A/N: Thank you for all reviewers so far. Your comments are always greatly appreciated.
June 29, 1998 – four days after the last battle
Vernon Dursley's large, beefy hand shook slightly as he read the ragged bit of parchment that had come along with an exhausted eagle owl, interrupting his breakfast crumpet.
It was odd – Vernon had hated his nephew, and had never hid his dislike; on more than one occasion, he had wished aloud that Harry had been killed along with his parents, and saved him the trouble of raising the boy, so unlike his own son.
And now, Harry Potter was dead, killed by the same man that had brutally murdered his sister-in-law and her husband sixteen years ago. To his surprise, there was no elation at the news. Instead, there was fear. He reread the letter, slowly.
V. and P. Dursley –
I am writing to you as of three o'clock p.m. on the 28th of June. It is with great sorrow that I must inform you that your nephew, Harry James Potter, was killed three days earlier. It fell upon me to write this letter to you, as during the confusion in the wake of his death there was no one else to write it.
Sir and Madam, your nephew was murdered by the Dark Lord, who takes the name Lord Voldemort. It was this same dark wizard who murdered Lily and James Potter, your nephew's mother and father, and attempted to kill Harry on Halloween 1981.
It is very difficult to express this suitably, but your nephew's death had many consequences. In the week prior to your nephew's birth, a prophecy was made concerning him. To be short, he was the only wizard capable of defeating the Dark Lord. Whether another with the power to defeat Lord Voldemort will be born cannot be foreseen at this moment.
The Dark Lord's victory over Harry Potter will have far-reaching consequences, and not only for wizardkind; he is one of a number of murderous wizards who believe that Muggles, such as yourselves, are subhumans undeserving of equal treatment by wizards. He is all-powerful, and he will persecute the Muggles of Britain unmercifully. You and your family are in grave danger not only because of your status as Muggles, but because of your relation to Harry Potter, who for the past sixteen years had been an especially difficult opponent to the Dark Lord.
I urge you to flee the country, immediately, and take refuge in a more remote part of the world. While I cannot guarantee your safety anywhere, the sooner you are out of Britain, the better. While the Dark Lord is currently preoccupied with mopping up the resistance – of which I am part – he will soon turn his mind to other matters.
If you need assistance, please send the owl – he answers to Brutus – with the message to find Moony. He will know where to go. Unfortunately, I cannot give more details for fear of interception.
Yours Sincerely,
R. Lupin
"P-Petunia," he gasped, as the full impact of the words hit him. His wife, who had been watching the muggle news in the other room, turned around, and spotted the owl. Scowling, she stood, ready to shoo him off her spotless table.
"Petunia, look at this letter," he said, his voice hoarse.
The tall peered over her husband's shoulder, her narrowed eyes skimming the hastily-scrawled words. Her mouth slowly opened, forming a horrified 'O' as she, too, realized the doom that had come upon them.
"Vernon!" she exclaimed in her high, horsey voice. "Oh, Vernon! What are we to do?" Petunia Dursley stared at the ragged parchment, remembering her own first reactions on finding the only remaining blood relative – aside from her son – left to her, along with a letter on paper very similar to the one before her. She had been horrified then – though she'd refused to admit it – that her sister had died; Lily, after all, had been her sister. She had hated Lily, been jealous of Lily, yes – but still, Lily had been her sister, and her only family left after Mr. and Mrs. Evans had passed away.
And now Harry Potter, daughter of her murdered sister, was dead by the same hand that had killed Lily. Petunia's only blood left was in her son, Dudley – and Dudley, along with herself and Vernon, were in grave danger from this dark wizard.
"W-we've got to leave, Vernon," Petunia said, paling. "We've got to go, now!"
"But – but what about Grunnings? What about our mortgage? We can't just leave – not now!" Vernon's protests were weak, for he, too, knew that there was no way they could remain safely in Britain.
Tight lipped, Petunia said, "I don't think Marge will be in any danger. We must simply say that one of us has fallen sick, and we have to go away for our health. Doctor's orders. And – surely we will be able to return again. Surely. This Voldemort was defeated before. Maybe – maybe he will be again."
Vernon Dursley had the nagging feeling that Petunia was deceiving herself, but it was a happy deception, and he joined in. "Yes. Yes, surely he will be defeated again. And – then we can come back. Yes. Well, I suppose I'd better phone Mr. Jennings down at the firm, and notify Marge, and our solicitor…"
"Yes, you probably better had. I'll pack."
"Pack?" Vernon said, blankly.
"Yes, pack! That letter said it was urgent, didn't it? Or do you want to stay here until the blasted wizard comes and curses us into oblivion?"
Vernon was shocked. His wife, as far as he knew, had not used the words "wizard" and "curse" in the same breath since finding his ruddy nephew – oh, but he should not speak ill of the dead – on the doorstep. This shock cowed him momentarily. "Yes, yes. You're right, Petunia, quite right."
