Ok, so I really don't know why I'm uploading this. My plans for continuing this fic mainly involve turning it into a crossover, but this is the only other chapter of purely HP that I've written, so maybe some of you will be interested in reading it... Unbeta'd trash as always.

Anyway, read on, and be sure to leave a review if you liked it. Or hated it. Or were just meh about the whole. Personally, I like it a lot, and I feel I've gotten far better at mimicking JKR's style of writing

Enjoy, and as always, cursed child isn't canon. - Author out.

PROLOGUE PART TWO

Miss Marjorie Dursley, of Number Seventy-Six Wakefield Road, was proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much. She was the last person you'd expect to be involved with anything strange and mysterious, because she just didn't hold with that nonsense.

Marjorie was a rather accomplished dog-breeder, if she did say so herself. Her bulldogs often took first place at the local shows, and her Ripper had even been a finalist at Crufts in Birmingham once. She was a large beefy woman with barely any neck, and sported an absurdly large moustache for a woman, though no-one had ever dared to comment about it to her face. At age forty-two, Marge was a still a bachelorette – perfectly respectable at her age, mind you – although she did have her eye on her next-door neighbour, the retired Colonel Fubster. She didn't have any children, and was perfectly happy about that, she couldn't stand the nasty things. In fact, there was only one child she had ever been able to stomach, the exception to her rule, and that was her nephew Dudley.

Marge's brother Vernon had married well below his station, and whilst she had not initially approved of his bride, all had been forgiven after Petunia had birthed a healthy boy. At age fourteen, Dudley had become a shining young gentleman, and in Marge's opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere. There was nothing in the world that Marge enjoyed more than doting on him, and it was her deepest regret that she couldn't see Dudley more often. It couldn't be helped though. Vernon and Petunia lived in Surrey for Vernon's work – he was a director at a successful drill frim called Grunnings – and that was far too close to London for Marge's liking. She couldn't abide big cities. No, the countryside was the place for her, where she could spend her days with her bulldogs and the Colonel. That didn't stop her from visiting whenever she had the opportunity, which wasn't too regular because she couldn't bear to be apart from her bulldogs for long.

Miss Dursley had almost everything she ever wanted, yet there was one blight upon her life. You see, Petunia had a nephew named Harry; a nasty, dreadful boy Dudley's age, that Marge preferred not to think about. After Petunia's tramp sister, and her good-for-nothing husband had gotten themselves killed in car accident – drunk-driving, no doubt – the baby boy had been unceremoniously dumped on their doorstep. Vernon and Petunia had, out of the goodness of their hearts, taken Harry in, fed him, clothed him, and he had repaid them with nothing but years of trouble. If it had been up to Marge, the brat would have been dumped at the closest orphanage, or better yet, thrown in the nearest river. It wasn't up to Marge though, and Petunia, who had always been a bit too soft, had convinced Vernon to raise the boy, out of misguided grief for her horrible sister. The insolent child had gone on to terrorise the neighbourhood, as Vernon informed Marge whenever she visited, until he had finally been shipped away to St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, an institution for mentally subnormal and violent teenage delinquents. Unfortunately, St Brutus' was still a school, and was closed for the holidays so Vernon and Petunia had to put up with the boy each summer.

The little criminal had been there when Marge had visited last year, and he had been as disgustingly foul as ever. The whole memory of her visit was unusually hazy to Marge, so she didn't often dwell on it. Instead she focused on her other visits whenever she thought of Harry, which only happened occasionally; her mind liked to wander while she sipped her morning cup of tea. Sometimes she couldn't help but think of the burden he had been on poor Dudley's childhood.

It was on one fine morning like this, when Marge was musing over how the brat had tried to cheat Dudley in musical statue at his fifth birthday, that she heard a surprising knock at the door. Her unexpected visitor hammered at the door four times, and as she got up to answer, Ripper following at her heels, Marge wondered who it could be. Colonel Fubster was her only regular houseguest, and he was away at an army reunion. It couldn't be the postman, he was petrified of her dogs. She hoped it wasn't a door-to-door salesman. Marge abhorred the scheming conmen who would try to peddle off second-rate goods or worse ask her to donate to a charity, and they had long since learned to avoid calling at number seventy-six. But, to her surprise, she didn't find any salespeople on her front porch, nor a terrified postie. It wasn't even Colonel Fubster, returned early and popping in to share a cup of tea. It was one of the last people Marge expected to turn up on her doorstep on a Thursday morning, for he should have been at work in London.

It was her brother, Vernon.

