A/N: This is written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's: The Scenery Competition Round 2, doubled up with a forgotten serenade's: The Fear Challenge.

Maybe next time I'll write a Harry scene. At least this one turned out longer.

The Vigilant Night

Scene 2

Out the window was a beautiful glade, full of wild flowers of all kinds. They covered the ground in a field of colours: reds, yellows, pinks, purples, blues and greens. Beyond the glade was a forest with tree leaves that sparkled in the sunlight. You could see little animals flit between and amongst the trees. The sun shone brightly in the sky, warming the beautiful little world. From among the trees came the sweet song of birds chirping.

Dudley reached up for the catch, attempting to let some autumn air into the warm room. With a little working, it came loose, disrupting the beautiful melody with a grated screech. The impression left was like that from the drills at a dentist, or one scraping their nails along a chalk-board…and goodness knew he'd done that enough in his days. Maybe it was karma, he mused to himself as a loud squawk shot through the air, preceding a flock of sparrows that shot into the air in fright. It would figure that the things he did to invite company in the past years was depriving him of it now.

At first, there had been a sort of thrill: running away to the country side, far from civilisation as a war descended from the horizon. It wasn't that the gravity had been wholly lost on him; he knew this "You Know Who" was not to be taken lightly. He controlled those dreaded Dementors – he still got violent shivers at the very thought – and, according to others, creatures and magic besides. While Harry hadn't disclosed much on the subject, Diggle had been rather talkative and through various fits of emotion, he'd managed to reveal quite a bit over the months that had passed. The murders all over Britain. The little boy who had turned on and destroyed his parents. The number of werewolves spreading with each bite and the mutilated bodies piling up beside the number. How people like them, Muggles, powerless folk, were tortured without the barest consequence to be enforced. How this "You Know Who" ruled the world like a puppeteer plucking at strings.

He wasn't entirely sure of the actual name and the ignorance made him a little uncomfortable – Diggle refused to say it – nor could he attempt to voice the correct combination of sounds as the woman Hestia had stumbled upon him and given him the most vicious (another hint of karma) tongue-lashing he had ever been subjected to. The apology had been rather short, revealing only an additional tidbit of information: the name, whatever it was, was a trigger for a bunch of angry "Death Eaters". And the name was scary enough for him to not want anything to do with it.

But on days like that, where the sweet Autumn breeze sifted through the now open window and the birds picked up their symphony in the distance, it was hard to imagine how dead the world looked a horizon away. How crowded with fear, where monsters bred from nightmares sucked live out of the fleeing and the ignorant.

The sun shone in blue sky.

'It's safe.'

He almost jumped as Hestia's unexpected voice spoke from behind him. Perhaps another bout of karma…although his own sneaking about hadn't been nearly as innocent.

'Dementors hate the sun,' the dark-haired woman explained. 'And the wards are strong. We know they work because no-one's found the place yet. But I'll still be keeping an eye on you.' She paused, brushing hair from her eyes and she looked at the teen. 'So, would you like to head outside for awhile?'

So that was how Dudley found himself outdoors, standing amidst the wild flowers in the glade. The autumn breeze wafted through the air, carrying miniscule grains of pollen along with it. The birds had failed to return to their sanctuary. The tall witch stood under the shade of the porch, watching him from a safe distance with dark eyes. His parents were somewhere inside the large house. Maybe they were watching too.

He took a few more steps, letting the pollen dust his jeans. The new air was refreshing; he closed his eyes to left it drift through his nose. But the silence, stretching through such a large span of space, was slightly unnerving.

It was odd to think of school in session. Odd to think of his "friends" going on with their lives as if nothing had happened…and perhaps, apart from his disappearance from their lives, nothing had. He wondered if Piers was still running the old gang – it was surprising how quickly the idea had become shameful; it had taken him roughly two years to work up the courage to abandon the downward spiral: the gang-beatings, the stealing, the smoking…

But people didn't simply walk away from such holes. His mother had cried over the wounds; he never told her the cause. His father had been disappointed, but he had said little else about the manner. But he had lost his following that day. His pride. He'd gone through the remainder of the year alone, unable to talk to anyone. The one perhaps he could have talked to…the bridge was too wide to bridge.