In all the kerfuffle, no one had noticed that the owl, Brutus, had keeled over on his side. As Petunia moved to go upstairs to start getting their things, she brushed against the prone bird, and gave a muffled cry.
"Oh! Vernon, the bird! It needs water, probably – and food. We have to send it back, don't we? To this Lupin – whoever he is."
"Lupin?" Vernon Dursley echoed, his memory stirring. "I think I've met him before … one of those freaks that escorted the boy home after his fifth year."
"Didn't he offer his help? Well, we'd better write back to him, hadn't we? We need all the help we can get, getting out of the country on short order!"
"Now, Petunia, I don't think we need help from their kind – we can manage on our own, we always have –"
"Don't be an idiot, Vernon!" Petunia cut in. "We're in danger of being killed by a dark wizard because of my nephew, who is now dead, and you're refusing help? You feed that owl up while I go pack, and when he's fine, I'm writing a letter asking for help!"
The sound that came out of Mr. Dursley's mouth as his wife swept out of the room could only be described as a whimper.
The Eagle Owl had recovered to some extent when Petunia came downstairs, clutching three large suitcases full of clothes and other small necessities.. She dropped them by the kitchen door and walked over to the owl, sniffing in distaste at the feathers and waste already covering her kitchen table. "Damn birds," she said, before grabbing a ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper.
Petunia Dursley then commenced to write the most unusual letter of her life, in a graceful, loopy handwriting very unlike her usually barbed tongue.
R. Lupin –Received your letter as of 29 June. Husband, son, and self plan to flee country immediately. Will go to Pretoria, South Africa, to husband's brother.
As Lily Potter's sister, I understand that there are certain spells that could protect my family. You may not have been aware, but I sheltered my nephew fully aware of the danger via A. Dumbledore. In return for our protection Dumbledore promised protection in turn. I call on you to give aid where Dumbledore would have. I understand he is of some importance to my nephew's friends and supporters.
We will be in London Gatwick Airport, South Terminal, at exactly 6:00 p.m. prior our departure. I trust you will contact us with information pertaining to our situation before that time.
Yours,
P. Dursley
Petunia then folded the letter up neatly, placed it in an envelope, and with a bit of twine tied it to the eagle owl's leg. It stared at her stupidly, and she stared at it, wondering momentarily how one could expect an owl to understand anything, before she said, in a low, hoarse voice, "Brutus, find Moony."
The owl's head swiveled around disconcertingly at the sound of her voice, and then, with four massive wingbeats, sailed up and out of her kitchen window.
At 6:30 p.m. on a sultry June evening – the moon a slender crescent against the summer sky – R.J. Lupin arrived at Number 4 Privet Drive. Those looking out of their windows on that fine evening might have seen him withdraw a thin wand, eleven inches, and wave it in an intricate pattern while muttering under his breath. They would likely have concluded him a dangerous hobo and called the police had that same R.J. Lupin not placed a temporary invisibility charm over himself before arriving at Number 4.
He was busy in his spellwork for almost an hour, for it was complicated, and parts of it were almost beyond his powers as a wizard. As the sky began to fade from periwinkle to lavender, Remus Lupin withdrew the final, binding material: two wands, crossed, of yew and holly, tied together with three hairs peculiar to the house's former occupants. Murmuring the final incantation, the wearied wizard carried the cross over to the door of Number 4 Privet Drive, pressing it against the wood, where it hung, visible for only a second, before it faded into the door's spotless maroon paint.
R.J. Lupin stepped back, and surveyed his work. The house appeared as normal, but he was wizard enough to feel the power that radiated from the house. He had bought the Dursleys two weeks' worth of protection, two weeks where no one would think to wonder why the law-abiding, perfectly normal Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were not at their usual residence.
He sighed, and stooped to pick up his briefcase.
It saved his life.
A jet of green light flew over the spot where his back had been instant ago, singing the gray-brown hair on the top of his head. The moment between the first curse and the second beam of emerald light gave Remus Lupin enough time to grab his wand and dive behind Petunia Dursley's admirable hydrangea bushes. Swearing under his breath, the fugitive wizard dared a look over the top of the greenery.
Malfoy. Malfoy and Dolohov. And – to Lupin's horror – Bellatrix Lestrange, apparating next to her two male companions with a deafening crack.
Even Lupin's anti-muggle wards could do nothing to prevent Number 3, Number 2, and Number 1 all sticking their heads out of their windows to have a look, and nothing within his power could prevent them from being killed – unless…
McGonagall and the others would have a better chance than unarmed, defenseless muggles.
He had to.
He was dead anyway.
"I will surrender myself peacefully" – here his voice caught – "if you spare the muggles."
Bellatrix scowled, but Malfoy – ever the pragmatist – hushed her. "There will be other nights, Bellatrix. The Dark Lord will provide."