Posted 8/24/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Forty-Nine - Epiphany
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Rubbing a bit of sleep from his eyes and straightening his robes, Harry strolled into the kitchen. Just as he had expected, he found Hermione waiting for him, parchment spread in front of her. The noise made her look up, and she nodded at him. With a quick wave of her wand, she raised some protections around the kitchen.
He grabbed some slices of bread and sat down in front of her, preparing himself for a strategy planning with her. She had waited until now, but he knew she wouldn't any longer; it was Hermione, after all. And hadn't he been the same a while ago? It worked both ways.
"Good morning," he greeted. "I'd ask whether you had a restful sleep, but knowing you, I guess you went right down here after we talked and started some work to distract yourself and make good use of the time? Just like I did weeks ago, yes, I know."
"Something like that," she replied, narrowing her eyes. "Although I would have hoped you would have taken this matter more seriously. I expected you here at least an hour ago. Didn't I indicate this is serious? And ignoring that, I'm helping you with your stupid plan, not the other way around."
"Hermione, it's," he glanced at his watch, "four to eight on New Year's Day. I think I'm reasonably early. Oh, and hungry as well. We've got enough time for plotting, and I'm guessing you've already done a fair amount of planning since I last spoke to you. I'm here now, I'm all ears. By the way, anyone else up, do you know?"
She raised an eyebrow. "How would I know?"
"You might have run into one of the others," Harry pointed out. "Or you might have heard something since you already admitted you came down a while ago."
"Kreacher is up, of course," Hermione told him. "Other than that, no one that I know of."
Harry eyed her, fighting down a smile. "I can see you are itching to tell me something, so let's get it done, and then I might have a nice breakfast afterwards. Or you can explain it to me while I eat, that depends. Actually, let's try that first, it might save us some time," he said, buttering his bread.
She frowned. "Well, I guess we could do that. You're surprisingly chipper today."
Harry shrugged in what he hoped would look nonchalantly. "I'm allowed to be in a good mood for once. This is going to be our year; this year, if all goes well, we will end the war, and we're making progress, aren't we?" He kept from brushing the spot on his arm where Daphne had drooled on him over the night. It had been a nice surprise to find her sitting next to him, asleep, but he didn't want Hermione to know about that. It was between Daphne and him, after all – whatever It was. "Also, you came up with something to help us, so it's looking up slightly better for us today – a good start into the new year, in a way. Why, do you mind?"
She back-pedalled. "I didn't mean that, it's just unusual for you to be... well, happy."
"Your idea, Hermione?" he reminded her, trying to keep her from prying too much. "And best tell me before others stumble in, unless you want to explain Charlie or the twins what we have been doing here?" He flicked his wand at the door and cast some additional privacy wards Riddle had come up with – not enough to keep anyone out, but enough to tell him whether someone was trying to listen in.
"No, not particularly," she admitted. "Well, so far, we've tried to mix mundane with magical, mostly by using the Protean Charm, but sooner or later, someone might pick up on it. It's not as if you used difficult science, after all, just basic physics and medicine, respectively. Well, as I already mentioned the last night..."
"Thanks for coming so late, by the way," Harry interrupted.
"As if you had been asleep, Harry," she commented with an eye roll. "I know you; you were up. Anyway, as I mentioned last night, I had been thinking about our situation. What if one of us catches a cold, or even something worse? We can't to St. Mungo's any more, my healing abilities aren't that great yet..."
"You're doing fine," he assured her. "You patched up the Weasleys just fine."
"Thanks, but that's not the same. Keeping them from dying is not the same as competent healing. And we're not talking about stitching someone back together. Let's be honest, if someone's bleeding to death, it isn't that hard to figure out what the problem is. I was talking about sicknesses. Well, there are Muggle remedies for some, of course, and there might be some magical cure as well, but we have next to nothing in store, do we?"
"I guess not. Go on," Harry spoke up between bites.
"Well, I thought we could buy something, just in case when I had an idea. Don't ask me how, but it got me to thinking. See, while I was lying in bed, thinking about it, I realized the potential Muggle medicine presents us. Medicine does tell us a lot about the fragility of human lives. You already applied one concept successfully with your attack on Macnair, so why not try another one?"
"Should I ever run into that nurse," Harry said with a smile, "I'll thank her for giving me the inspiration for an assassination. Although... Better not?"
"Better not, Harry," she agreed. "For one, how old would she be now? Eighty?"
"Ah, good point. Probably closer to ninety. For a moment, I thought it had only been slightly over thirty years," Harry said, chuckling.
"And telling someone they helped kill someone is not the best of conversation starters," Hermione added with a worried frown. "Yes, that was a good idea, even if Muggles would have figured it out. Any self-respecting coroner would have noticed, I think. But you shouldn't discount witches and wizards so easily. Just because we got away with our tricks twice doesn't mean they won't narrow it down sooner or later."
"They obviously didn't notice the magic at work, so there is little reason for them to believe I wasn't there to make sure it worked. They're probably still looking in all the wrong directions and not getting closer to an answer. But back to your plan, you said something about capsules last night?"
She nodded. "Indeed I did. They just came to my mind. Well, it doesn't really matter what is inside the capsule, does it? The capsule is swallowed; the contents are released once the capsule is broken, simple as that. Well, what is stopping us from using that to our advantage? Let's say we pick a deadly poison, something that works almost instantly, fill it in a capsule. Then all you have to do is get your victim to swallow the capsule."
"Easier said than done," Harry mused. "Not impossible, but I'd have to get the mark to swallow the capsule first. I doubt asking would work. Slipping it in the food?" After a moment, he shook his head. "Probably not; with all the chewing, the capsule would break."
"You could do another of your mad raids late at night or in the early morning," Hermione said, shrugging. "You feed your victim the capsule once they are held captive, wipe their memory and leave. Then, hours later, the poison is released wherever your mark is. Since it works very fast, perhaps even instantly, they will die pretty much on the spot, and the Ministry will search for the poison in all the wrong places. Meanwhile, the capsule is dissolved and the traces of it won't raise any alarms with the investigators. Even better, since no magic is involved, there is nothing to pick up. All the Ministry would have is a victim dying of an instantly working poison."
