense heat rushed in, whipping his hair and clothes askew. His eyelids shot up. Fire! Outside the tent! The tent would be flammable! He had to get out!

Scrambling forwards, wrestling the tent opening apart, he squeezed out and immediately covered his mouth with the back of his right arm. Smoke, screams. Hundreds of people sprinting past, all looking terrified. Young families. Young, middle-aged, elderly. The crowd was a variety and they were all running from the flames and smoke. Dudley whipped his head in the direction of the smoke clouds and spotted tents upon tents ablaze, and in the smoky distance, a football stadium was slightly visible beyond a sloping hill. His eyes streamed and he staggered backwards, almost bashing into the stream of people. Amongst the ear deafening screams, he could hear cackling laughter and see sparks flying, red and green tangling together. The laughter he associated with the sudden horde of masked robed figures, each one holding a flaming torch. Their appearance horrified Dudley, and he backed away again, this time, bumping into a group of young adults, adorned in white and green.

"What are you doing?! RUN!" Their advice kicked in to his short-circuiting brain, their expressions under the white and green paint slathered on their faces petrifying him into fight or flight mode. Dudley promptly decided to high-tail it out of the area and joined the mass of fleeing people, huffing and puffing in panic. His stomach bounced up and down, his limbs straining to move his entire mass at a fast pace. He desperately wanted to sprint forwards, gain an advanced lead on the masked figures and escape with his life intact. Unfortunately, his energy quickly depleted and he waddled at a sluggish pace, one hand moving to cup his mouth to preserve oxygen, the other clutching the stitch in his side. His eyes streamed rivers and he was swiftly overtaken by the crowd around him, people creating a wide berth to slip past him.

In front of him, people tripped up and continued on, whereas some tripped up and fell over. Those sparks he had seen before, red and green, struck a few in the crowd and they fell too, lying motionless. The sight lasted mere moments before they were lost in the sea of colours, presumably trampled on in the mad rush, but he did not need to ponder on their state to realise that they were dead.

Wheezing frantically, Dudley shuffled over the mud and snarled roots, wishing he was fitter. Running was providing him with little hope of escaping, thus, he decided to hide. It was his best shot to preserve his life, so he mustered up all his remaining energy to slip out of the crowd, staggering behind a row of untouched tents. Overgrown bushes tickled his bare calves, as he ducked down behind the middle tent. He felt like a pig preparing to be slaughtered. If they caught him… He swallowed back the bile. Some outcomes were best left unthought.

The flames licked at the tents beside the row he hid behind, forcing him to re-evaluate his decision. Pretty soon, he would be barbecued to death and he did not intend to die that way.

A rustling moved the bushes, but Dudley was too pre-occupied with certain death to notice. Alas, this was his downfall. Behind him, two figures wrenched his arms down by his side, allowing him to inhale the smoke in the air. He coughed and spluttered, wriggling in the iron-tight grip to escape. His mind bucked in panic. Had the masked figures with flaming torches caught up to him? Would he be struck down by red and green sparks – MAGIC – on the spot? Was this the end?

A gloved hand dived between his teeth, widening his jaw. Snot and tears pooled onto the glove, the hacking cough burning Dudley's lungs. A tough texture was deposited onto his tongue and as the familiar object was forced down the back of his throat, Dudley managed to wrench himself free from the slackened grip and whirled round to confront his attackers.

The Twins. They were standing there, grinning at him, the one wearing the glove brandishing a crinkled-up wrapper. His heart rutted in his chest. The devilish figures haunted him, that bloody sweet they had dropped swelling up his tongue…

His eyeballs almost popped out of his head when he felt the dreaded burning sensation in his mouth. Suddenly, his tongue felt so heavy and swollen…

Clawing at his throat, Dudley's eyes crossed to watch the pink appendage slope out of his mouth and down his chest. He was choking, dying, choking on his own tongue. He collapsed to the floor and curled his knees up. The Twins loomed over him, their cruel grins lit up from the symbol in the night sky. The symbol, a snake slithering out of a skeletal face, the Dark Mark, ghosted above them all and Dudley could not keep his gaze off the brand of triumph.

Even as he choked to death, his eyes glazing over, they remained on the Dark Mark.

XXX

Dudley awoke at 3:30am, to his pyjamas sticking to his skin. This was a usual occurrence after a nightmare, he was surprised he had any sweat left to produce, with him beginning to feel the onset of a chill if he didn't change quickly. Slowly easing himself up into a seated position, he inhaled shakily and focused on blowing out his breath, attempting to calm down. His heart banged inside his rib-cage and his mind was hurtling into inconsolable territory. He dropped his chin to his collarbone and whispered to himself:

"It was just a dream. Just a dream. Nothing can hurt you. It's gone now."

He shifted to wake up his legs, but the movement felt odd. True, his pyjama bottoms felt sticky from the sweat, but they felt damp. Lifting his head in horror, Dudley hurled back the covers with a hand and swiped his other hand under his pyjamas onto his bedsheet.

He had only gone and bloody wet himself.

