Disclaimer: I do not own anything Harry Potter; all characters/ settings etc, from the books and or movies are property of J.K Rowling and whatever Movie producer attached additional copyright to the franchise. I write merely for my own amusement and to improve my skills.
Dudley Demented
After a frustrating month of no word from anyone, Harry Potter was angry. Walking home late one warm summer's evening with his cousin Dudley, Harry taunted the brutish boy. Dudley was afraid of him, and Harry was using that to his best advantage, insulting everything from Dudley's intelligence, to Aunt Petunia's sickeningly cute nicknames, to his courage in needing four friends to back him up when bullying a ten-year-old.
A muscle twitched in Dudley's jaw, Harry could see in his cousin's face how badly Dudley wanted to punch him. Dudley was the only vent Harry had for his own frustration, and it was enormously satisfying to see how furious he was making his cousin.
Dudley always avoided as much effort as he could, and so the big boy took the shortcut down the alley between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was the same alleyway that Harry had first seen Sirius in nearly two years ago. Empty except for a few trash bins and much darker than the main streets, the alleyway was quiet, muffled between garage walls and high fences.
"You think you're a big man, carrying around that thing, don't you?" Dudley said after a few seconds.
"What thing?" Harry asked deliberately. He knew what Dudley was talking about, but wondered if his cousin would actually come out and say it.
"That thing you're hiding."
Harry grinned.
"So maybe you're not as stupid as you look, Dud. But then if you were, I s'pose you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time."
Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.
"You're not allowed," Dudley blurted. "I know you're not. You'll get expelled from that freak school you go to."
"Maybe they've changed the rules, Big D."
"They haven't," said Dudley. Harry could tell his cousin was trying to convince himself that he was right.
Harry laughed softly. This was the most fun he'd had in ages.
"You haven't the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?" Dudley snarled.
"Whereas you need four mates behind you to beat up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent, seven?"
"He was sixteen," snarled Dudley. "And he was out cold for twenty-minutes after I'd finished with him. Just you wait until I tell Dad you had that thing out – "
"Running to Daddy now, are you? Is the ickle boxing champion scared of nasty Harry's wand?"
"Not this brave at night, are you?" Dudley sneered.
"Uh, this is night, Diddykins. That's what they call it when it goes all dark like this," Harry said in a condescending tone, waving a finger in little circles at the sky.
"I mean when you're sleeping!" Dudley snarled.
"What d'you mean?" said Harry, a sudden cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had the sickly feeling he knew what Dudley was getting at: he had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.
Dudley laughed.
"I heard you talking in your sleep last night. Moaning."
"Y-you're lying," said Harry automatically.
Dudley laughed again, and then adopted a high-pitched whimpering voice.
"Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric! Who's Cedric, cousin – your boyfriend?"
Harry tightened his grip on his wand.
"You're lying," Harry repeated, but he knew Dudley was telling the truth and hated his cousin all the more for it.
"Help me Dad! He's going to kill me! Help! Dad! Mum! Help me! Boo hoo!"
"Shut up," Harry said quietly. "Shut up, Dudley. I'm warning you."
"Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Help me, he's going to – Don't you point that thing at me!"
Dudley had back into the alley wall. Harry had his wand pointed directly at Dudley's heart. Fourteen years of hatred pounded in his veins. What he wouldn't give to turn Dudley into a filthy little cockroach – or only half way into a cockroach so that he'd have to crawl home, struck dumb and sprouting feelers.
"Don't you ever mention that again," Harry snarled. "D'you you understand me?"
"Point that thing somewhere else!"
"I said: 'do you understand me?'"
"Point it somewhere else!"
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"GET IT AWAY FROM ME!"
Something happened to the night. The indigo, star-studded sky suddenly turned as black and lightless as spilled ink. The stars, the moon, the streetlamps at the end of the alleyway had vanished, swallowed by the gloom. The whisper of the wind through the trees, and the distant rumble of cars in the street were suddenly inaudible. The heat of the summer's evening had turned to a deep, piercing cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness.
