A Nightmare on Privet Drive

Summary: The summer after Voldemort's return, Harry Potter suffers from nightmares so bad that something in the realm of dreams takes notice and is drawn in by Harry's suffering, determined to make it worse. Soon others also start suffering from nightmares, and when kids start dying Harry realizes that Voldemort is no longer the biggest threat facing him.

Crossover: Harry Potter/Nightmare on Elm Street Movies

Pairing: None, though there are strong hints of Harry/Hermione.

A/N: I was terrified when I first saw A Nightmare on Elm Street! Sure, it doesn't seem so scary these days, but at the time I found it much scarier than the other horror film franchises. Given that Harry has good reasons for having bad nightmares, it seems plausible that Freddy would take notice. I only see this story lasting for three chapters, and I have a decent outline already, so there's a good chance of it getting written.

I don't usually include much cursing in my stories, but in this chapter there's a conversation where it felt like the participants would have been too out of character if there hadn't been some casual cursing.

As always, thanks to Bonnie for not only reading this and improving on the original, but also for her help in developing the plot so far.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, JK Rowling does. I don't own the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, Wes Craven and New Line Cinema do.

Chapter 01 - Welcome to my Nightmare

Harry dropped heavily to the ground behind a large gravestone, desperately trying to slow his breathing so that his gasps didn't give his position away in the darkness. He strained to listen for the sounds of pursuit, but the night was quiet. Quiet as the grave, he thought morosely. It was frankly more disturbing than the sound of Death Eaters chasing him.

Where are they? he wondered. Nearly a dozen had responded to Voldemort's summons to witness his rebirth, expecting the humiliation and death of the Boy Who Lived for an encore. It was only Voldemort's insistence that he be the one to kill Harry that had let him get away in the first place, but surely they all would have been sent to track him down and bring him back?

"Haaaa-rrrry!"

Harry's heart leapt out of his chest.

"Oh, Haaa-rrrry! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Even as he fought to calm his racing pulse, he frowned at the voice. That clearly wasn't Voldemort, but it didn't sound like any of the Death Eaters, either — the voice was rough, but it almost sounded American. An American looking for him in a graveyard at night? He shook his head to clear it. Whoever they are, I doubt they're friendly, he told himself as he got to his feet.

Crouching low, he moved as fast as he could from one gravestone to the next; yet no matter how far he went, he couldn't seem to find the boundaries of the graveyard. It seemed to go on forever, which wasn't possible. Was it?

"There you are, Harry!"

Harry spun and saw a tall, thin figure bathed in the moonlight. He couldn't see its face, but the bald head and billowing cloak could only mean that Voldemort had finally caught up with him. Harry prepared to defend himself as the resurrected wizard reached into his robes and pulled out...

A hat?

It was definitely a hat — and not even a pointy magical hat like witches and wizards wore, but rather a muggle-looking hat which he immediately put on his head.

Harry whirled around to run, only to find the Dark Lord suddenly standing right in front of him. He couldn't even get his wand raised before Voldemort's left hand was around his throat, choking off his ability to speak as he was lifted up off his feet. Gasping for breath, he stared into Voldemort's blood-red eyes and watched as the pale skin on his face became twisted and scarred, like wax half melted in a fire.

He twisted and kicked, trying to get free of the vise-like grip, but Voldemort seemed completely unconcerned with Harry's struggling — as if he knew that there was nothing Harry could do to free himself. Instead, he just tilted his head in one direction and then the other, examining his victim as if he were an unusual-looking bug.

Harry's eyes widened in shock when Voldemort raised his right hand. Instead of the expected wand, he saw long, thin knives protruding from each of the fingers. One of the blades slowly moved Harry's fringe to the side, revealing the angry, red scar that had made him famous. Voldemort grinned, displaying two rows of yellow, misshapen teeth. It was the first sign of emotion he'd shown since he'd caught his prey.

"Why don't we open this baby up and see what's going on under the hood?" Voldemort cackled before plunging one of the blades into his scar and ripping it sideways.

