Chapter 2

November 1, 1987

In the largest bedroom of Four Privet Drive, a rotund figure sleeping peacefully slowly stirs awake to the irresistible aroma of breakfast. Before long the second story floor boards and stairwell creak ominously as heavy footsteps steadily advance towards the kitchen.

With a bright, happy smile Vernon widely opens the frosted glass and wooden framed door eagerly anticipating Pet's savory Sunday morning repast and Dudley's lighthearted jokes.

Stopping a few steps past the threshold to appreciate the table's picture perfect spread fit for a king, he salivates over the large carafe of orange juice, a fresh berry medley, bacon, eggs over easy, bangers, grilled tomatoes, fried onions, toast, and bergamot marmalade. For a split second, there's slight disappointment in not seeing his favorite after breakfast tea, Earl Grey, but then he spys a large vintage, white porcelain kettle and lightly sniffs the air confirming the selection. Of course, she remembered; he should have never doubted Pet. Basking in his good fortune of not only finding, but also managing to keep such a dutiful wife causes his smile to widen.

Then his expression slowly changes into a slight frown upon noticing the delicate tea kettle and other fine china. Both sets required extensive time to not only find unique designs, but also set aside a tidy sum to pay-off the bill. Certainly worth every penny to properly present their household as a sophisticated family with elegant tastes. Still they are sparingly used unless hosting well-esteemed clients.

Stepping further into the room immediately shatters any concept of a quaint, idyllic morning.

Across the room, Pet rigidly stands a few feet from the table while intermittently switching her weary gaze between Dudley and the freak. A distinct cough breaks the uncomfortable silence, when the abomination indolently raises an empty crystal goblet in the air. Pet whips her gaze back to the freak. Their eyes connect for a long moment until the little cretin arches their eyebrow and an unmistakable mixture of fear along with resignation crosses her face. Though full of rancor, Pet fulfills the silent demand and returns to the previous position.

In a surprising show of dominance and grit, the foul vermin sharply watches Pet's every move and unexpectedly says aloud in a quiet firm voice, "No, Dudley, drop the banger. I've given you clear instructions to the game. You are to sit quietly at the table without complaint until such a time passes that I deem sufficient. Oh you poor vacuous void, merely short by a couple of seconds. Patience is a virtue - now go stand in the corner with your nose touching the wall."

With all the countenance of a lowly mouse, Dudley meekly complies.

Vernon's jaw drops in disbelief and he hurriedly pinches himself as if to wake from a bizarre nightmare.

"Vernon, with the utmost pleasure, I assure you this is no dream. You're quite lucid and not suffering from a mental breakdown or the hallucinations from a psychedelic drug which only leaves one viable option. You corpulent, loathsome, degenerate worm are in a hell of your own making. Regrettably, it's only a euphemism, but I'll certainly try my best."

The utter vitriol and mature cadence coming from the small child momentarily shocks him into a quiet stupor until he recalls the intimidation and indignities suffered by his darling family. Vernon's face fluctuates from mauve to magenta; like the devastating inferno from Mount Vesuvius, he prepares to unleash the familiar burgeoning feelings of frustration, resentment, and hatred.

Instead of cowering, the little freak looks me dead in the eye wordlessly challenging me and tops it off with an exceedingly obnoxious smirk followed by an arched eyebrow which finally provokes me into action. Raising meaty fists and roaring at the top of my lungs, I launch myself with the full intention to thoroughly eviscerate the little ingrate - only to painfully slam against a golden semi-opaque barrier. Jumping back from the intense heat, the barrier fades away.

A deep, dark chuckle rends the air, "Temper, temper."

"As you've no doubt noticed Petunia, Dudley, and I are playing a game. It's such a shame that you're not an early riser. They've had far more time to become acclimated with the rules."

In an instant, uncontrollable horror fills Vernon. As an individual never quite capable of suppressing the fight or flight impulse, he rashly reverts to the tried and true method for solving his problems, pulverising it.