For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning too, even though he'd been resisting as hard as he could. Then his reasoning caught up with his senses – he didn't have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, searching in vain for some glimmer of light in the darkness.
Dudley's terrified voice broke the silence.
"W-w-what are you d-doing? S-stop it!"
"I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!"
"I c-can't see! I've gone blind! I – "
"Shut up," Harry hissed.
Harry stood stock still, searching with sightless eyes. The cold was so intense he was shivering; goose bumps had erupted on his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. There was something out there.
It was impossible. They couldn't be here. Not in Little Whinging. Harry strained his ears… he would hear them before he saw them.
"I-I'll t-tell Dad!" Dudley whimpered. "W-where are you? What are you do-doing?"
"Will you shut up? I'm trying to lis – "
Harry fell silent. He'd just heard the very sound he'd been dreading. Somewhere in the darkness of the alley, something was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths like an amplified, dysfunctional Darth Vader ventilator. Harry's heart dropped down to somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.
"S-stop doing that! I swear I'll hit you!"
"Dudley, shut up!"
WHAM!
A fist made contact with the side of Harry's head, lifting him off his feet. Small, white lights popped in front of his eyes. Harry felt as though his head had been cleaved in two, and a moment later he landed hard on the ground, and his wand flying out of his hand.
"Damn it, Dudley!" Harry yelled, his eyes watering in pain as he scrambled up onto his hands and knees, frantically feeling around in the blackness for his wand. He heard Dudley blundering away, slamming hard into a fence, and stumbling.
"DUDLEY! STOP! YOU'RE GOING STRAIGHT FOR IT!"
There was a horrible, squealing yell like a dying pig, and Dudley's footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him that could only mean one thing. There was more than one.
"DUDLEY! KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH! Wand… wand!" Harry muttered frantically his hands flying over the ground like ants. "Where is – wand – come on – lumos!"
He said the spell automatically, desperate for light. To his surprise and relief, light flared just inches from his right hand – the tip of the wand had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and turned around.
His stomach did back flips.
A towering, hooded figure glided smoothly towards him, hovering above the ground, no feet or face visible beneath the dark shroud of its tattered robes.
Back peddling, Harry raised his wand.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A thin silver vapour jetted from the tip of the wand. The Dementor slowed, but did not stop. The spell hadn't worked properly. Nearly tripping over his own feet, Harry retreated further down the alley. As the Dementor bore down on him, Harry felt the icy grip of fear fogging his brain – concentrate –
A pair of grey, sinewy hands slid from the Dementor's cloak, reaching for him.
"Expecto Patronum!"
His voice sounded dim, and distant, he could hardly hear for the rushing in his ears. Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last time drifted from the wand. The Dementor hardly slowed. He couldn't do it. He couldn't work the spell anymore.
Laughter resounded in his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter… he could smell the Dementor's putrid, death cold breath, could feel it filling his lungs, drowning him. Think… something happy…
But there was no happiness in him. The Dementor's icy fingers closed around his throat. The insidious high-pitched laughter grew louder, and louder, and he could hear a voice inside his head: 'Bow to death, Harry… it might even be painless… I would not know… you see… I have never died…"
The Dementor pressed down on the hinges of his jaw, and his mouth dropped open. Harry drew in a shuddering gasp, but there was no air, only the frigid breath of the Dementor. The hooded face drew closer, painfully slowly, like a drawn out love scene in a sappy movie.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
An enormous silver stag slammed into the Dementor, antlers crushing and piercing its chest, its clammy hands were ripped from Harry's throat and face as it was caught up and thrown, as weightless as darkness it fell slowly to the ground where it lay in a crumpled broken heap.
Harry gasped for breath, his head spinning from lack of air.
"Dudley," wheezed Harry, "DUDLEY!"
Somehow he found the breath to yell.
The stag thundered on down the alley, and Harry followed after it, he had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled up on the ground, his arms clamped over his face. A second Dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prising them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head towards Dudley's face as though about to kiss him.
"GET IT!" Harry bellowed at the stag.