"AAAHHH!" Harry screamed, sitting upright in bed and panting as if he'd just run a marathon. Fumbling around on the floor, he found his glasses and pulled them on as he desperately looked around his room.

"What in the blazes is going on here?" Vernon bellowed as he stomped into the tiny space. "How dare you wake us like this, boy? You probably woke the entire bloody neighborhood with your screams!"

"Sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry said reflexively, still looking around and wondering what had happened to the graveyard.

"I'm warning you, boy," Vernon growled, poking a meaty finger at him, "you'll keep quiet if you want to stay in my house. Do you hear me? Quiet like the grave! If you aren't, then none of those freaks who threatened me at the train station yesterday will be able to save you!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

With a nod, the angry walrus stomped out of the room, relocking all seven locks on the door. Harry wiped the dripping sweat from his brow, only to find blood mixed in. It didn't take him long to discover that he was bleeding from his forehead — but while the blood was coming from his scar, the source was actually a horizontal cut across his scar, not the scar itself.

"What the hell?" Harry exclaimed softly. He rummaged around the pile of clothes in the bottom of his wardrobe and found the oldest, rattiest t-shirt to use as a bandage. It was three in the morning, but he didn't think he'd get back to sleep again. He wasn't sure he wanted to go back to sleep.

He was already starting to have trouble remembering the nightmare, which was fine with him; but then he remembered Professor Dumbledore's advice to keep track of any dreams or visions involving Voldemort, so he immediately began writing down everything he could still remember. After he had revised and reread it several times, it dawned on him that while the nightmare had included Voldemort, it hadn't felt the same as any of the other dreams or visions he'd had of the evil wizard. It hadn't even been accompanied by pain in his scar — at least, not if you didn't include the new wound on his forehead, the origin of which was still a mystery.

"Maybe... maybe it was just a nightmare?" he wondered aloud. It seemed like a reasonable conclusion. He had been through a lot of awful experiences over the past year, and he'd had more than one nightmare about dragons, drowning, and the death of Cedric before the spring term had ended. This one had felt different from the others, even though it hadn't felt like a vision sent by Voldemort, but that didn't mean that it wasn't a plain, old, run-of-the-mill bad dream.

"Yeah, just a bad dream," he told himself firmly, finally starting to relax again. "I must have scratched myself in my sleep or something, too." Given Vernon's anger, he anticipated getting an exceptionally long list of chores to do the next day, so he decided to start on his summer essays while he had the chance.

"AAAHHH!" Harry once again shot upright in bed, screaming in fear and pain. Vernon didn't come stomping into his bedroom this time, though. After he'd woken screaming for the third night in a row, and being punished with extra work but no food, Harry had resorted to drastic measures — including stuffing old clothing along the bottom of his door and tying an old shirt around his face to muffle any sounds.

This was the sixth night in a row, and each one had gotten progressively worse. Every night he found himself in the graveyard with Voldemort, and every night the evil wizard found some new way to torture and terrorize Harry. In the latest, Voldemort had tied him back to the cross-shaped grave marker, then sliced open his belly so he could start pulling out Harry's intestines, one agonizing inch at a time. It had been so bad that Harry was sure he could still feel it...

"Ow!" Harry pulled his hand back from where he'd tried to grab at his stomach where Voldemort had cut him in the dream. There were thin red lines on the t-shirt he'd worn to bed, and when he lifted it, he found four bleeding cuts across his midsection.

"What the bloody hell?" he hissed.

He was still convinced that his nightmares weren't being produced by Voldemort. Quite aside from the fact that they didn't feel like Voldemort, there was the simple matter that in his nightmares, Voldemort wasn't using curses and other spells on him. If Voldemort wanted his insides to be outsides, he'd use an organ-expelling curse, not slice him open with a muggle knife.

At the same time, though, this clearly wasn't normal. Not even the worst of nightmares produced effects that appeared in the waking world. Since he didn't want to bother (or deal with) the Headmaster just then, that left one other person he could talk to — someone he could always count on to give sound advice when he was struggling with a problem.

Hermione.