And only an idiot expects a different response to the same action.

Within the blink of an eye, Vernon slams once again into the golden semi-opaque barrier and quickly retreats when it burns his hands. Hoping to over power the barrier, he maintains a lengthy assault reigning blow after blow. However, after the third blow, the barrier's golden color gradually shifts from pale yellow to white. After running out of steam, Vernon stops to catch his breath and flexes his red, slightly swelling hands that now show minor burns.

"For shame, I always thought Dudley took after you. Clearly you're built like a whale and he's well on his way to mirroring your image. But fortunately, he inherited some intellect from Petunia's genetic pool since it only took two penalties to curve his errant behavior."

Again, Vernon repeats the same mistake while the barrier shifts from white to pale blue.

A few brief head shakes mocking his distress, the tiny urchin vents another vicious diatribe. "I'm almost at a loss for words. You are unbelievably dim-witted. Have you not noticed that you're sweating like a pig?!"

A small hand shushes him, "No, don't answer that! Obviously, any mention of Dudley and your brains go out the window. Don't even think about it! During your little temper tantrum, the temperature within the barrier was steadily climbing. You're effectively standing within a free-range fire pit less the fiery flames of course. I truly hope this disclosure is sufficient incentive to get you with the program or pretty soon this kitchen will be filled with the cloying scent of your burning corpse."

Luckily, there's no need to apply additional negative reinforcement; bluffing can be quite tedious.

"Vernon before your arrival, Petunia entered the kitchen only to be at her wits end upon seeing me hearty and hale. Apparently some familiarity with magic made her err with caution; not one penalty needed. With a mere suggestion, she artfully prepared this delicious feast. Halfway done, your progeny entered. Imagine that."

With a quick snap of fingers, Dudley falls asleep and slowly falls to the grown.

"Don't worry, he's merely asleep and to show my benevolence I'll even allow Petunia to check him. Go ahead Petunia and remain by his side."

Petunia shakily stumbles towards Dudley and presses unsteady fingers against his pulse point. Tension melts away from her shoulders as she confirms his continued breathing.

"Vernon, I'll be candid. We weren't actually playing a game. I simply mentioned it for the benefit of your son's mental health. Unlike you, I don't believe in torturing little kids. At last, we've come to the heart of the conversation. For far too long you, your wife, and your son have all verbally as well as physically tormented a defenseless little boy for no other reason than the false belief of impunity. There's no way to go back in time and undo any of the damage over the past six years. As such, I won't listen to any pleas for mercy. I think serving a six year sentence with my version of enforced piety to food will you make both appreciate empathy and humility if not feel remorse."

November 10, 1987

A gentle roaring fire diffused warmth across the chilly office of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Long past in the days of his youth, the fire's repetitive crackle once afforded respite from tumultuous thoughts. Today, like many over the past six years, peace of mind is absent and ever elusive.

Persistent, quiet contemplation over Tom Riddle's unquenchable thirst for power and apathetic regard for any life beyond his own left unresolved feelings of guilt and the burning need to better prepare for the inevitable conflict when he returns. If only his woes ended there…

Harry Potter marked by a prophecy as the sole candidate and likely the only one capable of vanquishing Lord Voldemort, ran away from home just over a week ago. Certainly dreadful, but not entirely dire if only due to having a unique trinket connected to the boy which allows tracking and monitoring of his lifeforce.

Of course, a snafu was bound to happen.

Sometime within the last two weeks while away from the office, the trinket exploded leaving only tiny broken remnants. At first, I thought the chosen one had perished and would have continued with this belief had I not witnessed Vernon Dursley's memory in a pensieve. Beyond the trinket's mystery, further consideration over the boy's unprecedented control of wandless magic and curious unknown ability to erect a dynamic barrier will certainly take away more sleep while researching for answers.

The boy remains alive though whereabouts unknown, and apparently already headed down a dark path like Tom Riddle.

"Harry, my boy, where are you?"