"And they'd have no clue how it was done, yes," Harry added, scratching his chin.
"They will search everything, food, drinks, surfaces, of course, but there is nothing to find. The capsule will be dissolved until nothing is left. And let's be honest here, wizarding folk won't even dare to think of checking for that, right? They wouldn't even know what it is, and on the off chance that one of them indeed does recognize it for what it is, it would still not tell them who we are."
Harry leaned back and watched her almost jump impatiently. Would it work? It sounded easy enough, truth be told. And he could see the mayhem it would cause. By delaying the actual poisoning, he could be well away by the time the victim would die, leaving no suspect to follow. It was a brilliant plan – not that he would have expected less of Hermione – and fitting his style. But then, he still needed the poison, the capsules, the time frame until the poison was released, the target...
"Fine, let's say we do it," he spoke up. "First of all, we'd need a poison, and for your plan to work, it would need to be a poison that cannot be countered easily, but at the same time is easily recognizable. The Ministry needs to worry about how the known, fast-acting poison was given, not what it was that caused the death."
"I'm sure I can find something like that," she assured him. "We do want them to know what it is, so we can pick any poison we see fit. I can think of dozens off the top of my head. Granted, most don't work fast enough, but other than that, I see no problem there."
Thinking about it, Harry was inclined to agree. Riddle had learned about some excellent poisons on his travels; unfortunately, many of them were too unknown to fit the description. "Better pick something rather common too, with common ingredients anyone could have bought anyplace without drawing attention. But fine, the poison shouldn't be much of a problem. Maybe pick something that a Bezoar can't cure, though, just in case someone's paranoid."
"What, you think people carry one around with them all the time?"
"Moody would," Harry said, shrugging. After a moment, he added, "I wouldn't be surprised if he swallowed one every morning just to be on the safe side."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "That would be pretty expensive, wouldn't it?"
He could only shrug. "The capsules then. How long can we delay the process? An hour? Two? If I'm meant to strike sometime in the night, it has to be more than that."
"That's a good question, actually. I'll look into it, but I think with a bit of creative Potions work, it should be a few hours. It just has to be something that doesn't show up on the usual scans, but other than that, we should do fine this way. A stasis charm might work, maybe not. I'd have to do some testing and try some things first, but that's about it. So, what do you think?"
Harry nodded slowly. "It should work, yes. I think we can use that. I'd have to find a good mark, of course, but we've got some time. I'm surprised, though. Weren't you the one who was hesitant about this whole business?"
She sent him a glare. "Better I come up with something than letting you work something out. The last mark you blew up. And you also killed some bystander. Harry, that was a step too far. I didn't want to say it with the others around, but that one was..."
"Too extreme?" he guessed.
"Something like that, yes. What would be next? Do you think I haven't noticed the way your brain works now? The first you announced including the precise time, by turning someone else into a living paperweight, basically. Then you blew one up just to show how far you're willing to go and killed another one. What is next, Harry? Tearing them apart? Have them boil away from inside? This way, I can at least make sure you won't traumatize people."
"It'd be difficult to manage," he admitted. "I thought about having the robes strangle the victim the next time. Or maybe... Oh, I know! We'll drown the next one. All I need is one of your..."
"No, Harry. I see where you are going with this. It would be brilliant, I admit, but someone is bound to notice a pattern. There's only so much you can do from afar, and the Protean Charm isn't that uncommon of a spell. The more often the killer is not seen at the scene of the crime, the more likely someone will wonder whether you're even there, and it's not far from there."
He watched her for a moment, but before he could argue, the wards on the stairs went off. He locked eyes with her and nodded curtly, both quickly removing them.
George came strolling in. "Well, what do we have here? War council?"
"Something like that, yes," Hermione replied with a forced smile. "In truth, we met here, and I kept him company. You know we can't have the hope of the wizarding world unguarded. You never know what he might do otherwise or where he might end up. He is Harry, after all, and with the end of the school year drawing nearer, he's likely itching to throw himself into some danger."
"True," George said with a glance at Harry, sizing him up. "He does have a talent for ending up where he shouldn't be, and he does have a tendency to stumble into any danger he can. We wouldn't want to make the lovely Mrs. Greengrass a widow already, would we?" Hermione pursed her lips, but kept quiet. To Harry, George added, "You look quite cheerful today."
"Why does everyone have to comment on that?" Harry grumbled, throwing his arms up in frustration. "I'm allowed to be in good spirits occasionally, aren't I? It's a new year and a brand-new start into a brighter future."
George shrugged. "Well, yes, you are allowed to. I just noticed it, no reason to tear my head off."
Harry went to muttering about nosy friends for a moment, keeping an eye on the other occupants of the room.
On the second of January, they had a visitor. Harry had finally sent word informing the Weasleys about the whereabouts of their three sons. As a result, shortly after eleven, a rather irate Mrs. Weasley had burst in through the front door, demanding an explanation. While Daphne could understand the worry the woman had endured, it didn't stop Daphne's ears from ringing. Did Weasley's mother have to be so loud? They would have understood her quite well even without the shouting. Luckily, her children had managed to calm her down somewhat, and the talk continued in a normal volume. After checking all of them thoroughly, Harry was deemed too skinny, Granger too pale due to too much reading, the youngest son too dirty and ordered to wash himself more often, Charlie Weasley too weak to move too much, especially to leave his bed, the twins told to behave, and Daphne ignored apart from a small glance at the scars, Mrs. Weasley had complained about their lack of communication once more, her voice rising.
"And why didn't you think to use some form of communication your father and I can use as well?" she yelled at the end of her rant, red in the face. "No, instead we have to learn about it from Xenophilius' daughter! Why hadn't you thought about our feelings? We were worried sick, Arthur and I, and then Xenophilius comes with his daughter for a friendly chat. And would you know, only when she left did she inform us where you were."