He wasn't alone. There were three other men crowding her doorstep as well. Vernon had never been a small man by any measure – Dursleys grew large, her grandmother had always said – but today his girth threatened to block his companions from view. Vernon's face was uncharacteristically pale and Marge could spot sweat forming on his forehead, which was odd, because there was a nice breeze blowing and it wasn't hot out at all. If Marge didn't know any better, she'd say Vernon was nervous. He was never nervous though; her father had raised a strong, fearless Dursley man, not some balmy, pansy milksop. Vernon's companions were all new faces to Marge, but they were all dress in fine business clothes. Perhaps they were colleagues of Vernon, in the area for a business trip and they decided to stop by for a surprise visit.

"H-hullo, Marge," stammered Vernon, wiping the sweat from his face. What was up with him? He sounded almost afraid. "May we come inside?"

Marge, who was still recovering from the shock of so many unexpected guests, nodded blankly. Vernon hurried into the house, his companions following. Without Vernon in the way, Marge got her first proper look at the others as they brushed past her into the house, Ripper sniffing excitedly at their heels. They were unremarkable men, each one not particularly good-looking. The first man, the tallest one, was all prim and proper – his suit had every crease ironed out, his black hair was parted and combed immaculately to the left – and his face seemed to be permanently etched into a frown. Ripper growled at him as he walked by, and Marge had to pick the dog up to calm him. The other two men were laxer, if only slightly. One had a mop of rather frizzy brown hair and the last man, who looked great deal older then the other two – Marge would eat her hat if he was a day under sixty – was thin and balding, only wisps of grey hair clinging to his scalp. He was carrying a rather large briefcase, as was the tall man. They both were made of well-polished black leather and looked very expensive.

All three followed Marge into the sitting room, where Vernon had already planted himself in his favourite armchair. Once they were all seated, Marge finally found her voice. "Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?"

The brown-haired man brightened at that, but the tall man answered for them all. "No, no, Miss Dursley. Don't trouble yourself. I'm afraid we're running on a rather tight schedule. Sit down so we can begin," he drawled. His voice had a distinct American twang. Ruddy foreigners!

"Oh," replied Marge. It was all she could think to say. Normally she would have given the man a piece of her mind for refusing her hospitality, and being such a rude houseguest, but he had such an imposing air about him; even Marge could see that this wasn't someone to be trifled with.

"Now, Miss Dursley, my associates and I represent an organisation called the Veritas Foundation for Global Wellbeing, which your brother has recently joined," he began after Marge had sat down. She had never heard of any Veritas Foundation, but it sounded elite, and if Vernon had joined, it must be doing something right. Unless it was a charity and they had somehow managed to hoodwink her brother… Vernon was smarter than that though, so Marge wasn't too worried.

"My name is John Smith, and this is Doctor Ian Underhill," the tall man continued, nodding to the older man, who was seated to his left. "Obviously, you already know Vernon, and my final associate is…"

"Doctor David Granger," interrupted the frizzy-haired man proudly. "Of Granger and Granger Dental. The leading oral health specialist in the greater London…"

"Now, Doctor," Mr. Smith cut in, "don't advertise to Mrs Dursley. I'm sure she doesn't want to hear it."

Smith was right; Marge didn't want to hear it. She wasn't fond of dentist and doctors; namby-pamby, smarmy people, who thought themselves superior because they had spent a few more years at school and received a piece of paper. Marge never normally got sick – those strong Durley genes – and she didn't believe in fillings and dentistry – she could take perfectly good care of her teeth on her own, thank you very much – so she had been lucky enough not to have visited a medical centre for the past few years. She was liking this Granger less by the second, he looked every bit a typical dentist.

"What brings you here?" Marge asked, pushing her hatred of the medical profession to the back of her mind. "And what does your foundation even do?"

"To answer your first question, Miss Dursley, we're here because we believe you can be a great help to us," said Smith, who was quite obviously the leader of this little group. "And as to your second – well, Veritas seeks to improve life for everyone on the planet. We do aid work in Africa and South Asia, run soup kitchens at Christmas, support orphanages, that sort of thing.

Good Lord! They were a charity. To think Marge had let them inside her house! And Vernon had been hoodwinked into this nonsense too. Why, if her Father could see this, he'd be turning in his grave.

"Of, course," Smith continued hurriedly, seeing the anger flash across Marge's face. "That's all just a public front. Our real purpose is a great deal more important, and something best kept secret from the general public, at least for now. You see, Veritas aims to identify and expose group of dangerous and abhorrent individuals, who are scattered across the world. These people practice satanic rituals and can manipulate the paranormal in a way that can only be described as magic. They call themselves witches and congregate in secret societies all across the globe."