The stag barrelled over the Dementor, crushing the horrid thing beneath its pounding hooves. Ragged, black robes caught in the gleaming silver hooves and the Dementor was dragged a ways down the alley with the charging stag, its broken body twisting and rolling over itself, the ethereal stag stumbled and dissolved into silver mist.
Moon, stars and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighbouring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harry stood quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to normality. After a moment, he became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he was drenched in sweat.
He could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging. And where had the Patronus come from? Harry couldn't remember saying the spell again, he knew he heard it, and then the stag had appeared, and the Dementors… had it actually killed them? Harry's Patronus had never done that before, and yet in the light of his wand he could make out the vague black shape of the Dementor the stag had dragged off before it disappeared. He turned to look for the other corpse, and nearly ran into someone who had been standing right behind him.
"Are you alright?" The stranger asked softly.
Harry nodded numbly, staring blankly. The person standing before him wasn't much older than he was, a slim young man of about seventeen, with short, straight golden hair, dark, forest green eyes flecked with gold, lined with thick dark lashes, and a fine almost delicate nose, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, and dark-wash jeans with a matching jean jacket. He held a mahogany wand loosely in his right hand. Several silver and gold necklace chains of varying thickness hung about his neck and disappeared under the scoop neck of his t-shirt.
Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking. As Harry bent down to see whether he was in a fit state to stand up, the teenage wizards heard the loud running footsteps at the same time, the golden haired boy whirled around on his heel, wand out, as Harry sidestepped to get a clear view down the alley.
Mrs. Figg, Harry's batty old neighbour came panting into sight. Her grizzled grey hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. The boys made to stow their wands hurriedly out of sight, but –
"Don't put them away, you idiots!" she shrieked. "What if there are more of them around? Oh, I am going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"
"What?" said Harry blankly.
"He left!" said Mrs. Figg, wringing her hands. "Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell of the back of a broom! I told him I'd flay him alive if he went, and now look! Dementors! It's just lucky I put Mr. Tibbles on the case! But we haven't got the time to stand around! Hurry, now, we've got to get you back! Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!"
"But – " The revelation that his batty cat-obsessed neighbour knew what Dementors were was almost as big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them in an alley. "You're – you're a witch?"
"I'm a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how on earth was I supposed to help you fight off Dementors? He left you completely without cover when I'd warned him – "
"This Mundungus has been following me? Hang on – it was him! He Disapparated from the front of my house!"
"Yes, yes, yes, but luckily I'd stationed Mr. Tibbles under a car just in case, and Mr Tibbles came and warned me, but by the time I got to your house you'd gone – and now – oh, what's Dumbledore going to say? You!" she shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the alley floor. "Get your fat bottom off the ground, quick!"
"You know Dumbledore?" said Harry, staring at her.
"Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn't know Dumbledore? But come on – I'll be no help if they come back, I've never so much as Transfigured a teabag."
"You make it sound like Transfiguration is easy," the golden haired boy said. Forgotten until now he had taken the opportunity to collect the Dementor's robes, empty now, the corpses having dematerialized shortly after death. He looked rather dashing with the black material slung over his shoulder.
He stooped down, seized one of Dudley's massive arms and heaved.
"Come on, you great oaf, time to get up!"
"Here, let me help." Harry took hold of Dudley's other arm and they heaved together. With great effort they managed to hoist him to his feet. Dudley seemed to be on the point of fainting. His small eyes were rolling in their sockets and sweat was beading his face; the moment the boys let go of him he swayed dangerously.
"Hurry up!" said Mrs. Figg hysterically.
With a nonchalant shrug the golden haired boy pulled one of Dudley's massive arms around his own shoulders, adjusting the Dementor's robes to the crook of his arm, and dragged him towards the road, sagging slightly under the weight until Harry took up Dudley's other arm. Mrs. Figg tottered along in front of them, peering anxiously around the corner.