"How are Luna and her father?" Harry threw in.
"They are fine," Mrs. Weasley replied, waving him off. "But how come they knew before we did? Why didn't you send a message to us?"
"We did," her youngest son argued, "we sent the message to everyone. It's not our fault Ginny doesn't check..." Weasley stopped himself, blushing profusely. Daphne had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.
"We also sent word to Snape," Harry brought up.
"How are the others?" Granger asked, ending the futile discussion.
Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands. "Well, they are fine, I guess. Alastor was accosted once more; someone in the Ministry thought he might have information on you. He hadn't, so all they got were bloody noses. You know Moody – he doesn't take too kindly to being detained. And say what you will, but he does have a lot of people owing him favours one way or the other."
"That's Moody for you," Harry laughed easily. If he worried about his friends, he didn't show it for once.
"Bill and Fleur got a visit two days ago, around dinner time." Weasley tensed, and Granger put her hand on his arm to calm him down. It worked. "We think someone implicated them," Mrs. Weasley continued, "that has become commonplace, unfortunately. With Bill connected to the Order, and us you can imagine some people might not particularly like him. Add in his job at Gringotts as well as his knowledge about wards and protections and he is quite suspicious. Well, Fleur was roughed up as you can imagine, what with her being..."
"French, yes," Hermione interrupted. Daphne had a feeling the original answer had been something else. "But no one was arrested, right?"
"No, no one was arrested, mainly because the Ministry provided us with good alibis. They have us watched day and night, we think, so they know we don't do anything." The older woman smiled thinly. "Or that's what they think, at least. Tonks is now constantly watched as one of the most suspicious of us. They don't like one like her working for us, you see?
"But enough about that. Why are you even here any more?" she asked Harry and his friends. "Why aren't you someplace nice? This house is dirty and dangerous, you should be far away. And that hideous snake, where did you even get it? – I'll talk with Bill, maybe we can smuggle you out of the country and someplace nice. Think about it, you could go to southern France or maybe Spain."
"No, I'll stay here, Mrs. Weasley," Harry announced. He looked quite sure of himself. "The others are free to decide for themselves, though, but they are welcome to stay as well."
"But there have to be better places! This house..."
"Is mine, Mrs. Weasley," he countered. "It has one of the best protections we can wish for. If we aren't safe here, I don't know where we would be. And apart from it being mine and well protected, it's not as bad as you make it out to be. We cleaned it up some; we repaired the worst of the damage. You might have noticed the lack of a screeching harpy when you entered? We just didn't waste any time on decorations or the hallway with a war going on outside, and frankly, why should we? Once that's out of the way, I'll have time for the little things, but right now, I'm more concerned with seeing to it our friends survive."
"Oh, Harry," she sighed, shaking her head sadly. After a moment of hesitation, perhaps to collect her thoughts, she continued once more. "And how did you three end up here?" she rounded on the twins and Charlie.
They exchanged glances, and Daphne could see Harry and Granger shifting in their seats nervously. Ah, Daphne thought, they had neglected to agree on a cover story yet. Then again, what could they say, other than the three Weasleys stumbling in through the front door? It did raise the question about what was known already.
"Well, Charlie's boat had been attacked," one twin, possibly Fred, began.
"Yes, yes, we know that," Mrs. Weasley interrupted, fuming. "One of the Muggleborns managed to get the news through." Around the room, people relaxed slightly.
"Anyone else managed it?" Charlie asked, leaning forward.
His mother pursed her lips. "I wouldn't know. We're the last to be told anything, aren't we?" she said pointedly.
"Well," the twin – Fred? – spoke up again, "in any case, the boat was attacked."
"So he came to us," the other twin took over, "since we do have some coming and going all the time, and mostly fun folk. Singed and dripping wet wouldn't draw any attention with us, would it? Anyway, he wasn't dry yet when the Death Eaters already showed up."
"I know, I heard about it," the mother told them, her voice getting softer for a moment. "It was even in the Daily Prophet – or at least the fire was."
"It'd have been difficult to cover that one up, I guess," the first twin said, shrugging. "What did they say about it?" Daphne had to fight a smile. She knew for a fact that Potter and Granger had made sure to bring in a newspaper the two days after the attack.
Mrs. Weasley seemed to suspect a diversion and glared at him. "Don't try changing the subject, Fred! I asked you how you got here! We didn't you come to us? Why not go someplace else? Bill's? Why not... why not Muriel's?" Daphne didn't know who that last one was, but from the looks of her sons, they might have rather stayed in the burning building than go to that Muriel. "Why come here of all places?" Mrs. Weasley moaned.
"We sent Charlie ahead. He was wounded, we weren't," the second twin now known as George told her. "He got here – we told him to; it's a safe house of sorts, isn't it? The Death Eaters can't come in here from what Harry said, so it should be fine. Or as fine a meeting place as we could think of in a hurry."
"And our house isn't?" Mrs. Weasley challenged.
"The wards here are strong," Fred answered, braving her glare. "They are old, and this house isn't connected to us – to the Weasley's, I mean. Even the Death Eaters will have thought of the Burrow, so unless we wanted to get caught, we were better off far away for the time being. Granted, maybe we should've hidden among the Muggles, but it didn't occur to us. After Charlie was gone, George and I got trapped in our store, unfortunately, but we got out eventually and came here."
"We visited Charlie," George said. "He is our brother." Daphne noticed the omission, especially that neither had commented on the severe injuries all three had sported upon arrival, but doubted it really mattered. They were still alive. The broken leg had mended, the lost finger had been replaced and the cuts and burns healed. In fact, Daphne guessed even Charlie Weasley could have been moved already despite Mrs. Weasley's earlier insistence of his supposed frailty.
Mrs. Weasley fumed for a bit, but then shook her head. "Well, when will you leave, then?"
"About that," Harry spoke up. She turned to him. "We thought they should wait until they are healed up again, but other than that, they are good to go. There is, however, still the question of where they should go. I don't think they should go to the Burrow. It would just make the house an even bigger target."