What was this man on about? Witches? Magic? This was worse than a charity. Smith was insane. This was a group of jumped-up madmen, who had somehow brainwashed Vernon. Why, they were probably a cult! They'd hoodwinked Vernon out of all his money, - probably his house and car too – and now the thought they could try the same tricks on his sister. Well, Marge wasn't one to be fooled quite so easily. Marge had always known that she was the smarter Dursley sibling, but it still rankled her to think that Vernon could believe this rubbish.

"Codswallop!" Marge declared. "Rubbish! All of it! Vernon, surely you don't believe this nonsense. Magic … witches and wizard living among us … the whole thing's absurd. If magic was real, I think people would have noticed by now. You've no proof of any of this."

"Proof?" Granger spat. "I'll give you proof. There's stacks of spellbooks sitting in my house, flooded with those enchanted moving pictures. They indoctrinated my daughter … my sweet Hermione … said she was one of them, they did … oh yes … she got a magic stick, bought their books and went of to their little school … then, last June, what happens? Oh, we get a letter, delivered by one of their blasted owls … 'Mr and Mrs Granger, we regret to inform you that due to a mishap with a time-turner, your daughter Hermione has been lost in time and is likely in the company of convicted criminal Sirius Black. Unfortunately, due to the nature of time travel, we are unable to attempt to retrieve her. We can only hope that wherever and whenever she is, she escaped Black and lived out a long and happy life.' … Hermoine, my only child goes missing from their school, and they tell us about it in a letter? And she's with Black … he's a bleedin' mass-murderer for Chrissake … unable to attempt to retrieve her, my bloody arse!"

Granger finally finished his tirade and leant back in his seat, red-faced, his chest heaving.

What the ruddy hell was that? Lost in time? Their story got more ridiculous with every word. "Spellbooks?" Marge asked Vernon incredulously, latching on the most coherent of Granger's arguments. "You believe all this nonsense because they have some books? Any dolt can write a book, you should know that. That's no proof at all."

"Erm, well Margie … it's not like that," Vernon spluttered. "it's just that … well you see … the thing is …"

"It's Potter!" he finally blurted out.

"Your brat nephew? What does he have to do with any of this."

"He a freak … I mean a wizard. He's one of them. Abnormal little brat. He set a snake on Dudley once – I told you about that – but he bloody went and disappeared the glass of its enclosure! His parents were just like him – witches, the lot of 'em. Bloody irresponsible too, went and got themselves blown up, and of course we get saddled with the kid. Had to keep him too – they put some bloody whatzits on the house. Can't ever move either."

He stopped to draw a breath and then continued ranting on. It was obvious that he had wanted to tell Marge about this for years.

"We tried to stamp the nonsense out of him, but nothing ever worked. He turned eleven and went off to that freak school of his and comes home threatening Dudley. He blew up one of Petunia's cakes and ruined what could have been the biggest deal of my career. Then what does he do? He runs of in a ruddy flying car before I had the chance to give him the thrashing he deserved. And none of the others are any better, mind you. Their groundsman – big, lumbering oaf of a man – chased us halfway across the country and gave Dudley a flippin' pig's tail. Had to take him to the hospital to get it removed. And then now, we get a letter from them saying the boy's gone and gotten himself kidnapped by a mass-murderer! Stolen from their school, right under their bloody noses. Now Petunia's beside herself with grief – the boy is family after all, even though he's a useless twat – and what do they do about it? Nothing. No search party, or alert, or anything. Not even a ruddy thank-you for raising the boy! So, I went and did my research on magic, – try and look for the boy to cheer Petunia up – and that's where I found these Veritas people. They're trying to make these wizards accountable for their actions; expose them to the world and make them pay for what they've done … I say it's about bloody time!"

Marge's head was spinning. She hadn't heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything since … well, she'd never heard Vernon sound this passionate about anything. It was ridiculous – the whole concept was balmy. But if magic was real; if this wasn't a sick joke, then Harry Potter was exactly the sort of person she'd expected to be involved with this freakish nonsense. And Vernon sounded so sure of himself too … besides, Marge had always wondered how the scoundrel had loosed that boa at the zoo … there had always been something unnatural about him, she just hadn't been able to put her finger on it.

"Okay," said Marge, decided to hear Vernon out on this, at least for now. "Suppose you're right, and this magic nonsense is real … and that Potter hellspawn is one of them … always knew there was something rotten about him … if it's all true, where do I come in to it? I want no part in it, mind you. No spells, no sorcery. I'm not getting involved with any of it."