Granted, he didn't always heed her advice, but she was always willing to help, and tended to be right far more often than not.

"Fancy a trip to visit Hermione, Hedwig?" Harry asked, and his owl barked softly in response.

It only took Harry a few minutes to explain his problem and summarize the six nightmares he'd had so far, and soon Hedwig was winging her way to Crawley. Now that he was alone — truly alone — he found himself even more bothered by the nightmares than he had been. He shuddered as a faint chill passed over him, but he shook his head and tried to ignore it, resolving to continue with his summer essays in the hope that they would distract him.

Besides, when Hermione wrote back, she'd be sure to ask how far along he was with his assignments, and she'd know if he lied or exaggerated, even over owl post.

Hermione responded almost immediately, which made Harry feel relief for the first time since he'd woken up screaming after that first nightmare; unfortunately, her advice fell well short of what he'd been hoping for. She wrote a great deal, like she always did, but in the end her advice boiled down to little more than "Tell Professor Dumbledore," a course of action Harry had already rejected as pointless.

Even if he weren't more than a little annoyed at the fact that Dumbledore had failed to protect him from either the tournament or getting kidnapped to be used as a potion ingredient in Voldemort's resurrection, there was still the fact that he was convinced that the nightmare hadn't had anything to do with Voldemort — not directly, at least. Voldemort had appeared, but he hadn't been the source of the nightmare, not like all the other Voldemort-related visions he'd experienced.

He knew it. He knew it with an absolute, unshakeable certainty. He just didn't know how he'd convince Hermione or anyone else of that.

"Hurry up, boy! We haven't got all day!"

Harry stifled a yawn as he tossed back the rest of his tea and started frying the last of the bacon.

"Vernon, didn't you call up to Dudders already?"

"Oh, leave him be. It's every man's right to sleep in on his birthday."

"But still, I don't want my little Diddykins to miss breakfast, and it's such a long drive to the park."

Harry snorted. As if Dudley had ever missed a meal.

"What was that, boy?"

"Nothing, Uncle Vernon."

Before Vernon could start ranting about how ungrateful Harry was, Dudley finally arrived for the birthday breakfast Harry had been slaving over for the last hour. Normally Dudley showed his lack of appreciation by wolfing it down and demanding more because Harry must have stolen some of it while cooking. This time, Dudley simply picked at the food.

"Aren't you hungry, Diddykins?"

"The boy didn't cook it the way you liked, did he?"

"Sorry, Mum, I'm just... I guess I'm just tired."

Harry took a closer look at his cousin as Petunia fawned over him, worried about him coming down with some illness. Harry was surprised to see that Dudley actually looked a little thinner. He also noticed that his cousin was developing dark circles under his eyes.

"Vernon, maybe we should put off our trip to Alton Towers."

"Nonsense — Dudley's just fine, aren't you, son?"

"Sure, Dad," Dudley replied, sitting up a bit straighter. "I'll be OK by the time we get there."

"That's my boy!"

"We'd better get going if we want to be there when it opens," Petunia announced a few minutes later. After some rather nasty warnings from Vernon about what would happen if he stole food or didn't complete all of his chores by the time they returned, Harry was alone in the house for the first time that he could remember. He used to dream of being left alone, free to do as he wished — eat, drink, even watch the telly.

Instead, what he did was run to his room and get a scrap of parchment from his trunk. He had a phone call to make.

"Granger residence," a voice said expectantly.

"Hi, uh, is Hermione Granger there? This is Harry."

"Harry Potter? Oh, it's so nice to hear your voice! Hermione has written so much about you."

"She... she has?"

"Absolutely, and you're almost all she talks about when she's home over the summers."

Harry didn't know how to respond to that and he was certain that he was blushing when there came a loud "Mum!" in the background followed by some muffled arguing.

"Harry, is that you?"

"Uh, hi, Hermione."

"Please don't pay any attention to my mother. Honestly!" He could practically hear her scowling over the phone. "Now, what's the problem? You said you'd only call me in emergencies because of how your relatives would react."

