Review Responses:

bri: Normally my chapters are about 8 pages long, but I'll try to make them longer. You'll be happy; this one's about 11 pages.

T-Chan: I agree with you; the changes do fix the story and it's much better now. I love the fact that you liked the way I'm portraying everything.

LadyBlackIce01: Thanks for reviewing.

No one wants to be around me: Thanks:-) That was a very sweet compliment.

Dah: Oh my god, Dah, I haven't talked to you in ages! I miss you! Thanks so much for your compliments, I hope I see you soon!

MaxFic: Thanks for checking this out. :-) I didn't think you would! What do you mean by "give more information?" Also, see my answer to bri please.

Petroselinum

Chapter Four: Cowardly Dursleys Head for the Hills

"It is better that ten guilty persons escape than one innocent suffer." - Sir William Blackstone

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd suspect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, so the fact that they'd packed up as many of their belongings as would fit in their suitcases and luggage bags was really very unusual. If anyone had looked into the window earlier that day, they would have seen a fairly frantic Mrs. Petunia Dursley deciding which of her cooking pots she thought more necessary to bring, which set of prized window-peeking binoculars were sharper for better perception, and which pairs of a perfectly normal size seven women's loafers (the positively normal women's shoe) to bring.

Her husband, one Mr. Vernon Dursley, had also joined in the packing. He packed as much as he could take, even surreptitiously sneaking into the backyard to retrieve a few manly yard tools from the shed. They were quite used, though he'd never laid a hand on them, for he'd always set his nephew to the task of gardening. Still, a manly tool is a manly tool, and does do wonders for one's manly reputation.

By the time their large son had awoken in the late hours of the afternoon, the married couple had scoured their house one last time and had stowed the suitcases in the spotless garage.

"What… what do you mean, Mummy?" Dudley asked, his pudgy face contorted into a confused frown. He looked back and forth between his parents. The two were sitting on the couch together, trying to break the news to their son, who was settled in the matching love seat. There was no room left for even Petunia to squeeze in next to the boy, and she was as skinny as a rail. Vernon caught Petunia's eye, and they both sighed. This would be hard. Poor Diddy-Dumpkins.

"Well, Diddy, darling…" Petunia began slowly, reaching over and placing a comforting hand on Dudley's flabby forearm.

"Oh, wait a second, Mum." Dudley interrupted knowingly. "If you're giving me 'The Talk', I know all about that stuff."

"What, Dudley – oh!" Petunia turned red, shooting a scared look at her husband. "Dudley, sweetie…"

Vernon cleared his throat, muttering something to his wife about dealing with it later. Petunia composed herself, turning back to the subject at hand.

"I'm sorry, Dudley, but we're going to have to move."

Dudley frowned, still not understanding.

"Son, she means we're leaving Privet Drive."

Dudley tilted his head to the side. His double chins wiggled a bit.

"We've packed all of our things and they're ready to be put in the car right now, we're never coming back here."

Dudley's face held a look of intense concentration. He pressed his lips together and squinted at his parents.

"We're leaving so that the nasty –" Petunia lowered her voice to a frightened whisper for the next word, "wizards, you know, your cousin's friends, don't come after us."

Dudley tilted his head the other way. He looked rather like an ugly, confused pug with about twice as many chins.

"Oh, come on!" Vernon cried, exasperated. He heaved his beefy body up from the sofa and stomped through the house to the garage, where he proceeded to shove the luggage into the trunk. Petunia, hearing the noise, quickly rose from her seat and scurried out of the living room, followed by her confused son, who waddled behind her like an overweight duckling.

Dudley wedged himself into the backseat and Petunia briskly settled herself shotgun while they waited for the man of the house to finish. With a grunt, Vernon hauled the last bag into the trunk and slammed it shut, stalking to the driver's seat and plunking himself down.

"I don't understand!" Dudley whined as his father turned the ignition. Vernon let out a growl and Petunia turned around in her seat, patting her son on his leg. This action resulted in the nauseating sight of wobbling ripples of fat, but Petunia dutifully smiled a motherly smile and said reassuringly,

"It's okay, Duddy, darling. Your father knows that he's doing."

---------------

"Ugh…"

Harry Potter groaned, rolling over on muddy ground. He hissed with pain as the sharp grass slit his skin anew with millions of paper-cuts. Smears of blood that had dripped from the small incisions and droplets of splattered mud were smeared in paint-brushed strokes, dried and crumbling off his pallid skin. They were reopened with his movements and the grass slashed across his face and bare arms mercilessly, even cutting into his stomach where his oversized shirt twisted and revealed an unhealthily thin abdomen.

The first thing Harry realized was that he was hungry. Very, very hungry. He hadn't remembered feeling so hungry in ages, not since he was a young boy locked in a cupboard decorated with gossamer spider webs. His stomach gave an angry roar of protest when he had nothing to appease it, and he winced as his whole body seemed to rumble.

The second thing he realized was that he wasn't in number four, Privet Drive. He wasn't even in a house. He was outside. In the mud. Alone.