"Ah, but Miss Dursley," said the American, a sad smile on his face, "I'm afraid you're already involved. We have reason to believe that you are under an enchantment. Tell me, what do you remember about the last time you visited your brother?"

Marge's face blanched. She knew where this conversation was going. "You mean to tell me, that when I visited, that – that hellion, did something to me?"

"Well, erm … yes," Vernon managed, his nervousness suddenly back. "He blew you up like a ruddy balloon. You were stuck to the kitchen ceiling for hours. Then more of the show up and fix you, but they did something to your head, and the next day your barely remember your way around the house."

Marge went purple. A balloon? Blew her up like a balloon? And they had messed with her mind? What did that even mean? "They meddled with my mind?" she screeched in outrage. She'd last seen boy over a year ago, and they had done something to her then. She hadn't even realized it; hadn't noticed a single thing out of the ordinary, not for all that time. Was her mind still afflicted? Was it permanent? Were these even her real thoughts?

"Yes, it's rather unfortunate. These wizards have a way of erasing people's memories. It's how they've managed to stay hidden for so long," Smith explained. "Everyone that stumbles across them loses all recollection of their encounter, and the wizards make off with all evidence of their existence. Only a select few a permitted to retain their knowledge – direct relatives for instance, like your brother and Doctor Granger here. Veritas has only continued to exist because we've been just as cautious as them – clinging to the shadows, not taking any risks. But, with your help Miss Dursley, that's all about to change."

"Me? I'm just a dog breeder. What am I meant to do?"

"Miss Dursley, you are far more important than you realise," said Smith, turning towards the balding man. "Doctor Underhill, if you please…"

Underhill began opening his briefcase, while Smith continued speaking.

"Doctor Underhill here has been hard at work developing a chemical compound that we hope will reverse the effects of the wizards' memory wipe. Due to the nature of memory loss, and own reluctance to risk any of our own operatives – there's rumours these wizards can read minds – we've had quite the shortage of test subjects."

Underhill produced a wicked looking needle from the briefcase, and began extracting an amber liquid from a bottle.

"No, Doctor," said Smith, frowning at the needle. "Try Oblivium-Five this time."

"Five?" squeaked the doctor, speaking for the first time. His voice was high and nasally. Marge hated it instantly. "I-If you're sure. You're the boss, boss."

He placed the needle back in the briefcase and pulled out a transparent water bottle and tablet instead. He popped the tablet in the bottle where it began to bubble away, dissolving within seconds. Then he held the bottle towards Marge, who eyed it warily.

"With this, Miss Dursley, we can break the enchantment on you, and you can recover the parts of your life that the wizards have stolen from you," said Smith eagerly, gesturing at the drink.

It looked so innocent and unassuming – a plastic water bottle, like one sold at a grocery, unlabelled and three-quarters full. There was no visible sign of anything amiss; the tablet had dissolved so well, that Marge couldn't see a trace of it in the water. Still though, Marge didn't really want to drink it.

Vernon nodded at her reassuringly. Against her better judgement, Marge took the bottle from the doctor and, hesitantly took a sip. It tasted just like normal water. If Marge hadn't seen the tablet dissolve, she would have never known it was there. The drink was quite refreshing, actually. Marge hadn't realized how dehydrated she was – she had never finished her tea, after all. Before she knew it, she had downed the whole bottle.

For a moment everything was normal, but then images exploded throughout her mind. Foreign memories danced across her vision. She was at Vernon's, having dinner in their dining room. The potter boy was giving her cheek. Then she was swelling – swelling so very large, and floating out of her seat. Sounds flooded her ears too – Petunia's shrieks, Ripper's frenzied barks and Vernon's bellows at the boy.

"COME BACK IN HERE!" he had yelled. "COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT." But the boy – as predictably disrespectful as ever – hadn't listened. Instead he had fled the house. Marge had been stuck to the ceiling until they had arrived.

There had been three of them, all dressed in the most unusual, outlandish get-up Marge had ever seen. Some sort of medieval robe. Ridiculous! They had popped into the kitchen out of nowhere, pointed sticks at Marge, and before she knew it, she had been returned to normal. After that, the leader of the group had pointed his stick at Marge and the memory ended.

"My word," said Marge, dazedly leaning back in her chair. "It's all true. It happened – all of it. That blasted boy actually blew me up! The nerve of it! It was all just like you said, Vernon. And then they showed up – freaks in hoods. They got me down from the ceiling and did something to my mind!"