They were miserable thoughts, accompanied by a picture-perfect scene.

For some reason, the lack of birds still unnerved him.

He had brought a transfigurated ball with him. He wouldn't really call it a ball; it was round and made of synthetic rubber, but it failed to bounce on wood or earth. He tossed it up in the air and caught it again; it would be a shame, after all, for the flowers to become trampled further under the weight falling upon it. There was little joy engaging in the activity, but it was a reasonable past-time.

It was easy to forget about the rest of the world. The sun winked at him in the sky, framed in blue with no clouds in sight. The flowers danced in the gentle breeze, a rainbow of colours showering across the earth. Not even a grasshopper chirped in the silence. It was only the whooshing of air as the ball rose and fell into his arms again.

How many people were dying outside the barrier? No doubt that weird radio would tell. That one programme that apparently told the truth above all else: Potterwatch. Heh, Harry had even gotten his own radio show as a name-sake while he was out, saving the world with his friends.

It seemed very very sad that Dudley Dursley would give anything to be in his cousin's position. Even without magic.

Because it suddenly hit him that, even in such a paradise scene, he had no friends to speak of.

The warm glade rapidly chilled. Cried echoed in his ears – his own. They were a distant memory; the sun still shone brightly in the sky. Blackness drifted…it was odd, how the yellow circle blared through that, and yet it brought no comfort. It brought no company.

He didn't have that company. The ball fell as he failed to grasp it, tumbling through the lush flowers, crushing the stem of several yellow ones…

He bent down to pick up the ball. It had been a nice gesture, but rather useless. He had no friends to play with.

He wondered if Harry would have saved his life if it wouldn't have weighed down on his soul? He wondered if anyone else would have done it? Piers? His so-called ex-friends? Hmmph; they'd have ran and left him for dead. His parents…he loved them, and they loved him back, but somehow he couldn't imagine them sacrificing their lives for his sake.

Why was he thinking about such things anyway? All he was doing was scaring himself silly within a protective barrier and on a perfectly nice day.

'Would you like some herbal tea?'

Hestia had appeared behind him again.

'You look like you could use some cheering up. Or perhaps Firewhiskey, and a side of…I'm afraid you'll have to deal with dry bread. Butter is no good for a growing boy like you.'

Somehow, she managed to make the small speech sound rather tactless.

'And why don't you help? It will do you some good to learn how to run a house by yourself? Goodness knows you won't be living with your parents forever.'

Dudley blinked at that. Not only was his spoiled nature being tackled quite frankly (and by someone no-where near as frightening as the late Albus Dumbledore; he now had a few "Chocolate Frog" cards demonstrating the wizard, all that remained before the franchise underwent a rewrite) but she was not going to do the chore by magic.

'Magic can't make food?' he asked, slightly bewildered. It had seemed magic could do almost anything except bring the dead back to life. He was sure Harry would have done that if he could: his parents, that boy named Cedric about whom he'd teased his cousin so mercilessly about, his Godfather…

'Oh no.' Hestia shook her black curls. 'It's one of the five principle exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.'

That made no sense at all, but it was a far more comforting thought than being alone, whether that be under the Dementor's chill of the Autumn's sky.

A bird chirped somewhere in the distance.

'I can make tea,' he said spontaneously. He was thinking about the cup he'd left for his cousin. Of course, no-one had actually tasted its contents.

'Oh, I know all about that sad excuse of a beverage,' the woman said briskly, walking back towards the house. 'Your Aunt Marge's Ripper wouldn't be able to stomach that.'

Now how did she know all that?

Hestia glanced at his expression. 'Even if you are a Muggle,' she said. 'There's no reason why you shouldn't know about magic. After all, the possibility of your own children being magical are quite high, I should think.'

Now that lady was just jumping the gun. Who was talking about marriage? He was yet to find a girl he liked. That was another sad fact.

It wasn't so bad though, he thought to himself an hour or so later, staring at the upright tea leaf in his cup. The two wizards looking after them were going out of their way for them. They didn't have to do that, especially since they knew full well how long they'd gotten along with their hero, Harry Potter.

Word count: 1734