Chaptare the Fourrtth

It was now five entire years since the Boy Who Lived had been placed into the unwelcome and often spiteful hands of his only living relatives, the Dursleys, and the young Harry Potter was in the front garden, being teased by his cousin Dudley, and Dudley's select group of friends. These friends were not yet ready to be catalogued as a "gang"; for at that tender age they had no notion of gangs, but in their minds lurked the unconscious idea that would place them into a gang later on in life.

For now, however, they were still as cruel as children often can be, and were teasing our young hero about his glasses, whilst a boiling sun beat down onto the yellowing lawns of Privet Drive (a hosepipe ban had been issued, meaning that even the fastidious inhabitants of that curséd suburb had to suffer as their once-manicured lawns withered before their eyes).

"Four-eyes, four-eye, four-eyes!" they chanted, over and over again, into a kind of war-beat.

They had formed a game of "piggy-in-the-middle" where one person is the "piggy" and has to try and catch the object that all the other players (arranged in a lose circle) are tossing about over his or her head. It is certainly much harder to play this game, if the object you are trying to catch is also the object that enables your clear vision; and it is a game made ten times worse when all the other players are out to get you.

Harry Potter was spinning about frantically like a squirrel in a cement mixer, trying feverishly to snatch his glasses out of the air as they were tossed every which way by his cousin's cronies. "Please! Give them back!" he yelled.

"Why would you want them back, Potty-head?" Dudley Dursley shouted, spitting in Harry's face.

"Dudley darling! Come and see what treatises Mummy's got for you and your little friends!" called the simpering tones of Harry's cruel and avariciously house-proud Aunt Petunia, a woman so obsessed with keeping her house tidy that she even had a routine pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Aunt Petunia was the sort of woman who dotes on her son, and is blind to all his faults.

"See you later, four-eyes!" Dudley pushed his cousin over onto the hard, moisture-less ground. "But you won't see me!" and with that fierce taunt he threw Harry's glasses carelessly over his shoulder where they skittered onto the warm tarmac road.

Dudley's friends gave another jeering of "Four-eyes!" before scurrying indoors in the same manner of fat greedy pigs eager for the trough.

Harry felt more annoyed with them than ever. But he couldn't see that there was anything he could do in this powerless position, and he was used to being picked on by now, so he slowly stood up and walked carefully over to the blurry road. Once he felt his feet step down off the curb of the tarmac pavement he dropped gently onto his hands and knees and began scrabbling about for his spectacles in a way which many fans of the "Scooby-Doo" fandom will find highly familiar.

He was unaware of a figure dressed in a Victorian morning suit lounging on a low garden wall on the opposite side of the road and two houses along.

The man had a bulbous forehead, thin cheek and a receding hairline of thin brown hair, that gave him the appearance of a man whose face has been squashed at the bottom and had all the flesh forced up into the top half. His thin lips moved silently as he read the leather-bound tome he was balancing in his left hand. Occasionally the book would stay where it was even when he didn't hold onto it.

All of this remained unnoticed by Harry, but it was noticed by Harry's Uncle Vernon, who was in his bedroom, changing. He had been in the act of pulling on a set of golfing trousers when he saw the curious figure out of the bedroom window. He swore loudly, tried to scurry backwards in fright, but tripped as his trousers were still around his ankles, crashed painfully into the sharp corner of the bedside table and swore loudly again.

"Vernon! Vernon are you alright?" his wife shrieked in fright.

Uncle Vernon clambered to his feet and pulled his trousers up around his expanding waistline. He was now in a Bad Mood. He no longer cared who this...this freak was, but he wasn't going to remain on the same street as Vernon Dursley, no sir!

"I'm fine, Petunia dear, I just tripped, that's all!" he called in mock-cheerful tone. He stormed downstairs within his own personal thundercloud of hatred and paused in the hallway. He picked up his golfing bag that rested against the umbrella stand by the front door. In his family's eyes he looked like a professional golfer who could take on those Californian big-shots across the pond any day. To everyone else, he was, and would forever be, a complete and utter tit who deserved to be skewered on his own putter and then battered to a pulp with the driver before being left on the green to be hit by lightening.