"The Burrow is not a target!" Mrs. Weasley yelled.
"It probably is," Daphne put in.
Whirling around, Mrs. Weasley growled, "And you would know that? What are you even doing here?"
Harry cleared his throat. "She's staying as my guest in my house for as long as she wishes to. And she is of course right in her statement. Well, technically, our statement – the Burrow is a probable target as it is with just you and your husband there since neither of you is an avid supporter of the new regime. Having five known or suspected enemies of wizarding Britain in one place..."
"We are not the enemy!" Mrs. Weasley shouted.
"Ah, maybe the Ministry didn't get that memo, then," Fred spoke up, shifting in his seat. "Because they sure didn't treat us too kindly when they burned down our store and killed our employees."
His mother seemed surprised for a moment to come up with a decent counterargument, and Harry used the opportunity to interject, "That's why they shouldn't move back in with you. I... don't want to risk seeing you hurt." He looked worried, running a hand through his hair.
Mrs. Weasley choked up, tears welling in her eyes and mumbling something about Harry before engulfing him a hug. That made her miss the small smile from Harry that was gone the moment it had appeared.
"Maybe Moody knows a good location," he continued, disentangling himself from Mrs. Weasley. "Of course, they are free to stay here as long as they want." He seemed to have missed both the youngest Weasley nervously glancing at the twins and Daphne paling slightly. "Think about it, at least," Harry added after a moment. "That way, they'd be safe, and you'd know they wouldn't go out throwing themselves into danger or something."
That seemed to have mollified her. She puffed, shook her head and completely changed her demeanour. "Well, now that I finally know you are alive and well," she looked at the gathered people, but Daphne had a feeling Mrs. Weasley had skipped her corner somehow, "I can sleep again. Goodness, you really should care better for yourselves. What has that elf been feeding you?"
"We get by, Mrs. Weasley," Granger spoke up. "I've made sure it's a reasonably balanced diet." The youngest Weasley grumbled something Daphne couldn't quite make out, and Granger sent him a glare. "That's the least of our worries, Ronald. Honestly, you'll survive a few weeks without..." She shook her head, turning to Mrs. Weasley again. "How was New Year's Eve for you?"
"Oh, fine, except the thought of four of my sons missing, three someplace unknown and possibly dying. It just wasn't very festive." She smiled. "But at least I got to see my little Ginny again. Goodness how they grow once they go to school. I almost didn't recognize her."
"She hasn't changed that much," Weasley began before Granger interrupted, sending him another glare.
"It's been four months," she said, making him swallow whatever reply he had, "she may have changed a lot. I certainly did each summer."
"People grow with their challenges. I gained a lot of confidence between fourth and fifth year; that made a big difference," Daphne added with a nod, the half-truth coming easily over her lips. Weasley seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but froze in place, eyes bulging slightly.
"So Ginny has changed then?" George Weasley asked while his twin kept his wand hidden from his mother's view and on his youngest brother.
"Well, not in appearance, no." Their mother sighed, not noticing her youngest getting unfrozen or Granger putting her arm next to his and certainly not the short entangling of Granger and Weasley's fingers. "But it's like she is a completely new person, like she has grown up. It's the way she's talking and moving. One morning, I was making breakfast, and when I turned around, she was suddenly there. I hadn't even heard her coming down. And when we had... visitors from the Ministry to search the house, looking for you, she had one of them cower just by silently watching him."
For a moment, Harry and his friends all had the same smirk on their face. Mrs. Weasley managed a proud smile of her own.
"Don't know what they're feeding her a Hogwarts nowadays," Mrs. Weasley mumbled, shaking her head slightly, but her face fell, glancing at Harry, Weasley and Granger in turn. "And I think she is lonely up there at school. She misses you."
"She's got Neville there," Weasley replied, shrugging. "And Luna. Man, I do miss her; I could do with her around. Luna's fun." Granger pursed her lips, but kept from commenting.
"Ah, but it's not the same," Mrs. Weasley told him wisely. "Neither is Ginny's brother. And Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott went missing a few weeks ago. They didn't return from Hogsmeade. People worry and keep their distance, what with our family known to be blood traitors. It must be lonely up there in the tower." She sighed heavily, turning to Harry with a sad smile. "And she's missing you, Harry. She asked about you and wanted me to deliver her best wishes for the New Year."
"That's very kind of her," Harry said with a gentle smile of his own, not missing one beat. "Please tell her to work hard in school, she might need it one day."
Mrs. Weasley's face fell slightly, her eyes flicking to Daphne for the tiniest of moments, but she caught herself quickly. "Of course." She looked at everyone in the room, and Daphne chose to slip out. She couldn't care less about Mrs. Weasley's disappointment over Harry's reaction. As far as the woman was concerned, Daphne was nothing more than an accident. That was still no reason to stop short of insulting Daphne to her face.
She had never liked the Weasleys much, but slowly understood why. If all of them had learned social grace at the hands of Mrs. Weasley, it was no real surprise they had turned out the way they had. The best example would probably be the little Ginevra Weasley. If that was the best the older woman could raise a girl as, then it was no wonder her sons were at least uncouth. Blood traitor or not, Daphne's mother would have never allowed for such improper behaviour. Talent on the pitch was one thing, but Daphne had heard enough about the redheaded girl to know just how short-tempered she was, not to mention needlessly aggressive, butting heads with people wherever she went, even in class. Not to mention, the way she usually looked, she might have never heard of proper care and hygiene. Even Crabbe or Goyle were more graceful and stomped around less, which was saying a lot, considering they weighed at least twice as much. And why even send Harry greetings in the first place? She'd likely seen him in the mirror not too long ago if Weasley's near-slip-up was any indication. Then again, that had probably been the point – to hide the fact they had a means of communication with the castle available.
"Trouble?" the painting of Phineas Nigellus sneered.
Daphne ignored him, walking into the training room. No need to waste perfectly good time and get rid of some aggression along the way.