"I don't think I'll have to worry about their reaction, since they're gone for the day," Harry said.

"Oh, that's good; but it doesn't answer my question."

Harry sighed, unsurprised that she hadn't been deflected. Then again, why was he so reluctant to answer anyway? Isn't that why he was calling?

"You're still having nightmares, aren't you?"

"I... I..." How in Merlin's name did she figure that out? "Yes," he finally said. "And no, I haven't told Professor Dumbledore. This has nothing to do with Voldemort."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because every vision or dream I've gotten from Voldemort has been accompanied by pain in my scar, just like when I'm near him physically," Harry explained. "None of my nightmares have come with that pain. And more than that, there's... there's just this certain feeling to visions or dreams from him. A... a quality or flavor. I don't know how to put it into words, but after you have a couple of them, you know what to look for, and I've had enough of these new nightmares to tell the difference."

"How many?" Hermione asked, and Harry could tell by the tone of her voice that she was listening — really listening, rather than simply humoring him until she could convince him to do things her way.

"Every night," he said. "I only get a couple of hours sleep at most."

"Oh, Harry! That's not healthy! No wonder you called..."

"Do you know anything about dreams and nightmares?" Harry interrupted. "Is it possible that something magical is attacking me? I mean, other than Voldemort, obviously."

"I can't imagine what, given the protections the Headmaster is supposed to have put on your relatives' home," Hermione said. "And there really isn't much in the way of dream magic, Harry. I looked it up after you told me about dreams you had last year. There are ways for a witch or wizard to take control of their own dreams, but muggles can do the same, even if not as easily. Seers are supposed to be able to have dreams of the future, but from what you described I don't think that's what's going on with you."

"I bloody well hope not!"

"Language, Harry!"

"So, that's it?"

"Not necessarily. Witches and wizards don't seem to have done much research into dreams, but I know muggles have. I'll go to the library today to find what's available. Maybe this weekend I can make a trip to one of the larger bookstores in London to see what they have. If I come across anything at all, I promise I'll write to you."

"OK, I'll send Hedwig to your place to wait."

"I'm sure there's something, Harry, I just need to find it."

"I have complete faith in your ability to find a needle in a haystack, no matter how large the haystack is."

"Thanks," he heard her mumble.

"Hermione, do you think it's worth me taking Dreamless Sleep Potion? If I promised to pay you back, maybe you could pick some up for me in Diagon Alley? I'd go myself, but there's no way I'd be able to get there."

The line fell silent, and Harry could easily imagine her biting her bottom lip in thought. "I could do that, I suppose, but I don't recommend it. Dreamless Sleep Potion is highly addictive, and I don't think it's recommended for more than a couple of nights in a row."

"But still, even if I used it once or twice a week, that would be one or two full nights of sleep, which is more than I'm getting now."

"Fine, but I'm going to ask how often it can be safely taken, and you have to promise me that you don't take it any more often than that."

"Yeah, sure."

"Promise me, Harry. I won't help you get addicted to this."

"I swear, Hermione. I won't use it any more often than you allow. In fact, you can keep it yourself and only send it as often as you think is safe."

There was another pause before she said, "No, if you promise, then I'll trust you. I just want to be sure you understand how serious this is."

"I do, honest. I just... I'm just so tired all the time. I'm sure that's not safe, either."

"No, it's not, which is why I promise I'll help you get to the bottom of this."

"Thanks, Hermione. I knew I could count on you."

"And don't you forget it!"

Harry smiled. "So, do you really write about me all the time?"

He was positive that he could hear all the blood rushing to her face in what must have been the loudest blush on record. "No! I mean, I do mention you, but it's... of course it's because of how much trouble you get me into!"

"Yes, of course," Harry replied, grinning widely now. "What else could it be?"

"Exactly. Now, if I'm going to do that research for you, I'd better get going."

"Yeah, and I have a list of chores as long as my arm that I have to finish before they get back."

"...Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay safe."

"Don't I always?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Oh... well, uh, I'll try."