"Well that looks to be a success," Smith said immediately., a smug smile gracing his face

He turned to Granger, "You will be upping your donations, now you've seen us in action, doctor? Don't doubt us any more, do you?"

"Of-of course not," spluttered the frizzy-haired man. "And yes, yes. You're obviously getting some real work done. If it money you want, you'll get it. Anything to get justice for Hermione."

"Well, that settles that, then," Smith declared. "We're done here."

With that he stood up and began to leave the room. His colleagues followed, Vernon included. Marge was astounded.

"You can't just leave," she all but yelled at their retreating backs. "Magic is real. There's freakish people doing lord-knows-what out there. You can't just tell someone that and then walk away! Come back! Vernon! VERNON!"

But none of them listened to her, not even her brother. All Marge got was a half-hearted promise from him as they were halfway down the driveway.

"I'll, erm… I'll call you tonight," he called hastily over his shoulder. Then they all got into their cars and drove off, leaving Marge with only Ripper for company.

She waited fruitless for Vernon to come to his senses, turn around and come driving back, for far too long, before she went inside. Once in the kitchen, she immediately fixed herself another cup of tea, and spiked with quite a bit of brandy.

Despite the alcohol, she was still flustered for the rest of the day, and spent most of it sitting by the telephone awaiting Vernon's call. He didn't end up calling that afternoon though, nor in the evening. Eventually, once it got to nine-thirty, which was well past Marge's usual bedtime, she decided to call it a night and went upstairs to shower and get ready for bed. She wasn't sure how she was going to sleep though; her whole worldview had been tilted on its side, and her mind was buzzing with questions.

Marge did end up sleeping that night, at least until she was awoken by a clanging downstairs. At first, she thought it was Ripper. He had snuck into the kitchen before and made a racket trying to get at a midnight snack. But no, Ripper was still curled up be her side, snoring away. He was advanced in age now, and quite a bit deaf, so it seemed he had slept through the noise.

Marge checked her clock. Eleven-thirty. All her other dogs were in the kennels, so what could have made that racket?

Shrugging on her nightgown, she left her bedroom to investigate.

"Who's there?" she called down the stairs, into the darkness. "Show yourself. I'm warning you – I'm armed."

Marge didn't have any weapons, but she did have a mean right hook – "I'm not raising any child that doesn't know how to fight," her father had always said.

"Terribly sorry," came a voice from the kitchen. "Couldn't find the light. Ah, here it is."

That voice … Marge recognised that American accent. It could only be…

The light flared on and Marge's suspicions were confirmed, as John Smith's face came into view, peeking out from the kitchen. Marge glanced at the front door, which was still bolted shut; locked tight.

"How did you get inside?" she questioned. "More importantly, what are you doing here?"

"Well, Marge Dursley, at the foundation, there's nothing we despise more than loose ends. We run a watertight operation. Very delicate work. It the wrong people found out about us before we're ready, it could destroy everything we've worked for. So, you see, we can't allow people to retain compromising information, if they aren't useful to us. And you, Marge, are rapidly becoming less useful by the second."

Unconsciously, Marge's eyes darted all around the hall, looking for an escape route. She really didn't like where this conversation was going…

"So, you're just going to kill me?" she asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling. "Just like that? People will ask questions. I'll be missed. I'm a very successful dog breeder, I'll have you know."

"And Vernon!" Marge exclaimed, suddenly remembering her brother. "He'll be suspicious too. He'll know something's up. Comes to visit with you lot and I turn up dead the next morning. He'll be onto you for sure."

"Oh, Marge, you poor, besotted fool. When I tell your oaf brother that a wizard did it, I won't exactly be lying, will I?"

Mr Smith was brandishing a stick in his left hand. An awfully familiar sort of stick…

"You … you're one of them!" she gasped in horror.

It didn't make sense. Why would a wizard be working to expose other wizards?

"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why are you doing this?"

"Oh, Marge," the wizard replied. "Did you really think I would explain myself to you?"

He pointed the wand at Marge's face and whispered, "Obliviate."

"Was that supposed to do something?" Marge spat, adrenaline giving her some of that good old Dursley fighting spirit. "Not a very good wizard, are you?"

"Amazing," the freak murmured, ignoring Marge's jabs. "Oblivium-5 generates a total immunity to the charm. We can proceed to phase two."

He looked up at Marge, and a wicked grin split across his face.

"So sorry, Marge. If that had worked, I would have let you live, but now, I really have no choice but to kill you."

"Please," Marge sobbed. "I'll do anything. Please don't kill me. Who's going to take care of my dogs?"

But the man remained unmoved.

"Avada Kedavra"

The world went black.