He pulled his hood up further and ducked into the alley. Over the past months, he had learned some of the most valuable lessons of his life, he felt. He knew how to survive, for one. He knew how to read people, noticed more than ever in his life. He had never needed to before.
Three days ago, that old woman by the corner had looked his way. Oh, she might not have done it consciously, but he had picked up on it. He had left the same day through a window. Perhaps he was being overly paranoid, but he also didn't like taking risks. How was he to know who would be after him? And he had seen what being alert and aware could do when people were after you. He was alive, after all, and that was nothing short of a miracle in itself.
He walked further down the street, people hustling past. If he was being followed, they might lose him in the crowd. Or he hoped they would. Perhaps they had some fancy trick to follow him even then. He should have asked about that when he had the time, but he wouldn't have been surprised.
His stomach growled, and Dudley cursed his bad fortune. Three years ago, he had been loose on his hometown, and he hadn't had to fight hunger or cold. When he had wanted something, he had bought it or, occasionally, sent one of his friends to fetch it while the others distracted the storeowners. Whenever it had been a child's, they had asked until they got it. A year ago, he had been changed already, something his friends had picked up on. Granted, Piers had been in juvenile prison by that time, but Dudley had still lost quite a bit of respect around that time. He hadn't cared much, then; he had been too busy thinking about his life. Or thinking, full stop.
His feet ached, but Dudley dragged on and dove into the crowd. After months on the run, he had also learned the art of weaving through throngs of people and avoiding suspicion. A valuable skill, he thought, quite proud of himself, especially if one had to fear being followed. It was remarkable considering Dudley's size – ducking into a crowd had been very difficult at the beginning, and even after slimming down a bit in the months on the run, he was still quite bulky.
Dudley found a small corner to hide in. Ah, that was nice, he thought as he sat down. He wasn't one to stay in one place for long; at least, he wasn't anymore. He covertly glanced around. There was a beggar moving around, trying her luck with the shoppers, but she looked harmless enough. Businessmen and families moved here and there, searching for something in the stores and returning their presents from Christmas.
Ah, Christmas, Dudley thought with longing. How he had loved it in the past, especially getting the presents. Even with his change of heart in the last year, he had enjoyed it thoroughly. This year, he had had no one to celebrate with, no presents to give, which he had never done, really, or receive – which he had done often. Had that been how Harry had felt each year with them? Shoved aside, watching others be happy? Getting no good presents? Getting no presents at all?
Dudley forced himself to focus his mind elsewhere. He had a home for the time being in town. If he was honest, he didn't even know where he was, only that it was some small town somewhere in England. He had jumped off the train when he had felt the batty old man a few seats away look at him more than once and switched to stowing away on a lorry for a while until it stopped in the run-down town without knowing where he was. Dudley liked it that way. After all, if he didn't know where he was, then how should his tails know? He was just one of the many people walking around, a normal man, a What-Did-They-Call-It?
He didn't care about it. It was soon dinnertime, and he wanted to find something to eat before the streets would become empty. He didn't want to be around without a crowd to hide in. If he knew one thing about Harry's people, then that they tried to stay hidden, which meant people were the best protection Dudley could hope for.
He passed a storefront. A TV showed a haggard scientist or maybe doctor talking about something with a solemn look. Dudley didn't need to guess about what, of course. Even normal people – Muggles, he remembered, that giant man had called them Muggles in that hut in the raging sea – had noticed the strange events around the country. The weather was bizarre – no doubt their work, the wizards had to be behind it – and there had been a spike of accidents in the last months. Cars driving off the road, houses burning down. Brain-dead people found here and there, sometimes even clustered together. There had been talk about a mysterious sickness going around, but that was nonsense, of course. Dudley was not that much of an idiot that he didn't see what was going on. The news stations and the papers didn't report the truth; how could they? It was no strange illness that caused people to lose their will and self. Something was going on. Harry's fight had spread to the normal people. To the Muggles, Dudley corrected, trying to commit the word to memory. Muggles. Muggles. If he ever heard it, he'd know to run. Muggles.
He moved past the store. Was it strange? As a child he had spent countless hours in front of a TV, watching everything, but mostly stupid shows without any meaning to it. Now he had been forced to live in the real world, he found little allure in the television. Watching policemen fighting evil wasn't half as entertaining once one had to survive on the street and occasionally steal to get by. War stories were a lot less engaging when one had to fear for the own life. No, he found he had to force himself to watch it sometimes, and only the news, wrong as they were, had any meaning to them.
Dudley passed an antique's shop with an ornate mirror propped up inside. He saw his reflection and had to laugh grimly. Gone was the fat from his childhood, and gone were the shining eyes and cheerful disposition. Instead, he wore glasses he had stolen from an older woman; his features had become sharp, his cheekbones shining through despite his wide face. They reminded him of his mother. He had read about the terrible accident that had destroyed the house. The papers had reported about it, but it had been quickly forgotten. Dudley had understood nonetheless. It had been his mother, he had known it from the moment he had seen the pictures. It had been her attention that had saved his life. It had been no accident that had claimed her life.
The orphaned boy looking back at him from within the mirror swallowed, and Dudley turned away, stalking off. He would need new shoes sometime. Perhaps he could steal them somewhere. Others managed just fine, didn't they? So why shouldn't he? Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dudley recalled all the times they had given Harry the old clothes that no longer fit the pampered son of the family, and he laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He drew a few stares from passing mothers and a haughty businessman, but he didn't care much about them. They were Muggles, no doubt about that. They were so normal it pained his eyes. They would only remember the drifter. Maybe they would forget about him completely.
What was going on in that other world, he wondered. Had Harry survived so far? Or had something happened to him? The old Harry wouldn't have, of that Dudley was sure, but then, had he really known Harry? Probably not. Perhaps Harry was stronger than he looked. Perhaps he had made it so far. Harry was crafty; he would find some hole to hide in.