"Keep your wands out," she told them, as they entered Wisteria Walk. "Never mind the Statute of Secrecy now, there's going to be hell to pay anyway, we might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg. Talk about the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery… this was exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of – What's that at the end of the street? Oh it's just Mr. Prentice… don't put your wand away, boy, don't I keep telling you I'm no use?"
"Put it away, Harry." The golden haired boy said quietly, so that Mrs. Figg wouldn't hear. "And don't worry about the Reasonable Restriction for Underage Sorcery, that last spell was mine, that's the one they'd have picked up, if they did at all. Those wisps you shot out wouldn't have been strong enough to make it through the Dementor's dampening field. I'm not underage, but I was awfully close to you when I shot the spell off. Perhaps close enough that things got jangled. I'll sort things out. It will be alright."
Harry gratefully tucked his wand back into the waistband of his pants, using his now free hand to grip Dudley's wrist and keep the larger boy on his shoulder. Harry gave his cousin an impatient dig in the ribs, but Dudley seemed to have lost all desire for independent movement.
"Thanks," said Harry. "Lucky for me you were there. I don't think I would have made it if you hadn't…"
"You might have, you might not have. I decided not to wait to find out. It wasn't luck, I was following you."
"What? Why?"
"I wanted to talk to you, but that can wait, for now." He gestured with his head towards Mrs. Figg.
Harry opened his mouth to ask a question, but stopped. The two boys walked, slowly, deliberately, supporting Dudley's bulk between them, while Mrs. Figg nattered on about Mundungus Fletcher, Dumbledore, damage control and underage magic.
Harry glanced at his new companion, who rolled his eyes and shook his head in response.
A row broke out when Fletcher finally appeared, smelling strongly of drink and tobacco.
"Don't tell Dumbledore anything," the golden haired boy said firmly, cutting Mrs. Figg off in mid-swing of her string bag.
"WHAT?" Mrs. Figg cried, "Not tell Dumbledore? That's impossible, Harry will be expelled! Dumbledore will have to – "
"Do nothing. The Patronus was mine. I'll deal with the Ministry myself. I'm not underage; as for any other complications, I can handle myself. There's no need for Dumbledore to get involved."
"No, I don't see why – " Mrs. Figg sputtered. "You can't be seventeen, you look much too young."
"Looks don't mean anything." He sighed, "You don't have to understand. You just have to do it. Put the cloak on, Mundungus, and get back on watch. Everything will be fine."
Mundungus nodded, and shook his head in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, kid. But I'll have to d' what I'm s'posed to do an' tell Dumbeldore." He shook out the invisibility cloak he had been carrying and disappeared under its folds. There was another loud crack.
The golden haired boy snorted, and started walking again, nearly causing Harry to fall. The three of them staggered, but regained their footing after a few quick steps.
"So," Harry panted as they turned onto Privet Drive, "Dumbledore's… been having… me followed?"
"Of course he has," said Mrs. Figg impatiently. "Did you expect him to just let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent… right … get inside and stay there," she said as they reached the door of number four. "I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough."
"What are you going to do?" Harry asked quickly.
"I'm going straight home," said Mrs Figg, staring around the dark street and shuddering. "Just stay in the house. Goodnight."
"Hang on, don't go yet! I want to know – "
But Mrs. Figg had already set off at a trot, carpet slippers flopping, string bag clanking.
"Wait!" Harry shouted after her. He had a million questions to ask anyone in contact with Dumbledore, and he realized he'd never asked why she hadn't told him she was a Squib; but within seconds Mrs. Figg was swallowed by the darkness.
"That's the problem with older folks, they never trust the younger to take care of themselves," said the golden haired boy, staring off into the dark with hard eyes.
"Why didn't you want Dumbledore to know? He could help," asked Harry as they made their slow painful way up number four's garden path.
"Because I'm almost positive that the Ministry will never have picked up on any of the magic you did. And Dumbledore's in enough trouble with the Ministry as it is, he doesn't need to loose anymore face by acting rashly."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If he jumps to your defence when there is nothing to defend against… he'll look like a fool."
