CHAPTER 1: PRELUDE TO DARKNESS
The scorching sun, having tormented Privet Drive all day, now cast long shadows as it made its descent. The imposing square houses, once pristine, were draped in an oppressive silence. Driveways, once graced by gleaming cars, now bore a layer of dust, testimony to the drought-induced ban on hosepipe usage.
Lawns, once emerald green, now resembled arid landscapes, their blades of grass surrendering to the relentless heat. Residents sought refuge within the cool confines of their homes, their usual activities of car washing and lawn mowing abandoned. Windows stood wide open, a futile invitation to a breeze that refused to alleviate the stifling heat.
Amidst this oppressive atmosphere, a lone figure lay sprawled in a flower bed outside Number Four—a fifteen-year-old boy named Arthur Pendergast. His wiry frame and jet-black hair bore the unmistakable signs of a recent growth spurt. Tattered and dirt-streaked jeans clung to him, while a loose, sweat-stained grey henley shirt adorned his slender frame. Even his trainers betrayed wear, with their soles threatening to part ways from the uppers.
Arthur's appearance garnered disapproval from the fastidious neighbors, who believed that unkemptness should be a punishable offense. Yet, hidden behind a sprawling hydrangea bush this evening, he remained invisible to casual observers. Only the prying eyes of Uncle Nicholas or Aunt Patty, peering from the living room window, held the potential to unmask his covert refuge.
As Arthur reclined uncomfortably on the hot, unyielding earth, he found solace in the fact that, at least here, he escaped the judgmental gazes and incessant teeth-grinding of the Dentleys. The living room, a battlefield of nasty questions and unwarranted scrutiny, was a place he now actively avoided. The news on television became inaudible beneath the cacophony of familial disapproval.
Yet, even in the midst of this seclusion, Arthur yearned for something more. The monotony of Privet Drive pressed down on him, and as the oppressive heat lingered, so did his desire for change—a yearning that stirred within him like a dormant flame, awaiting the right gust of wind to burst into life.
Abruptly, Nicholas, Arthur's uncle, broke the silence that hung heavily in the air. "I'm growing concerned about Arthur, Patty. He's been keeping to himself for quite some time now."
"I've noticed," responded Aunt Patty, her tone tinged with worry. "Considering everything he's been through and the revelations he shared with us, can we really blame him?"
A weighty silence settled between them, punctuated by the jingle advertising Fruit 'n' Bran breakfast cereal, which played on the television. Meanwhile, Arthur observed Mrs. Figg, the eccentric cat-loving woman from Wisteria Walk near Privet Drive, slowly meandering past. Frowning and muttering to herself, she seemed caught in her own world.
Grateful for the concealment offered by the bush, Arthur reflected on the recent changes in his interactions with Mrs. Figg. Lately, she had taken to inviting him over for tea whenever they crossed paths in the street. However, suspicions lingered in his mind, suspecting her of clandestinely watching him for unknown reasons. As she disappeared around a corner, Uncle Nicholas's voice echoed through the open window.
"Shouldn't Deacon be back by now?"
"He should," Aunt Patty replied, her concern evident. "I just hope he returns soon. I can't stand it when he's out for too long."
Arthur shared their apprehension. In recent times, his cousin Deacon had exhibited behavior outside his usual character. According to his aunt and uncle, this change had manifested a few months before Deacon returned to spend the summer with them. He stayed out late, offering vague responses when questioned about his whereabouts, and whenever Arthur inquired about his activities, he was met with curt responses.
The opening notes of the seven o'clock news reached Arthur's ears, and a sense of anticipation tightened his stomach. Perhaps tonight, after a month of waiting, something significant would unfold. The air seemed charged with unspoken concerns, casting a shadow over Privet Drive as the evening unfolded.
"Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers inundate airports as the Spanish baggage handlers' strike enters its second week—"
"I wouldn't be surprised if they end up having a siesta or something," interjected Uncle Nicholas, casually dismissing the plight of the stranded travelers.
Meanwhile, Arthur felt a subtle release in his stomach. The news of stranded holidaymakers was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Anything truly significant, he reasoned, would immediately headline the news—death and destruction always took precedence over the inconveniences of holidaymakers.
He expelled a slow, audible breath, gazing up at the pristine blue sky. Each day of summer seemed to follow the same monotonous routine—tension, expectation, fleeting relief, and then the inevitable return of mounting tension. Arthur pondered why nothing of consequence had happened yet, even as he formulated a theory to explain the unsettling calm.