Dudley ducked into another alley, one that led to the old marketplace. Years ago, it might have been a brimming centre of commerce, but nowadays, it had been transformed into a quiet square with small cafés and restaurants, meant to attract tourists, no doubt. It was weirdly old-fashioned, but Dudley figured people liked that. His mother had occasionally talked about charm of old towns. For him, it meant a lot of alleys to duck into, and many corners in the winding streets.
The smell of freshly baked bread drew his attention to a bakery. Did he dare? A decent meal in celebration of the new year? His eyes moved around the square. He could, he thought. Just a quick stop, a few buns, maybe something else – as long as he was quick, they wouldn't catch him. And was he still followed? For days he hadn't seen anyone really suspicious. Maybe they had lost track of him. And then, he mused, he didn't even look like himself. Dudley Dursley had been a pudgy, whiny boy, not a stout man wearing glasses with brown hair thanks to an investment in dye. Dudley didn't know whether wizardfolk knew about dyeing, but it couldn't hurt, he had reasoned. Absentmindedly, he traced the scar on his cheek, a reminder of his first week on the run and a brawl with a drunken thief. Dudley had lost, but he had also learned a valuable lesson from it – don't wait until the other one pulls a knife. If he hadn't reacted so quickly, Dudley could have lost his eye.
They wouldn't recognize him, he reasoned, not unless they had some way to look through his disguise. But could he be sure about that? When dealing with magic, he preferred to stay on the safe side. Weeks into his new life, he had realized just what dealing with magic meant. Harry had been right; he had no idea what they could do. And as such, they probably had more advanced ways of disguise available. It was one of the few things Dudley had learned in school right from the start – whenever someone developed a weapon, someone else invented a protection; whenever a new strategy was thought up, countermeasures followed soon after.
With a shudder, Dudley remembered that ghastly man with that eye they had met once about a year and a half ago. He wouldn't have been surprised if that freak would have been able to look through any disguise Dudley could think up. Even if that had been a friend of Harry's, why shouldn't his enemies have the same tools?
A cold breeze moved about the square, and Dudley pulled the cloak closer around himself. He looked around nervously. He felt uneasy. Why had he chosen to come to that place anyway? He'd have a hard time hiding or running, not with so few people actually moving about. The crowd seemed to have thinned out slightly. He should've stayed back on the road; it had been stupid of him to come to the square. No, he decided, he would better off returning to his temporary home, to the safety of his room. Maybe he could find something to eat in the trash. He'd have to live off of it for a while, just like he had done before, before he'd curl up in the dark, dank, cold room. How long until the wizards would catch him, though? How long until they would kill him as well? Not long now, he realized, and cold fear crept up inside him. He had never been strong in his life, had always relied on others. His friends to hunt down his victims. His parents to watch over him – but they had died, killed months ago, and now he was alone. He'd probably die in some corner, forgotten by the world. Or he might starve. Wouldn't that be ironic for the fat lard he had been? Starving, hah. He couldn't even feed himself, not even with bread a few feet away. Useless idiot, he thought to himself miserably.
No, he would be better off leaving before he'd have even worse luck than he already had to suffer. And it might be slightly less cold once he reached his room. Or at least no one would see him, and he could hide from the world.
He turned, shuffling over to another alley at first, then speeding up. The resolve of fleeing to safety found, he struggled to keep his mind on it. But the thought seemed hazy and difficult to grasp. Safety – the more he thought about it, the less he believed it. He would probably not even reach the hole in the wall he called a room. He shouldn't have left his refuge. No, refuge wasn't the right word, it was not safe – nowhere was safe anymore. The hunters would catch him soon and tear him from the world, finish their work. He dreaded what they might do to him. He wasn't strong. He was just a weak, useless coward. Gaze on the ground in front of him despite running, he stumbled into someone.
His gaze flicked up, and he saw a burly workman looking back. For a wild second, Dudley thought the man was his father. Then he realized with a jolt that Vernon Dursley had been killed months ago. And furthermore, the man was too tall and muscled to be him. Another shock ran through Dudley. They had found him, he just knew it; the glowering man had to be a wizard. Cold fear petrified Dudley as he stared into the eyes of his killer.
But the man walked past with only an anxious look and hurried towards the square. Dudley didn't find any relief in that thought. If not that man, someone surely would find him. He was as good as dead. He hadn't even noticed that man before they had run into each other. How could he hope to notice a wizard sneaking up on him? He couldn't even bring himself to laugh at that realization.
Another icy breeze chilled him, enough that he feared he might not be able to move at all, that the unnatural cold might freeze him. It didn't, and Dudley trudged on, setting one heavy foot before the other.
He would die, yes, of that he was sure, just like his father, struck down somewhere Dudley didn't know and perhaps left to rot. They hadn't found out what had happened; he simply hadn't turned up. They had to have gotten him. Or maybe his father had survived and had waited for days or even weeks for his son to help and rescue him. But Dudley had disappointed him, hadn't he? No, Dudley hadn't come to save his father. Dudley was no hero, but a coward, a no-good coward.
Or maybe he would die like his mother, burned alive while the hot air scalded his throat and the poisonous air and smoke suffocated him. A dreadful death, and again he had run away instead of saving someone. He could hear his mother cry out for him, screaming for help that wouldn't come. Dudley couldn't do anything right, could he? No, all he did was abandon and disappoint people. He couldn't even save his own hide, as he vividly remembered that day in summer three years ago, when Harry had almost lost everything to save his good-for-nothing cousin who couldn't even walk without help. Dudley could still feel the monster's cold fingers gripping him, and the freezing air robbing him of all strength –
Dudley jerked violently. He had been there before, how could he have been so stupid? He really was the biggest idiot in the world. He knew what the chill he felt meant; he understood his miserable state – it had to be one of those beasts Harry had told them about. Invisible, bringing the unnatural cold with them, forcing their victims to live through their worst memories and thoughts – the guards of that prison of theirs.