"What – "
"Merlin! You have a lot of questions. How about answering one, can we get this ogre inside?"
The hall light was on, but the door was locked. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had never trusted Harry enough to give him a key to the front door, and knowing Dudley, the fat pig had probably left his latchkey on the hall table. Harry rang the bell and watched Aunt Petunia's outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass of the front door.
"Diddy! About time too, I was getting quite – quite – Diddy, what's the matter?"
The boys looked sideways at Dudley and ducked out from under his arms just in time. Dudley swayed on the spot for a moment, his face pale green… then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the doormat.
"DIDDY! Diddy, what's the matter with you? Vernon? VERNON!"
Harry's uncle came galumphing out of the living room, walrus moustache blowing hither and thither as it always did when he was agitated. He hurried forwards to help Aunt Petunia negotiate a weak-kneed Dudley over the threshold while avoiding stepping in the pool of sick.
"He's ill, Vernon!"
"What is it, son? What's happened? Did Mrs. Polkiss give you something foreign for tea?"
"Why are you all covered in dirt, darling? Have you been lying on the ground?"
"Hang on – you haven't been mugged, have you, son?"
Aunt Petunia screamed.
"Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?"
In all the kerfuffle nobody seemed to have noticed Harry, or the golden haired boy, which suited Harry just perfectly. He gestured to the golden haired boy to follow him and they managed to slip inside just before Uncle Vernon slammed the door and, while the Dursleys made their noisy progress down the hall towards the kitchen, Harry moved carefully and quietly towards the stairs.
The golden haired boy stood just inside the door, regarding the many pictures Aunt Petunia had on the wall.
"Who did it son? Give us names. We'll get them, don't worry."
"Shh! He's trying to say something, Vernon! What is it, Diddy? Tell Mummy!"
Harry's foot was on the bottom-most stair when Dudley found his voice.
"Him/"
Harry froze, foot on the stair, his shoulders sagged, braced for the explosion.
"BOY! COME HERE!"
With a feeling of mingled dread and anger, Harry removed his foot slowly from the stair and turned to follow the Dursleys.
The golden haired boy watched Harry turn towards the kitchen, his face momentarily twisted in anger before composing into a stony-cold mask, and he followed after.
The scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside. Aunt Petunia was ushering Dudley into a chair; he was still very green and clammy-looking. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the draining board, glaring at Harry through tiny, narrowed eyes. So intense was his focus he didn't see the golden haired boy slip into the kitchen after Harry.
"What have you done to my son?" he said in a menacing growl.
"Nothing," said Harry, knowing perfectly well that Uncle Vernon wouldn't believe him.
"What did he do to you, Diddy?" Aunt Petunia said in a quavering voice, now sponging sick from the front of Dudley's leather jacket. "Was it – was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use – his thing?"
Slowly, tremulously, Dudley nodded.
"I didn't!" Harry said sharply, as Aunt Petunia let out a wail and Uncle Vernon raised his fists. "I didn't do anything to him, it wasn't me it was – "
"You really ought to watch your temper, that can't be good for your blood pressure," the smooth, calm voice of the golden haired boy undercut the mounting tension in the pristine kitchen.
He was looking quite critically at the pulsing vein in Uncle Vernon's temple.
"If you keep that up, you just might pop a vessel. Rather nasty, that. Here, eat this." The last comment was directed at Dudley, whom he was now mysteriously sitting by at the table, and followed by an offering of fine, dark Belgium chocolate broken off a candy bar that was now lying partially unwrapped on the table.
"It's not poisoned, I just got it at the store. Paid two pounds for it. It will help make the cold go away."
Dudley looked uncertainly between the chocolate and the golden haired boy, but the earnestness in his eyes, and the fineness of the chocolate (which Dudley had not been able to have in a long time) overcame his reservations and he took the small square sweet.
"There. That's it. Better? Good. Here, Harry, you can eat and I'll explain everything. Come sit down. Yes, that's better."
There was something about the calm of his voice that made Harry listen. It was as if the promise of peace and security were all wrapped up in those mid-range tones.