Panic set in, and Harry's eyes snapped open. Everything around him was blurred from his stigmatism, but he could see – not that it was as much comfort as it should have been. His glasses were gone, and being even somewhat sightless is more than disconcerting. Sharp grasses rose on either side of him, and he was lying in gritty dirt with an almost marsh-like quality. He shot upwards, only to fall back again and splatter himself with the disgusting substance when his body protested. The elephant was back on his chest, and he was sore everywhere. He feebly raised his arms up and saw they were bruised and scratched, and figured that his whole body must be the same. Questions ran through his brain and trampled all other thoughts, and he desperately tried to get up, horrified at the thought that he was lying out in the open, unready for attack. And his wand, – 'Where is it!'

After a third attempt at rising, he turned on his side and leaned over, supporting himself weakly with one arm while trying in vain to hold the other up to cover his mouth. He coughed violently, spitting out a bloody mouthful of dirt and weeds. His arm buckled, and he collapsed on the ground again. A stick dug sharply into his spine. He shifted a bit; successfully dislodging the twig and feeling the razor grass poke sharply through his threadbare clothes.

Harry found himself breathing through his mouth, his throat painfully dry. His nose was clogged, stuffed with dried blood from where he'd apparently hit it on something and gotten a bloody nose. Relaxing his tense muscles a tad, Harry opened his eyes. His breath was still leaving him as thick golden vapor. He exhaled cogently and watched the breath twinkle as if it was polished metal crushed into powder and tossed above him. Air went in clear and came out flashy. Harry had a fleeting image of Professor Trelawney dressed in crisp business robes, walking into a pawn shop, and coming out dressed even stranger than normal in sequined gold hippie garb, complete with shimmering shawl.

Pushing away this strange and slightly disturbing thought, he cast his gaze to the dark sky. A migraine was attacking his skull again and the state of the weather seemed to reflect his mood. The clouds were gathered and the air was thick and heavy. A moist chill hung densely in the atmosphere, and the taste of oncoming rain was palpable. With glazed emerald eyes he scanned the sky, looking at the rippling layers of cloud, watching, intrigued, and noting how the clouds seemed to be layered, each stratum a different color. Purple, gray, black, blue, and all colors in between, and darkening every moment. They mingled and formed a bruised color wheel with foreboding secondary and primary hues. It had a vague sort of symbolism to Harry, but his head gave a forceful throb and he let go of his train of thought.

He turned his head to the side, wincing a bit. He squinted at the tall blades of grass, which rose quite a bit over his head. He supposed he was making an indent in whatever field or grassland he was in. Maybe a marsh? 'Whatever.'

'Now… to stand.' Harry thought. He rolled on to his stomach. Pushing himself up in a push-up as though he was in Gym again, he forced himself back until he was kneeling. Woozily, he almost fell but caught himself in time. He was out of breath just by those movements, but he sucked air in harshly against the pain on his chest, determined not to let it get to him. From his position on his knees he surveyed his surroundings, allowing himself a rest.

It was a vast field of grasses and rush, stretching on endlessly to a thin strip where marshy hues met stormy blues and the sky began. The long blades of grass reached as high as his waist, swishing and poking at his sore sides with their sharp points. The wind rushed through them, creating an ominous whistling sound, and they leaned and smacked onto him. He turned his aching head painfully, scanning the horizon for anything, anything at all. The mud was slowly swallowing his shins, covering his bony knees and coating his skin. Harry looked down, and in a corner of his mind noted with disgust that there were little worms and bugs crawling through the grime, scooting in and out through the brown stuff and creating tiny, molded chasms that instantly refilled themselves.

Grimacing, Harry pulled one leg out of the muck, which released it with a sound reminiscent of a vacuum seal, and then pulled out the other. He shifted position weakly, glad that no one was here to see him flounder like a fish out of water in the middle of soggy field. He leaned forwards against the pressure on his chest and squinted out in front of him. From what he could tell, the he plain began to ascend slowly before turning upwards in a steep slope. Atop the slope was a line of gray.

'Maybe a road?' Harry wondered. He found it harder and harder to keep track of his thoughts, and to stay up right. Gravity had rebounded on him tenfold and he wavered. The air was syrupy and filled with the suffocating stench of earth and precipitation, and crickets and insect songs hummed a cappella in his ear along with his own heavy panting. The air around him was shuddering with his sparkling breath, and his drawn skin was beginning to glow. Harry's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically, despite the fact that this only worsened the deepening migraine.

A clap of thunder echoed once, and the bruised skies opened up. Rain began to fall in droplets, and then in spoons, and soon in sheets. The water cut into the already sodden soil, pushing it airborne in splashy waves of browned water. The grasses and plants were blown so low by the roaring wind that they were almost juxtaposition with the very ground they grew from, and the violence of nature was so sudden that every small creature huddled down in fright, though the more Gryffindor-ish bolted bravely for their homes.