"What the hell… Why have I done this?" His blood boiled and fear churned within him. He gritted his teeth and admonished himself sharply: "Dudley, babies ruddy wet themselves! Not fifteen year olds! It was just a stupid nightmare, how could you let this happen?!"

His voice cracked on the last section and he uneasily swung his legs off the side of the bed. The quiet rumble of the television alerted him that he had forgotten to turn the blasted thing off, so upon finding the remote, he jabbed the OFF button. Softly placing the remote down and not wanting to wake his parents, Dudley stood up and was forced to lean forwards to balance his hands against the wall. Dizziness had overcome him. Two minutes passed before the sensation faded and he turned back to his bed, beginning to strip off his sheets.

Once downstairs, wet bundle of sheets and duvet cover in his arms, Dudley shuffled wide-legged over to the washing machine. Dumping them on the kitchen floor, Dudley pulled open the machine door and hastily shoved the bedding in, then stripped off his pyjamas and underwear and added them too. He snagged a fresh towel hung up on the radiator and secured it round his waist, then closed the machine door quietly. He surveyed the machine in confusion, running his hands over his tied-up hair.

'How the hell does this thing work?... Oh, I'll just get Mum to do it in the morning.'

Turning away, he slogged back upstairs and into his bedroom, checking his mattress with his torch, (one of his many birthday gifts over the years), for any signs of wet stains. Fortunately, both appearance and texture looked/felt dry, so upon turning off the torch, he dried down his damp legs and pulled on a clean pair of boxers and new pyjamas, throwing the towel into his laundry basket. Dudley curled up on the mattress, cradling the bare pillow to his head, wondering if the sleeping tablet was still within his system.

His eyelashes fluttered on his dry skin, Dudley awakening a few hours later to the cold chill of morning. The memory of the early hours flooded back to him and he cringed in despair. Hopefully, Mum would soon be awake to put his washing on and not inquire too much about the machine's contents. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, feeling a smidgen regenerated and sat up. He somehow was adapting daily to surviving on little sleep, but was shocked he hadn't fallen seriously ill yet. His guess was prevention by the Dark Lord, but he did not want to think about him right now.

Staring down at himself, standing at full height, Dudley grabbed the small roll of fat remaining from his 'obese days', a self-mocking jeer to himself upon losing weight, a deep frown pulling at his mouth. He was still big. Despite the physical changes, Potter would still call him a pig.

Dudley released his hold and bunched his hands into fists. Potter had made him the target, all because he was a stupid freak. Too furious to think of any repercussions for using the family 'term' for anyone not normal, Dudley growled: "Why can't our family be normal?! This shouldn't be my life! It's all his fault!"

His anger still flared, but the overwhelming fatigue and his low mood dragged him down and his eyes became half-lidded as he sat down heavily on his mattress. The urge to comfort eat was strong, to stuff his face with chocolate until his belly burst, was tempting. Yet, throwing it all up afterwards would not be pleasant, an experience he wished to avoid. If only he could forget…

Sighing, Dudley checked his clock, 07:13am, and decided to go downstairs. He quietly ventured to the kitchen, stopping when he noticed his mother wiping down the polished sides.

"M-Mum," He croaked and waited for her to turn round, before gesturing to the machine. "Need to put a wash on, had a bad dream, woke up covered in sweat. Can you?" He curled his mouth into a half-smile, knowing that his mother would do anything he asked.

Petunia smiled lovingly back at him and paused in her cleaning to sort out the washing machine. Once the wash was on, she shifted her cleaning gloves slightly on the counter and stepped up to him. The back of her hand gently reached up to lay on his forehead.

"Mum, I'm okay, swear. Honestly." His nerves threatened to explode. Last night, he had shoved his mother's love and affection away, but now, feeling very vulnerable, he craved reassurance. "I just had a bad night, I haven't got a fever."

"Duddy, it's December, you shouldn't be sweating through… You do feel warm."

"I had a bad night." He stressed. "I'm knackered, everything's caught up to me."

"You look very tired." She took her hand away and encased him in a hug, wrapping her thin arms around his torso and resting her head against his chest. Dudley gently returned the hug, bending down to rest his chin on her shoulder, the height difference pulling at his shoulder blades. Thirty seconds later, he raised his head and softly broke the hug.

Petunia gazed up at him worriedly. "Do you want some Calpol?"

"NO!" The shout caught both of them by surprise, Petunia flinching at the loud noise and Dudley himself wincing. He shook his head. "No, I'm alright. I'll take paracetamol. Calpol's for little kids."

"Okay. Take a nap though, darling. You need the rest."

"Maybe… You going to the shops today?"

"I'm going food shopping, yes. Do you want to come with me?"

The thought of going out in public, in a crowded supermarket, frightened the life out of him.

"Nah," He played with the strings on his pyjama bottoms. "Get me a big bottle of Lucozade. I need some energy today… Actually, buy me five or six, so I can have some for back-up… and I want chicken, lots of chicken, for the salads."