Hermione huffed. "I guess that will have to do. I'll send a letter with Hedwig once I've learned anything."

"Thanks, I look forward to it. Bye, Hermione."

"Bye, Harry."

True to her word, Hermione sent him a letter a couple of days later. She'd been able to find lots of information on dream interpretation and the psychology behind dreams, but little else. Even worse, she'd sent just a single vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion — apparently it was so tightly restricted due to its addictive qualities that she was only able to buy one per week, the maximum safe dosage without a healer in attendance.

This was definitely a disappointment, but it did mean that he managed to get one decent night's sleep that week. That was probably why he still had enough energy a few days later to take a walk around the neighborhood.

It was at the local park that he stumbled across Dudley, sitting alone in a swing and smoking a cigarette. It was only when Harry noticed Dudley's suit that he recalled that today was Piers' funeral.

He thought about moving on before he was noticed, but then he remembered how Cedric's death had been for him — and still was, frankly — despite the fact that the two had barely known each other. Taking a deep breath, Harry pushed forward and dropped into the swing next to Dudley. The two of them sat there in silence for several minutes, slowly swaying back and forth.

"How was it?" Harry finally ventured.

"It sucked — whaddya think?"

Harry shrugged. "That it sucked."

Dudley frowned for a moment. "You ever been to a friend's funeral?"

"No, but I've watched a friend die."

His frown deepened. "That'd suck more."

"Yep."

They were quiet for a long while before Harry tried again. "How did it happen? I remember seeing the police and ambulance go by, but that was it. Even your mum and dad haven't said much, and you know how your mum is..."

"Yeah, she never shuts up when there's gossip," Dudley agreed. He looked around as if he wanted to be sure they were alone. "If I tell you, you gotta promise not to laugh."

Harry looked at his cousin incredulously.

"I mean it!" he said, raising one large fist. "If you laugh, I'll punch you!"

"Sure, Dudley," Harry said, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I won't laugh, I promise."

"Good," he said as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it from the one he'd been smoking. "It started earlier this month. I don't know when, exactly, but Piers started getting nightmares." Harry stiffened, but Dudley was staring off into the distance and didn't notice. "At first they were just bad dreams, you know? Scary, but that's all. Then he said they started getting worse and worse. About a week ago, he showed me bruises and cuts he said he'd gotten in his nightmares."

"And you believed him?" Harry asked carefully.

"Of course I believed him — he was my mate!" Dudley growled. "But it's more than that. He isn't the only one who's been having nightmares. Dennis, Gordon, Malcolm, they've all been having them. None of them have been sleeping well, you can tell; but they don't want to talk about it. And now Piers is dead. Everyone is saying he was murdered. That he was butchered in his own bedroom by an intruder, but I don't believe it. I think it was his dreams."

"And you? Are you having nightmares?"

"Yeah, me too," Dudley admitted with a deep sigh, reaching down into the bag by his feet and pulling out a thin blue and silver can.

"What's that?"

"Energy drink," he answered. "Helps keep me awake."

"Better than coffee?"

Dudley shrugged. "Tastes better. Got sick of coffee after about two weeks."

Harry held out a hand. "Pass me one?"

Dudley's eyes narrowed. "Why would you want one?"

"Because your mum's tea isn't cutting it anymore."

"You...?"

Harry nodded. "All month."

"Bullshite."

Harry lifted his shirt to reveal the four thin cuts that were still healing.

"Fuck me," Dudley breathed. Without another word, he reached for the bag and got out a can for Harry. "I thought maybe it was only us. Maybe we did something, or drank something, or... I dunno. But if it's you, too..." Dudley paused, then looked suspiciously at Harry. "This isn't any of your freaky shite, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "A friend of mine looked into it. Apparently, wiz... uh, my kind know less about dreams than normal people. There doesn't seem to be any sort of freaky stuff that can affect dreams. Or at least none that she can find, and she's the best at research, so I believe her."

Dudley continued to stare hard at him, but Harry held his gaze until finally his cousin nodded wearily.

"Why are you still smoking?" Harry asked. "I thought cigarettes relaxed you."