"No!" Harry cried aloud. His voice was raspy and scratched, and he choked. Unable to stop, he fell into the mud. His elbows locked and saved him from landing head first into the ground, but the pain rocketed through them and they collapsed brokenly. The rain sizzled before it even hit Harry's glowing skin, transformed into mist just by being in proximity, but the boy didn't notice. His head was swimming, his mind was blank. He fought to hold his eyes open, but they were pulled shut as exhaustion and pain washed over him, in place of the rain that evaporated before it could do the same.

The last thing Harry saw before he fell into unconsciousness was the brilliant flash of gold lightening streak across the sky.

---------------

Whack.

Whack.

Whack.

Whack.

The windshield wipers swept back and forth rhythmically, sweeping the splattered rain from the glass an allowing a clear view of the water-pelted highway.

Whack.

Cars zoomed down the lanes, headlights glaring through the sheets of rainwater and illuminating the way in front of them. Thunder clapped in the distance, and a bolt of gold lightening struck the earth much too close for comfort.

Whack.

Vernon peered through the rain once the windshield wipers had done their job. His wife was sitting rigidly in the seat next to him, and their son was reclined on the entire back seat. Vernon glanced in his rearview mirror, then out again at the watered thoroughfare.

"Damn flash storms," He grumbled under his breath.

"Dad, can we turn on the radio?" Dudley asked.

"Not now, Dudley, Daddy is trying to concentrate." Vernon said gruffly.

"Mu-um!" Dudley whined. "Can I turn on the radio, pleeease?"

"Vernon, just let him listen to his music." Petunia hissed. Her husband scowled.

"Petunia, can you not see I'm trying to concentrate on the road?" He responded testily. The wipers gave another "whack" as they picked up speed with the rain, constantly clearing the view. The family fell into silence, listening to the rain beat on the car roof. Flashes of gold lightening lit the way like blinding strobe lights. They drove on through the downpour, until Vernon turned the wheel, making a right onto an exit and pulling up to an inn.

It was an old-looking place, though quite obviously new. It rose up two stories and spread outwards, and was built strangely with bricks and terra cotta. Vernon rushed his family inside, and they stood soaked at the gleaming red reception counter. The walls of the lobby were a dusty rose, and the floor was laid with dark auburn tiles. Brown leather sofas sat with masculinity in front of more feminine fabric drapes, and a wooden coffee table with a center of the same red that graced the reception counter filled up the space. Many people were gathered in the lobby, most standing or sitting on the offered seating, and all looking thoroughly rained on.

"May I help you, sir?" A pleasant looking young woman said, jerking the man from his inspection of the room. She was walking toward him, and tripped clumsily on the upturned edge of an area rug. Chagrinned, she brushed herself off, slightly miffed when Vernon didn't extend his hand to help her up in any attempt at manners.

"Ahem, yes," Vernon said, pushing his normally well-kempt but now fairly waterlogged coiffure off of his forehead. As he spoke she walked around the red counter, taking a seat behind the check-in register. She fell off the stool once, but quickly climbed back on. "My family and I need a room for the night."

The woman pushed her own strawberry-blonde bob behind her ears and smiled a strained smile.

"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but all our rooms are filled up. I won't turn you out but you'll have to stay with the rest of our guests stranded here until the storm ends."

Vernon slammed his fist on the counter, causing the receptionist to jump back in surprise. He leaned forward, beefy face purple.

"Now you listen here, girl," He hissed dangerously, piggy eyes narrowed. "My family needs a room and we need it now. We will not stand out here with these freaks while we wait for this damn storm to pass!"

The young woman crossed her arms over her chest and was looking down her nose at Vernon. Her blue eyes flashed.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, sir," She began, putting a mocking emphasis on "sir". "But none of these people here are wizards." She waved her hand at the men, women, and children gathered in the sitting area.

Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon all recoiled, and exchanged frightened looks. Dudley choked on some hot chocolate he'd snagged from a warm refreshment table.

Vernon turned his glare back to the young woman.

"What do you know about them," He whispered viciously. He paused here and read her nametag, which was pinned to her shirt at an angle. "Dora?"

"Dora" rolled her eyes.

"How else would I know?" She responded cryptically. She grimly eyed him once, and then looked over his wife and son. "And now, Dursley family, I think I might have a room for you. An interrogation room."

The rain-soaked loiterers in the lobby disappeared, and the cozy atomosphere of the inn went with them. The illusion gone now. All that was left was a smug Nymphadora Tonks tugging with satisfaction at her orange spikes, and the cold white walls of a generic government-type building.

"W-w-what?" Vernon sputtered, looking around wildly and holding out his arms to shield his family, who were cowering behind him. "You – you can't – I'll call the police! – I'll, I'll –" He grabbed his wife's hand and his wife grabbed his son's and he dragged them toward the way they'd come in, panicking.

But Remus Lupin and Alastor Moody were standing in front of the exit.

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Author's Note: It's been a while since I wrote, but that was why I posted the third chapter so quickly. Please review! I hope it's getting better. :-)