"I'll get all that for you, sweetheart." She raised up on her toes to kiss his cheek, then wrinkled her nose. "Maybe a nice warm shower will make you feel brighter?"

Knowing that was his mother's way of telling him he needed a damn good wash, Dudley nodded and made his way back upstairs to the bathroom. He was beaten by the shambolic figure of his father, wrapped up in his thick dressing gown, who grunted at him in greeting before closing the door. He wanted to whack his fist onto the wood, to give dear old Dad a good fright, but lethargy worked wonders so instead, he ambled back to his room and left the door open, waiting for his father to finish.

Once in the shower, Dudley shut his sore eyes and allowed the water to soak him from head to toe, relaxing his tense muscles into the warmth. He stood under the spray for five whole minutes, his skin reddening, before easing apart his eyes to search for the shower gel. The bathroom was steaming up, but the figure in the corner was starkly visible and Dudley nearly lost his footing on the slippery surface, throwing a hand out to save himself. He slammed his back against the wall and screamed.

Evans was standing in the bathroom, watching him.

Paying no attention to his current state, Dudley secured the shower door tight and blinked rapidly, only to open his eyes fully, to encounter an empty bathroom. No Evans perving on him. His body sagging in relief, Dudley groped with his free hand for his shower gel and flannel, fixing his gaze on the sighting spot. As he finished his shower, head sticking out to ease the stinging in his eyes, Dudley continued to stare at where Evans had stood.

How had he got in? Why was he watching him clean himself? Why was his neighbourhood filled with sickos?

He shut off the jet of water and unfolded the door, stepping out onto the bathmat. He ruffled his knotted hair and whipped a towel around his waist. Unlocking and pushing open the bathroom window slightly to let the steam out, he turned round and promptly cried out.

Evans was there again! Milky-white irises staring into his bright blue eyes. Head cocked to the side, sinister smile tugging at his lips. Dudley stumbled back and fell onto the lid of the toilet, hand tight around his towel.

"Leave me alone! What do you want, you psycho! Get out of my house!" He wanted the words to deafen Evans, but a hoarse croak was all he could muster and his pride did not allow him to call for help from his parents. Evans simply widened his smile, his cheeks splitting open to reveal blood vessels.

Desperate to slam his eyes shut, Dudley cowered on the toilet seat and muttered:

"Not real. 'S not real. Not real."

Three blinks later, Evans vanished. Dudley swiped his free hand across his eyes, terror causing him to check every crevice of the bathroom for any sign of the one he tormented. Only did he feel satisfied when he re-checked the room, then rushed out towards his bedroom, where he sat on his bed and rocked back and forth. It had been an hallucination, he was so groggy and out of it, his mind was yet again, playing tricks on him.

"This has to stop..." He groaned. "I can't take it… Nowhere's safe…" His chest tightened in alarm. "I have to get out of this house."

Dudley had thrown on his rattiest tracksuit, cheapest trainers and burrowed his neck in his Puffa Jacket. A skater hat concealed his hair and black gloves prevented his fingers from falling off to frostbite. The wind battered at him and he trudged through the thick snow, in the freezing cold, all for an energy drink. He couldn't wait for Mum to get them and needed to escape his house, so decided to kill two birds with one stone. Children were playing on the snow-laden roads, darting in and out of side streets, pulling their sleds along and hurling snowballs at one another.

He avoided the children as best as he could, not wanting to get caught up in their snowball fight. Beforehand, he would have smashed their faces in for getting in his way, but he was tired and merely wanted caffeinated sugar. Besides, he didn't know what the reaction of the neighbourhood kids would be. Would they still fear him? Or, had they heard any rumours about his unstable behaviour and no longer felt threatened by him?

Those questions did not need to be answered at that moment, so he hurried on to the corner shop, the bell ringing overhead as he stepped over the threshold. Shivering from the cold, Dudley scurried over to the chilled section for drinks and picked up a big bottle of Lucozade, then went over to the counter. He was a local at the corner shop and surprisingly had not yet been barred, despite the time he created a scene while treating a hangover, kicking off after an accusation of acting 'rowdy.'

The bloke behind the counter, (Dudley never bothered to learn his name) rung up the drink. "80p, please."

Gripping his drink tightly, Dudley pulled out the coin change from his jacket and stared at the money in his open palm. Two fifty pence lay there, but for the life of him, he had no idea how much money he held. The coins seemed foreign to him, as if he had never set eyes on them.

'What are these? Where are my Knuts, Sickles and Galleons?'

"Excuse me, young man, do you need any help?"

Chewing on his lip and ignoring the Muggle questioning him, Dudley slapped down the money onto the counter and hummed when he received twenty pence in change. He turned and dashed out of the shop, the bell echoing in his ears. He only stopped running a corner later, leaning against the brick wall. The energy drink held to his heart, Dudley hollowed his cheeks and blew out another breath.

'Why did my mind blank with the money?... God sake, he's gonna think I'm a strange one…'

Worn out by the odd encounter, Dudley pushed himself away from the wall and took up an amble, heading back towards his childhood home.