He continued to listen intently, hoping for a subtle clue, something a Muggle might overlook—perhaps an unexplained disappearance or a peculiar accident. However, the news seamlessly transitioned from the baggage handlers' strike to the ongoing drought in the Southeast, followed by the near-crash of a helicopter in a Surrey field and the divorce of a famous actress, topics that failed to pique Arthur's interest.
Closing his eyes against the blazing evening sky, Arthur found himself drifting into contemplation as the newsreader droned on. "—and finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who resides at the Five Feathers in Barnsley, has taken up water skiing! Dorkins went to find out more."
Arthur opened his eyes, recognizing that if the news had descended into the realm of water-skiing budgies, there was little else worth hearing. Rolling onto his front, he propped himself up on his knees and elbows when a sudden event shattered the tranquil stillness.
A thunderous, echoing crack pierced the sleepy silence, resonating like a gunshot. A startled cat bolted from beneath a parked car, disappearing from sight. Arthur's relatives gasped and shouted in shock, their casual evening disrupted by an unforeseen disturbance.
The unexpected sound made Arthur leap to his feet, his hand swiftly withdrawing a wooden wand from the waistband of his jeans, its end resembling a flame as if unsheathing a sword.
"Arthur, put that away!" Uncle Nicholas warned as Arthur stood, the atmosphere charged with tension.
Peering through the window, Arthur observed his aunt and uncle. Nicholas, still maintaining a slim figure, had transformed from his once-portly self. His brown hair was now cropped short, and his clean-shaven face rendered him almost unrecognizable. Patty, a woman with a full figure and large hips, shared Arthur's green eyes. Her once-long red hair now sported a pixie cut.
Hesitant but compliant, Arthur stowed the wand as he scanned the surroundings, finding no trace of the source of the deafening crack. However, the intensity of the noise had prompted curious faces to peer through various nearby windows.
Once the neighbors retreated from their windows, Nicholas approached Arthur, engaging him in conversation. "Still glued to the news?"
"Yeah," Arthur responded, his voice distant. "Nothing odd yet."
"Maybe that's the point," Nicholas mused. "If he doesn't want attention, he'll keep things discreet."
Arthur shrugged, acknowledging his uncle's point. "Still not getting much from your friends?" Nicholas inquired.
"Nothing," Arthur replied bitterly, surprising Nicholas with his uncharacteristic tone.
Concerned, Patty intervened, requesting, "Arthur, could you please find Deacon? I'd feel better if he were back home."
"Alright," Arthur nodded, crossing the lawn and stepping over the low garden wall before striding up the street.
Aware of the Dentleys' growing concern over his recent behavior, Arthur reflected that if they experienced what he had over a month ago in June, they would understand his demeanor.
Convinced that the cracking noise signaled someone Apparating or Disapparating, Arthur associated it with the sound Dobby the house elf made when vanishing into thin air. He doubted it was Dobby, though—more likely someone spying on him, which fueled his resentment.
Continuing his walk, Arthur kept a vigilant eye out for his cousin and potential followers, heading towards his favored haunts.
A familiar, sinking sensation washed over him, accompanied by the hopeless resentment and bitterness that had plagued him all summer. Tomorrow, he would wake up to the five a.m. alarm to collect the Daily Prophet delivered by an owl. Yet, he felt a growing sense of futility—glancing at the front page, discarding it, and longing for the day when the oblivious newspaper acknowledged Voldemort's return.
However, Arthur knew Voldemort was biding his time, especially with a feeble Minister for Magic in charge. As he strolled, he hoped for letters from friends—David, Chrys, and Mike—though he braced for the likelihood of disappointment in their newsless missives.
"We can't say much about, well, anything. We've been told to not say anything significant in case our letters were astray. We've been busy but I can't go into detail. There's a lot going on, we'll tell you when we see you…."
The vague promises in their letters left Arthur feeling unsettled. When would they see him? No one provided a precise date, and the lack of information irked him, leaving him with a sense of exclusion. Chrys's mention of "seeing you very soon" in a birthday card felt too ambiguous, as if deliberately keeping him in the dark.