The moment the fine, dark chocolate spread across his tongue Harry could feel the aching cold lift from his bones, the horrible, terrible fear fled, replaced by a soft, light warmth that radiated from his throat and stomach.
"Who the blazes are you?" Uncle Vernon said sharply, pointing a great sausage like finger at the golden haired boy. "And what are you doing in my house?"
"Me?" the boy batted his long eyelashes innocently. "Name's Stag, James Stag. Harry let me in. I guess he thought it might only be polite to offer me some tea after I helped him carry Dudley all the way here from Wisteria Walk."
Harry finished the square of chocolate while James talked. James was a fast talker, he recounted the events of the night, cutting through Uncle Vernon's accusations and answering questions like a gatling gun.
"He pointed his wand at me," Dudley mumbled.
"Yeah, I did, but I didn't use –" Harry began angrily, but –
CRACK!
Aunt Petunia screamed, Uncle Vernon yelled and ducked, James had already gone to the window and retrieved a small roll of parchment from a rather dazed looking barn owl.
"OWLS!" roared Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia in unison.
James unrolled the parchment and laughed. "It's a letter from the Ministry of Magic inquiring why Headmaster Dumbledore is harassing the Minister in the middle of the night, over some alleged incident of Underage Magic that was never reported and didn't come up on the trace. They would like you to clarify the situation." He handed the parchment to Harry. "I bet Dumbledore feels mighty silly for just jumping in like that. Ah well. Even the best make mistakes I guess."
Harry stared blankly at the letter, read it through three times, took a pen out of the cup by the telephone, hastily wrote a reply on the back of the letter, and sent the dazed barn owl out the window.
"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Uncle Vernon bellowed.
James sighed, covering his face with both palms.
"I've told you!"
"But what happened to Dudley?"
James sighed. "Muggles! Its nothing that a bit of chocolate can't fix," he said, and gestured towards the bar of chocolate on the table. "Something about chocolate makes the cold and the fear go away. You can eat the rest of it, if you'd like."
Dudley shuddered and reached for the bar. After taking several large bites the pink flush returned to his cheeks and he stopped shivering.
"Thanks," Dudley said hoarsely.
James merely nodded.
"Would somebody explain what happened to my son?" Vernon snapped.
"We already told you, it was a couple of Dementors!" Harry said, voice and temper rising.
"And what the ruddy hell are Dementors?"
"They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban," said Aunt Petunia.
Two seconds of ringing silence followed these words before Aunt Petunia clapped her hand over her mouth as though she had let slip a disgusting swear word. Uncle Vernon was goggling at her. Harry's brain reeled. Mrs. Figg was one thing – but Aunt Petunia?
"How d'you know that?" he asked her, astonished.
Aunt Petunia looked quite appalled with herself. She glanced at Uncle Vernon in fearful apology, and then lowered her hand slightly to reveal her horsy teeth.
"I heard – that awful boy – telling her about them – years ago," she said jerkily.
"If you mean my mum and dad, why don't you use their names?" said Harry loudly, but Aunt Petunia ignored him. She seemed horribly flustered.
Except for one outburst years ago, in the course of which Aunt Petunia had screamed that Harry's mother had been a freak, he had never heard her mention her sister. He was astonished that she had remembered this scrap of information about the magical world for so long, when she usually put all her energies into pretending it didn't exist.
Uncle Vernon was doing a rather fine impression of a fish, opening and shutting his mouth repeatedly. After the third time he apparently remembered how to talk and croaked, "So – so – they – er – they – er – they actually exist, do they- er – Dementy-whatsits?"
Aunt Petunia nodded.
Uncle Vernon looked from Aunt Petunia to Dudley to Harry to James as if hoping somebody was going to should "April Fool!" When nobody did, he opened his mouth yet again, but was spared the struggle to find more words by another owl whizzing through the still open window.
Harry tore the second official looking envelope from the owl's beak and ripped it open as the owl swooped off into the night.
"Enough… effing… owls," he grumbled distractedly, stomping over to the window and slaming it closed.