Dudley couldn't see the beasts, of course, but he knew they were close. He knew the feeling; he could just imagine what would happen soon. Those beasts surely hadn't come to fetch some bread, even if they were probably hungry – they had come for the humans. A feast for those awful beasts, and no one could do anything. He pitied those in the square, knowing he couldn't do anything to stop it. It was too late to save them, it would take too long; he couldn't hope to rescue even a single one of them. Useless, he chided himself, useless and a coward. He stumbled over the cobblestones, but forced himself to move on. Away from the square. Around the corner and away from the square.
He forced himself to walk, one gruelling step after the other. The knowledge of what it was made it easier somehow, but it wasn't a nice thought by a long shot, and didn't make it any easier to move as the horrifying truth pushed him forward. He needed to get away; if one of those beasts was nearby, then he needed to get away. The only thought coursing through his head, the only one he allowed to acknowledge was the necessity to get away from death. He had no illusions about his survival, but grim determination. Whatever would happen, he wouldn't die standing around like a fool. He wouldn't wait for the beasts he feared to come for him. He was Dudley Dursley, he was no pig waiting for the slaughter. He wasn't mindless cattle. He needed to survive as long as he could. He needed to escape for as long as he could. He couldn't allow himself to fall so soon.
His fear urged him to get moving as something like anger sparked in the back of his mind. He needed to make sure those wizards would have a hard time getting to him. He deserved every bit of their struggles to kill him; they owed him the lives of his parents. He couldn't sell himself so cheaply and fall prey to mindless beasts. If they wanted a piece of him, they'd have to pay a hefty price. He was Dudley Dursley, son of Petunia and Vernon Dursley, and his family honour demanded he had to do everything he could to defy his enemies.
Somewhere behind Dudley, shrill, panicked voices rose, replacing the hushed silence he hadn't noticed before. The slaughter had begun, and all he could do was run away while the faces of his parents floated in front of his eyes – his dead family. His father, who had gone to work and hadn't returned. His mother, who had sent him away, had lied to him to get him out of the house. The parents Dudley had done nothing to save.
He was the son of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, the dead parents he had let down. Useless coward, orphaned and dying alone in the world. He had let them down; he was a disgrace. He couldn't do anything right. He was Dudley Dursley, son of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, he repeated in his mind, trying to focus on the faces in his mind and not the noise behind him. He was Dudley Dursley, son of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Running away while his foolish cousin was losing his war.
Dudley fell to the ground, panting and his head swimming. He was Dudley Dursley, the cowardly, weak son of Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Son of a woman who had sacrificed herself for her idiot child. She had been a kind-hearted fool, and he had let her down. Harry might still be one, and he'd been doomed to fail from the start.
He was Dudley Dursley, the cousin of the foolish Harry Potter who had thrown away his life for a foolish hope. He was Dudley Dursley, the cowardly idiot son of the foolish Petunia Dursley who had thrown away her life to save his miserable hide. She'd to have been ashamed of him, he knew it. A disgrace, waiting for those beasts to come for him in the middle of a street. Everyone in his family had been a fool, and he was no exception. Why had he even left his room? He was a fool, but he had to move, a voice in the back of his mind told him. Run, Dudley thought he heard; no one would ever know he had left the people in the square behind and helpless – helpless as he had been little more than thirty months ago when Harry had had to step in and save Dudley.
He was weak and a fool, Dudley thought with a hopeless chortle as despair gave birth to recklessness. He only deserved a fool's death.
Dudley struggled to his feet, perhaps the biggest challenge he had ever faced. He was a fool, likely the biggest of them all, he thought miserably as he looked over his shoulder in the direction he had been fleeing from. The cold air made the tears sting on his skin, his fear screamed at him to run as far as he could, a thought so clear and simple he had no problem understanding it. The memories of his helplessness and his last moments with his family replayed in his mind, but he stumbled back to the square, crying as his heart felt like bleeding. It was as if he ran down a hill, unable to stop. He ran to his own death, Dudley knew it, and he had left his life behind. Fool, he scolded himself. What could he hope to achieve? Yet he ran because he was tired of running. He was tired of being weak and cowardly. He was tired of living. He was done with it, all he wanted was to jump into the gaping maw of death.
He staggered around the corner and into the square. People were cowering on the ground in huddles, arms over their heads, but they didn't run. They stayed; they cowered. They couldn't bring themselves to move any more. Nothing could shield them from the invisible monsters around the place. Nothing could stop the slaughter taking place.
At least four had to be there, Dudley realized, as four people were held aloft. A feast he had thought previously, but it was more like a massacre. Muggles unable to defend themselves had been herded together. No, he decided, hunted like prey, driven into a corner. It made Dudley's stomach turn. Close by, a woman fell to the ground, tongue lolling out of the mouth next to a mutely crying boy no older than six who stared at something above her fallen form without understanding. It took Dudley a moment to realize that boy could see the beasts around the court. He was one of them, yet equally helpless. Then the boy, the young wizard, was lifted off the ground by invisible hands. Kicking, punching, he tried to fight for his life, but to no avail. He slackened a moment later and joined the woman on the ground.
Dudley stumbled forward towards the first huddle of victims – an older man clutching what might have once been his son. The images of failure tormented Dudley, yet through the haze, he also knew how foolish his actions were, and that realization alone made him move. If he had to be a fool, then he would be the biggest of them all. If he had to be the laughingstock, then the laughter would be the greatest for months and years. If he had to die, he had to make sure those beasts noticed him.
He grabbed both men's arms and pulled them over to one of the stores. The door was closed, but Dudley didn't care about that. He left them there, hoping someone inside would find the suicidal courage to drag the two men into the house. Dudley couldn't bother himself with them; instead, he staggered over to another huddle of two. The girl, maybe nine or ten was far easier to deal with than two grown men. He flung her over his shoulder and carried her towards a restaurant, dragging a barely conscious woman behind him.
Come on, he thought. Come on, you beasts, someone is stealing your food; surely you want revenge for that! Crying, Dudley threw his head back and laughed in terror – a grim, ghastly cackle that echoed in the square and mingled with the screams around him.