From the cryptic hints, it seemed David, Chrys, and Mike were together, presumably enjoying themselves—perhaps at Merlon Manor, where David's family resided. The feeling of betrayal intensified, leading Arthur to give away the boxes of Honeydukes chocolates to the Dentleys without indulging in a single piece.
As he pondered their mysterious activities, frustration grew. Arthur knew his capabilities surpassed those of his friends, repeatedly proving himself. He had faced the horrors of the graveyard, witnessed Cedric Diggory's murder, and barely escaped death himself. The memories haunted him in his nightmares, and he regretted bringing them to the forefront of his thoughts.
Turning into Magnolia Crescent, Arthur's mind shifted to Sirius, his godfather. Unlike the vague letters from his friends, Sirius's correspondence offered words of caution and consolation, acknowledging the frustrations.
"I know this must be frustrating for you… Keep your nose clean and everything will be okay. Be careful and don't do anything rash…."
Following Magnolia Road toward the darkening play park, Arthur complied with Sirius's advice, restraining his anger despite the prolonged isolation. The notion of being cautioned by someone who had served twelve years in Azkaban and attempted murder seemed ironic and jarring.
Vaulting over the locked park gate, Arthur crossed the parched grass to the swings. Sinking into one, he coiled his arm around the chain, bitterness etched across his face. Nights offered no respite; even when escaping Cedric's nightmares, unsettling dreams of dark corridors haunted him, often ending in dead ends and locked doors.
His forehead scar, once a warning beacon in Voldemort's proximity, now only pricked uncomfortably. The ungratefulness of his friends irked Arthur, fueling a red haze of fury. He had brought news of Voldemort's return, yet he was stranded in Little Whinging, cut off from his wizarding world during the blazing summer heat.
Growing bitter toward Dumbledore for apparent forgetfulness and resentful of his friends uniting without him, Arthur's patience wore thin. Sirius's constant advice to "sit tight and be a good boy" added to his frustration, pushing him closer to a breaking point he hadn't anticipated.
All these thoughts swirled in Arthur's head as velvety night enveloped him, the air saturated with the aroma of warm, dry grass. The only audible sound was the distant grumble of traffic from the road beyond the park railings. Arthur couldn't discern how long he had been seated on the swing, lost in contemplation, before the sound of footsteps pulled him back to reality.
He looked up to see Deacon and an unfamiliar boy crossing the park. The misty glow of street lamps cast a silhouette, but as they reached a brighter spot, Arthur recognized Deacon's changed appearance. Taller than Arthur, with piercing blue eyes, Deacon now sported a slightly muscular build, courtesy of his participation in the high school football team. The accompanying boy, around the same age, possessed a slim frame and short blonde hair.
At the park railings, they stopped, engaged in conversation, before, to Arthur's surprise, Deacon leaned in and kissed the boy on the lips. Understanding dawned on Arthur—Deacon's recent change in behavior stemmed from a newfound relationship. It brought back memories of the summer's beginning when Arthur had disclosed his sexuality to the Dentleys, receiving acceptance but detecting a somber look on Deacon's face.
As Deacon and his boyfriend parted ways, Arthur rose and decided to follow him, feeling a twinge of guilt for not persistently searching earlier. They walked down Magnolia Road, lined with large, square houses and perfectly manicured lawns, each mirroring the others in a repetitive suburban pattern.
Little Whinging at night held a peculiar charm for Arthur, with curtained windows casting jewel-bright patches of color in the darkness. He could traverse the streets without hearing disapproving mutters about his appearance.
Hurrying to catch up, Arthur called out to Deacon as they approached the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Deacon turned, surprised to see him.
"Arthur? What are you doing here?" Deacon asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Aunt Patty asked me to find you," Arthur replied.
"Oh, right. I just realized how late it is. Come on."
They fell into step together, walking side by side.
"So… who's the secret boyfriend?" Arthur's question took Deacon aback, prompting a shocked and slightly scared reaction.
"How did you know?" Deacon asked, raising his voice before lowering it again.
"I saw you two. And the kiss," Arthur said, being blunt about what he witnessed. Deacon looked a bit pained.
"Deacon, what's wrong? Don't tell me you and he aren't on good terms."
"No! We're great together. His name's Kian. It's just… I'm scared of what my parents will think."
"Deacon, if they can accept me being gay, then they can accept you being gay too," Arthur tried to assure him.
