A/N: Yay, post-Dudley. And one day I'll write my Dudley meeting Harry after years fic and post it up, but that's far down on my to-do list. All the WIPs first…including a bunch of stuff I haven't started posting yet.

And that's it from me. Enjoy.

The Vigilant Night

Scene 6

The tapping at his window woke him up.

Dudley blinked, then fumbled for the lamp-light. While he'd become more or less accustomed to living in a magical house, in the times his mind was still trapped within the throws of sleep he found himself falling into old habits. Like when he would snap his night-light on before heading off for the bathroom every time a noise awoke him in the night – and a good many of those of late had been from his cousin's nightmares.

He'd never really apologised for that either, even if Harry hadn't looked like he cared for an apology. Maybe he had understood…or more likely the apology would have been worth nothing to him.

No, that wasn't true. He shook his head, blinking at the charms that had flared to life when he failed to close his eyes within the minute and opening the window. Once, he would have been terrified out of his wits – and denying it to anyone who asked. At a later point in that timeline, he would have been terrified still, but this time willing to admit it. After all, if there was some crazy Wizard mass-murderer who murdered the aunt and uncle you never met trying to kill the cousin that lived with you for seventeen years and possibly hunting you down to hold over his head, it was a perfectly reasonable reaction. Of course, nothing had actually appeared at his window during those times, and now things were somewhat calmer.

No, that wasn't true at all. The war "outside" was as bad as it always was. Worse in fact; Hestia had received a message earlier that afternoon saying Hogwarts had been evacuated. Hogwarts: the Wizard school his cousin went to. Or had gone to rather.

The tapping increased, and he pushed the window fully open to allow the barn owl entry.

He'd gotten good at identifying them; Diggle had been relentless, particularly when his mother had initially shrieked at every owl that appeared. Hestia had muttered curses he'd never heard as she tapped the owls on the head and vanished them, glaring at his father every time Vernon muttered: 'barbarians' at the sight.

'I'm simply putting a disillusion charm on them,' she said frostily. 'Wouldn't want the Death Eaters tracking them to us, now would we?' She added under her breath: 'Better they don't send owls at all, but do those fools listen? No.'

Diggle would always giggle at that before launching into lectures describing owl types and effectiveness in post delivery.

Eventually, his mother stopped screeching and his father muttering…but Dudley had to wonder if they would ever get used to such a lifestyle. For him, it was reminiscent of the games he played, the movies he enjoyed…and he realised he had been somewhat jealous, just like his mother before him, of the opportunity to learn such fascinating things and have such amazing friends. Sure, he was popular. But no-one was really close to him. Especially not close enough to break him out of a barred room.

Maybe he'd been afraid of that. Maybe he'd known his cousin was a better person than him. Or maybe he'd just been naïve back then, listening to his parents gushing over his perfection – and it had just gone straight to his head. And immature enough to admit it.

And once it hit home, once he realised how close to death he had come to in the hands of something he couldn't see or touch or comprehend, once he'd lived his greatest nightmares in an almost shell-shocked state and Harry risked expulsion for saving his neck – and he knew Harry could have run and left him there. He was fast. He might have outrun the –

He stopped that train of thought and shivered, unrolling the messy scroll handed to him.

There was no name on the outside; he wondered why the owl was here, staring at him from its new perch on the bedpost, instead of waking the Wizard and Witch that manned the safe-house. Then he opened it.

There were only two words written on it, in a scrawl familiar to him. The same scrawl that had littered one of the newspapers he found in the bin with the shattered tea-mug and some blood. Luckily, he'd spotted his cousin soon after, and saw it was the hand bleeding so it was unlikely the mug was responsible for that. It was a small relief; he didn't know whether it was by accident or on purpose. Of course, Harry might have also grown paranoia and thought it poisoned by someone who was after his life.

Considering the things he had heard throughout his almost year long stay, that wasn't too farfetched. Even if their house was supposed to be safe because they were blood-related.

But he was getting side-tracked again; he re-read the contents of the message.

'It's over,' he repeated out loud. That was it; there was no signature, but he knew it was his cousin's handwriting. Maybe that pre-empted a more detailed message. Maybe it was a means of farewell.

Why it had come to his hands and none other's in the house, he could not know. Maybe he wasn't supposed to know. All that mattered that the it was over. He supposed that meant Voldermort was dead.

He wondered…what did that mean for him? For his parents? For the life he had slowly grown accustomed too, adapted too – hell, he wouldn't mind living like this forever. He loved his home to be sure, but there was just something else in that world he wasn't really a part of. Something meaningful. Something that made him think: what had he really accomplished back on Privet Drive?

So…it was over. He slipped his feet into slippers and went to the door. One wait was done…but what would happen thereafter?

He wished he knew.

"Good things come to those who wait." - Various