Dudley regarded his cigarette for a moment before putting it in his mouth and holding up his right hand, revealing several red burns on his fingers. "Cuz with a cigarette in my hand, I can't fall asleep for more than a few minutes before the burning wakes me."

"That's fucked up, Dud."

"Yeah, but not as fucked up as what's waiting for me if I fall asleep." He lit another cigarette and held the pack out to Harry. "Want one?"

"No thanks — I'm not that desperate yet."

Dudley shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"So, what is it that's waiting for you in your dreams? I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

Dudley looked away for a moment, then brushed angrily at his eyes before speaking. "Piers and I would talk about it some. He wouldn't tell me everything, like he didn't want to even think about it too much, but we did talk. I thought talking helped, at least a little." He took a long swig from his drink. "In the most recent one, I tried to fight back against the bloke who keeps showing up. I tried to use the boxing moves I've been learning, but my fists sank into him, like I was punching a giant marshmallow or something. Then the holes I made in him grew teeth that bit my hands off." Dudley shuddered as he took a drag on his cigarette. "The night before was worse, though. I dreamt I was in that cabin on the sea again, but instead of simply being given a tail, I was turned completely into a pig. Then that bloke whipped out the knives he has for fingers and started carving me up for others to eat. I was alive the entire time, too, watching them eat slices of me. They kept complimenting the cook and asking for seconds."

Harry shuddered at the image, then thought about what Dudley had said. "Wait, did you say he has knives for fingers?"

"Yeah, he does, only... not really. I mean, he has regular fingers, I think, but knives attached to them somehow. I know, it sounds stupid, but it's a dream, innit? It's not supposed to make sense."

Harry stared at his cousin, his heart pounding. He couldn't have said whether it was from excitement or terror. "And did he wear a hat? A dirty, old hat?" Dudley frowned in confusion, but nodded. "And a sweater? Red and green stripes?"

Dudley nodded again. "How...?"

Harry lifted his shirt again, revealing the cuts. "Were the knives on his fingers about this far apart?"

Dudley reached out with one hand, almost close enough to touch, and spread his own fingers out. "Yeah," he whispered. "I don't understand... how can we both be dreaming about the same nutter? It doesn't make sense."

Harry shook his head. "I have no idea, but maybe it's a clue or something. I'll have to..." He stopped and looked around, noticing that dark clouds had moved in, blocking the sun.

Dudley took a deep drag on his cigarette and pulled his jacket tight as he glanced around them uneasily. "Is it getting cold all the sudden?"

"We need to get out of here," Harry said, jumping up out of the swing. "Something's wrong."

"I really don't want to go home yet," Dudley whinged. "Mum and Dad won't leave me alone, asking how I'm doing after..."

"I mean it, Dudley," Harry hissed, grabbing his cousin's arm and pulling him to his feet. "There's something wrong here. Can't you feel it."

Dudley looked around more carefully and shivered. "I dunno. I just feel... sad. Depressed. But why wouldn't I? I mean, with Piers dead and all the nightmares, of course I don't feel like I'll ever be happy again."

"That's it — dementors!" Harry exclaimed, the memories suddenly clicking into place. He yanked on Dudley's arm and started dragging him along. "We have to get out of here!"

"What are dementoids?"

"Dementors. They suck out your soul!"

"Shite!" Dudley started running on his own now as the cold and sadness pressed in on them from all sides. "Through here," he said, pointing to the underpass on their left. "It's a shortcut back to the house!" They were halfway through when Harry came to a sudden stop, almost getting knocked over by Dudley. "What?" his cousin demanded.

Harry pointed to the far end. "Dementor! It's waiting for us."

"I don't see nuthin'!"

"Normal people can't see them," Harry said tersely, stepping forward and drawing his wand. That was when Dudley screamed.

Harry turned and saw that a second dementor had come up behind them, grabbing Dudley by his collar and spinning him around to give him the kiss.