Dear Mr Potter,
Thank you for your prompt reply in rectifying the afore mentioned situation with Professor Dumbledore. Enclosed in this letter are several forms that you will need to fill out, as an official statement on the events of this evening. As a warning, I am obliged to mention that the forms have been enchanted against falsehood, and the penalty for filing a false statement is not only extremely embarrassing but also very uncomfortable.
With best wishes,
Yours sincerely
Mafalda Hopkins
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
James leaned back in his chair, clicking the buckles on the inside-ankles of his motorcycle boots together, while Harry relayed the contents of the newest missive.
"Why would Professor Dumbledore be so worried about the Ministry doing something to me?" Harry asked, folding the letter and putting it in a pocket.
"I suppose he thought that if the Ministry thought you were the one who'd cast the spell that they'd haul you off to a trial or expel you from Hogwarts, break your wand, that sort of thing."
"I don't understand… why would they do that?"
"You have been reading the paper, haven't you?"
"Just the front page…"
"They've been dragging you through hell and high water, Harry. The Minister is doing everything he can to make sure that nobody believes a word you say."
"Why?"
"Because you're telling everyone that Mouldy-shorts is back."
"Mouldy-shorts? You mean Voldemort?"
James didn't flinch when Harry said the Dark Lord's name – he merely nodded.
"If you're not afraid of him, why don't you say his name?"
"I like Mouldy-shorts better."
Uncle Vernon glanced back and forth between Harry and James like a dog watching a bouncing ball, his moustache blowing with every breath.
"GET OUT!" bellowed Uncle Vernon at James.
James stiffened like he'd been stabbed in the back.
"GET OUT!" Uncle Vernon bellowed again.
James doubled over, clutching at his throat. He tried to stand, lurching at few steps, knocking heavily into the kitchen table before collapsing on the floor, his face twisted in pain.
"Stop. Please stop! I'm going!" James choked, feebly crawling towards the kitchen door.
"Vernon! What are you doing?" Aunt Petunia recoiled in horror from Harry's uncle. Blood was beginning to trickle from James' lips.
"I'm not doing anything!" said Uncle Veron, his eyes wide in horror. "Stop it! Make it stop! How do you turn it off?"
"Give me time to leave," James whimpered. "That – spack! – " He spat a large wad of blood onto the immaculate floor " – That w-will deactivate t-the wards!"
"Y-you have five minutes…" said Uncle Vernon in disbelief. Immediately James stopped writhing. He lay limply on the floor for a while breathing in short, rapid breaths. Slowly the slight young man pushed himself up off the floor. "What the ruddy hell was that?" demanded Uncle Vernon.
"Wards… to keep unwanted wizards off your property… only those with an invitation, or the ward key can enter into the effected area…" James gasped. "I have to go…"
"You're leaving already? But I have – " Harry started to say, but –
"A million and a half questions. I know," said James, taking a deep, rattling breath. He used the back of his sleeve to wipe the blood from his lips. "But I'm not welcome to stay any longer, and I only have so much time to get out of the area…" James glanced anxiously over at Uncle Vernon, "I don't know if I would survive if the wards activated again. Shall I meet you later? Say, tomorrow, at the park? Its outside the wards…"
"I'd like that," said Harry.
"I'll be there at noon. Until then, good night," James caught up the loose Dementor robes and limped out the door.
Another owl dropped off another letter, from Sirius.
Arthur has just told us what's happening. Don't leave the house again, whatever you do.
The two short lines seemed to be a whole inadequate response after all that happened.
Wasn't anyone happy that he was alive? Why did it seem like Sirius was angry with him? Uncle Vernon sat down heavily in a kitchen chair, stunned. Harry excused himself, saying that he needed to fill out some forms and post them before the Ministry got impatient and sent more owls. The threat of more owls in the kitchen was enough to allow Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to let him leave uninhibited.
Author's Notes: Main changes to this chapter: Harry is no longer going to a disciplinary hearing! The rest is pretty much the same, with some minor changes in dialogue.