He opened the front door with far more force than was actually necessary and caught sight of his nephew scrabbling about in the road. "BOY! Get inside!" Vernon roared in a manner not unlike that of a bullfrog.

Both Harry and the stranger looked up startled at this outburst within an otherwise peaceful atmosphere.

Uncle Vernon dropped his golfing set1and, with fury in his heart, strode in what he clearly hoped was an intimidating way towards the bizarre person sitting on the garden wall in front of Number 44.

Before he could reach the man, however, an old-fashioned black car tore down the road at an alarming pace. The man on the wall seemed to anticipate this, and, before he knew what was happening, Vernon saw the odd figure dash towards Harry (who had just found his glasses and saw the car zooming towards him) and pushed the boy out of the way. The man himself was not so fortunate.

Vernon had often heard of car accidents on the telly, but they were always things that happened to Other People. The Dursleys were not the sort of people who got mixed up in car crashes, even if they had lied to the Boy about his parent's deaths and used it as an excuse.

The car screeched to a screaming dead halt, leaving long, rubbery tire marks on the hot road. A tall thin man who looked like a spider-turned-human (also dressed in a morning suit) unfolded himself out of the Bentley and hurried over to the fallen man.

"Oh my god! Angel, are you okay?" he he gasped, and looked at Vernon as if he was supposed to be doing more than staring. "Don't just stand there with your chubby mouth hanging open, lard-arse! Get the kid inside!" The look in those yellow eyes was enough to put the fear of God into Vernon, who had never set foot in a church in his life.

Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and dragged him into the house. He shoved Harry into the cupboard under the stairs (which served as the boy's bedroom) and slammed the door, bolting it vigorously. He returned to the doorstep, whilst Petunia tried to stop the children in the house looking out of the living-room window at the hideous scene.

The second man rolled the first man onto his back and looked into the blue eyes. The first man said calmly "I'll be alright, my dear boy. I think I'll try and get a body similar to my old one but about your age this time; Heaven knows Gabriel owes me a favour."

"Why?" The second man asked, a sly grin blossomed on his face that looked very much as if it shouldn't be there. The face looked as if it were rented, rather than the wearer's real one. Vernon tried again to convince himself of the non-existence of magic.

"Well," the first man continued in his educated tones, "Gabriel and I were sent to see the Metatron; and a copy of Fruits of Heaven slipped out of his robe. I covered up for him. I was smited a good deal, but it should pay off now. I'll see you in a few weeks time, if those wretched Auditors will leave me alone for ten minutes!" the last few words escaped as a kind of demented shriek.

Vernon backed away into the doorway, not understanding a word these two wierdos were talking about; but he found it odd that wizards were also religious maniacs as well. He found it oddly fascinating, as well, and was unable to tear his eyes away, as his brain was urging to tell him.

"Okay, I'd better go; I think I can see an Auditor appearing over there." the second man stood up, gave his dying friend a cheery wave and clambered back into his car. He seemed to be staring at a tree, in front of which floated a- no, no, that was impossible! The car tires screamed as the black Bentley lurched forwards and sped off.

The man who was dying lifted himself up (impossibly) onto swaying legs at Vernon and said weakly "They say God forgives all those who cross to the other side of the road rather than face the scenes they dare not think about. But there are also those who have long memories who are not so quick to forgive. I would recommend you readjust your priorities, my good man. Now, if you'll excuse, me, Samaritan, I have to be elsewhere. I would also suggest you attend to your Dahlias, they need watering." After this long tirade, the man staggered forwards and gestured towards the house (screams emanated from the lounge shortly afterwards).

The dying man suddenly glowed with a strong blue-white light that eclipsed all other light around – even the sunlight appeared old and faded. The glowing sphere of light formed a swirling vortex of wind that imploded upon itself and winked out of existence.

The street remained quiet, apart from the screams in Number 4, which signified that the coffee table had just been transformed into a large pile of maggots.

(_)

1 ZDZ: Although he never mentioned it and would almost certainly die before admitting it, he still didn't understand golf after two years of playing it, and so carried about with him the "The Boy's Book of Golfing Tips" in his golfing beret. (£4.99 from all good retailers. Not available in all universes. Not to be ingested or used as a flotation device.)