"Dudley!" Harry screamed as he watched his cousin flailing about, held up off the ground by the much taller dementor. The cold increased around him and he knew that the other dementor was approaching from behind, so he did the only thing he could: he held up his wand and cried, "Expecto Patronum!"

At first there was only a white mist — not enough to drive the dementors off, but enough to make them pause. Harry used the momentary relief to try once again, this time with more force. "Expecto Patronum!"

A massive, silvery stag burst forth from his wand and immediately attacked the dementor in front of him. The foul thing dropped Dudley as it screeched, rushing out of the underpass. Not wasting a moment, the patronus wheeled around and charged the other dementor. It fled with a shriek and the stag followed after, tossing its horns in defiance until its glow dissipated into the night.

In the silence that followed, warmth slowly began creeping back and Dudley stirred sluggishly.

"Dudley, are you OK?" Harry asked, and his cousin shook his head.

"I don't... see how... I'll ever be... OK again."

"You've got chocolate at home, don't you?"

Dudley gave him a disbelieving look, but at Harry's impatient insistence, he nodded.

"Good, it helps. No, I mean it — my kind uses it to counter the effects of such creatures. The better the chocolate, the better it will work."

Harry shifted his wand to his other hand and extended his free one to help Dudley, who slowly got to his feet. "Mum has really expensive chocolate that she saves for guests," he whispered as he leaned on Harry for support. "She never lets me have any, though. She even counts how many of those stupid little squares she has."

"Now you have an excuse to eat them all," Harry said with a forced grin, and Dudley choked out a half-hearted laugh.

Almost as surprising as the dementors was the presence of one of their neighbors as they exited the underpass. Harry fumbled to hide his wand.

"Mrs. Figg?"

"Don't put that wand away, boy! They might come back!"

"But—"

"Yes, I know about dementors — I may be a squib, but I'm not completely daft."

"But—"

"Dumbledore asked me to keep an eye on you when he first brought you here. Oh, he won't be pleased when I tell him about this! Just wait 'til I get my hands on Mundungus..."

"But—"

"Don't just stand there gawping, boy — get this young hooligan home while he can still walk!"

The dotty old lady then bustled off in the direction of her home. Harry almost gagged at the memory of how thick the odor of cat and camomile was whenever he'd been dumped there by his relatives.

"I always knew there was something wrong with her," Dudley said as they headed off in the other direction. Harry couldn't bring himself to disagree.

Vernon and Petunia were predictably enraged once they got back to the house, immediately assuming that Harry had attacked their son. They seemed to be on the verge of kicking Harry out for good when Dudley somehow managed to stagger to his feet.

"Leave him alone!" he shouted.

"Dudders?" Vernon asked in an uncharacteristically small voice.

"I said... leave him alone," Dudley repeated shakily.

"Here," Harry said, handing his cousin a basket he'd fetched from the kitchen.

Petunia started to protest. "That's my good—"

"Your good chocolate, yeah," Harry interrupted. "Chocolate is the best way to counter dementors, and the better the chocolate, the better it works. Dudley needs it right now more than your guests."

Petunia paled at that, but Vernon started building up for a good rant again. "And how do you know that, huh? Did you bring those demon things here? You're responsible for this, aren't you?"

"Harry didn't do anything, Dad," Dudley replied as he shoved another dark square in his mouth. "Nothing except save me from having my soul sucked out." Both Vernon and Petunia gasped, and Dudley took the opportunity to toss Harry a few pieces of the chocolate. "Here — I know they affected you, too." Harry nodded his thanks and opened one.

"Pet, is what he's saying true?" Vernon asked as he sat on the couch.

Petunia nodded. "I remember that... I remember someone talking about them. They guard your kind's prison, don't they?"

"Then what were they doing here?" Vernon demanded.

Harry shook his head. "I have no idea, but that's what they were."

"They're like something out of a nightmare, aren't they?" Petunia asked as she looked back and forth between Harry and Dudley in horror.

Both boys stared at each other mutely, unsure how to respond.

"I don't know," Harry finally managed. He looked at his cousin's ashen face and saw raw fear there. His own voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "Some nightmares are worse."