The doors of the restaurant were open. He fell over the threshold, weak and close to defeat. He quivered, wanting nothing more than to hide, but the thought slipped away from him. Only a fool would have returned to the slaughter, only a fool would have tried to challenge those beasts. Harry had done it, yes, but he could see them, and he had magic, and what did Dudley have? Only his two hands and his head. The former had been his go-to solution in the past, but what good were they, really? What good were they against an enemy he couldn't see? The latter had never been his strongest asset. He had doomed himself to death out of his own idiotic, reckless foolishness. He really did not deserve to live.
His eyes shifted back outside. There were still enough people around, but the bodies were piling up. Another one was lifted into the air, a woman of perhaps thirty, while a child of perhaps five desperately clawed at her dress, eyes full of unspeakable horror.
Dudley could feel the cold fingers around his own throat as if it were him who faced his end there in that square. Nothing could save them any more. They were lost and alone. Where were those wizards? Harry had known what to do, had thrown some magic at them, and it had made them leave and take their dread and cold with them. So where was that help? Had the wizards abandoned Dudley's people? No, he realized. No, they hadn't abandoned them. You couldn't abandon what you never cared for.
The child – a girl – was lifted off the ground as well, hanging in the air with the neck twisted awkwardly. The woman struggled next to her, perhaps trying to stop the inevitable as she knew what was about to happen, but she was helpless and forced to watch. The child jerked in the air, kicking towards the unseen foe, clawing into its arms, but her eyes went wide and then glazed over. Her lifeless body fell to the ground. The woman sagged in the air as the fight left her and the light in her eyes went out. Her body joined the girl's.
Movement caught Dudley's eye. A girl of maybe fourteen staggered away from where she had cowered, away from a lonely figure on the ground and a toppled pram. She hadn't gone far when she stumbled and fell, pressing a small bundle to her chest. She hadn't quite recovered from the fall yet when an invisible force pulled her to her knees. Invisible arms tore the bundle from her. Time didn't slow down, no help came; the bundle stopped moving moments later and fell to the ground. The teenaged girl was released, falling back to the ground. Her shaky fingers clawed at the bundle, but nothing happened. Her head twisted awkwardly upwards, eyes going wide for a moment as she was lifted partway off the ground before she slackened and sank back down, nothing but the empty shell of her former self.
Another bundle was lifted. A man, Dudley thought, but he couldn't see clearly anymore through his tears. If only Harry were there instead of stupid, cowardly Dudley! What good had he done? Delayed the end for four people, not that much of an accomplishment. No, he had made it worse, had drawn out the torment instead.
The man too lost his struggle and crumbled.
These monsters enjoyed their feast, Dudley just knew it; more than that, he could almost feel it, as if a shiver ran through the air, like watching a soundless crowd cheering for their football team – raw emotion pervaded the air. One by one these beasts lifted their victims, one by one taking their souls – one by one, old and young. The cold fingers of death, Dudley thought miserably, watching two children lifted side by side with their fingers entangled loosely, but he was too frightened to do anything, doomed to watch their cruel fate, remembering just how close he had come to that.
Even if he couldn't see them, he knew these Deminders enjoyed it. Invisible threats without any danger around. The air reeked of their sick delight. His fear increased, but something else sparked in him, something new. A lonely fire burned, small and fragile, but it resisted the cold.
He couldn't see the beasts, but Dudley felt their fingers as if it were his throat they were grabbing.
He could feel them, Dudley thought, and the realization formed in his mind, slowly taking shape out of the mist as the fire grew in strength. He couldn't see these beasts, yes, but they could be felt. They had fingers, and they lifted their victims; Dudley had seen it often enough by now to know it was true. They were invisible, yes, but if they could touch matter – humans, say – could matter touch them in turn? The flames in Dudley's chest started roaring, driving the cold out as they burned hotter each moment.
His eyes fell on the immense pizza oven close to the back wall. An idea, too crazy to actually try, popped into his head. If he could make them visible, if he could give those monsters a face... They owed him. They owed him for all the pain they had caused. They owed each and every one of their victims. Even those beasts had to pay a price just like everyone, just like everything else. But more importantly, he owed them. He owed them pain and suffering. They deserved to feel his hatred.
Dudley rose to his feet and staggered over to the oven. Ingredients lay helter-skelter, but in his terrorized mind, he knew just what he needed. He grabbed the bowl of flour – something light and bright. A voice in his head yelled at him to duck and wait for his inevitable fate. It had been overdue for two-and-a-half years. Thirty months of peace. It had been borrowed time, and his end had finally come. His fears screamed at him to run and never look back. To save himself – nothing else mattered. But the fire in him threatened to consume him if he didn't act, and it was drowning all other desires. Burning hot fury, a hatred Dudley had never known before made him move. They owed the world for all the misery they had caused.
Dudley stormed out of the door and into the square towards the closest victim. Grabbing a handful of flour, he threw it in an arc at the still struggling form. The white cloud settled, and to his immense shock, the outline of a hideous figure appeared, white from the flour.
It seemed to have no eyes, but a big hole Dudley assumed was its mouth. Long fingers, the same he had felt in his dreams from time to time, held what he recognized as a girl roughly his age. The beast didn't have any legs; instead, it floated above the ground in something like a ragged cloak. Close as he was, he heard the rattling breath even through the renewed screams of horror in his ears. Yet the flames of fury consumed his shock from before, and although the cold air bit his skin and threatened to freeze him, the fire in him didn't die. It grew even stronger now that the beast had a face. The cries died down, and an eerie silence settled. Dudley knew he would never be more scared in his life, but his fury was stronger by far.
So that was his foe.
Time to settle a debt. Grim satisfaction sparked in Dudley at the sudden calm around him. Yes, he thought, yes, now you know your challenger. Now you get to feel what it's like to have your sense of safety taken from you.
"I see you," Dudley growled, his breath burning in his throat as he glared at the hovering figure.
It dropped the girl.
About time for Hermione to come up with something.