"I'm actually not gay. I'm attracted to both boys and girls. It's just that I happen to be with Kian right now," Deacon corrected and confessed. "And besides, my parents can accept you being gay because you're their nephew. I'm their son; they'll probably hate me for liking boys as well."
"Whoa," Arthur said, grasping his shoulder to stop him and turn him to face him.
"Your parents knew I was gay for some time, and they never treated me any different, regardless. And despite being their nephew, they treat me like a second son. Just tell them when you can. They'll still treat you the same as they have all these years."
This moment allowed Arthur to focus on matters outside the wizarding world, helping his cousin with something he could relate to when he first realized he was gay. Deacon's eyes were watering slightly before he nodded.
"You're right. I'll… I'll tell them when I'm ready. Thanks, Arthur."
Arthur patted his shoulder before they continued walking back to Privet Drive. They turned right down the narrow alleyway, forming a shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and now much darker than the streets it linked due to the absence of street lamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.
"I noticed that you're carrying that around," Deacon pointed out Arthur's wand. "I thought you'd get in trouble for using it outside of your school."
"I just don't like going anywhere without it. Just in case trouble's coming," Arthur replied.
The two were silent for a bit until Deacon decided to bring up a certain subject.
"I heard you last night," he said. "When you were in bed."
This made them stop once more as Arthur breathed heavily.
"What do you mean?" Arthur asked. A cold feeling was forming in his stomach. He revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.
"I heard you talk in your sleep. You kept mentioning a name. Cedric. Who is he?"
"He's… he's… he's the one that was killed. The one I mentioned," Arthur replied, struggling to say the words as he pulled his wand out, squeezing it tightly.
"Oh…," Deacon said, regretting asking.
The two would've continued on except for the fact that suddenly it started getting cold. So cold that their breaths were visible.
The star-strewn indigo sky was now pitch black and lightless, the stars, the moon, and misty street lamps at either end of the alley were gone. Even the distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees were gone.
The two were now surrounded by absolute, impenetrable, silent darkness, like some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the whole alleyway, blinding them.
Arthur instantly knew what was going on, while Deacon was starting to freak out.
"What's going on?"
"Be quiet and don't move!"
They stood as still as statues, both turning to look left and right. The cold became so intense that they were both shivering, and goosebumps formed all over their bodies.
It was impossible… they couldn't be here… not in Little Whinging.
Arthur strained his ears, trying to hear them before he could see them.
"Can't we just go back home?" Deacon asked, sounding scared.
"We can't, they'll just follow us." Arthur shook his head.
"Who will follow us?"
"SHH!"
He heard it, in the alleyway nearby. The drawing of long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Arthur felt the biggest jolt of dread in a long while as he stood trembling in the freezing air.
"Screw it!"
"DEACON, NO!"
Deacon bolted for it, running into Arthur, making him fall on his back and drop his wand.
"YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!" Arthur yelled as he searched blindingly in the dark for his wand, hearing his cousin hitting the alley fence, stumbling.
Then there was a horrible scream, and Deacon's footsteps stopped. At that moment, Arthur felt a chill behind him, meaning that there's two of them.
"DEACON, FORCE YOUR MOUTH SHUT! NO MATTER WHAT KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" Arthur shouted as he continued looking for his wand.
"Bloody hell! Lumos!"
To his relief, in desperation for light to help his search for his wand, light flared inches from his right hand, meaning the wand tip had ignited. Arthur snatched it up instantly and scrambled to his feet, turning around.
His stomach dropped.
There was a towering, hooded figure that glided smoothly towards him, hovering over the ground with no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.
Arthur tried to think of something happy, and it came when he realized that if he didn't fend the Dementors off, he'll never see his friends again, and he may never tell Mike how he feels about him.
"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"
A large silver lion erupted from the tip of his wand, charging right at the Dementor right where the heart would be in a human, making it be thrown backward, weightless as darkness. As the lion charged, the Dementor swooped away, bat-like and defeated.
"THIS WAY!" Arthur shouted at the lion. He wheeled around and sprinted down the alleyway, holding his lit wand aloft. "DEACON!"
He had run a dozen steps when he reached them: Deacon was curled up on the ground, his arms covering his face. There was a second Dementor crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prising them slowly, almost lovingly apart. It then lowered its hooded head towards Deacon's.
Arthur was horrified because the Dementor was about to kiss him.
"GET IT!" Arthur bellowed out. Then with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver lion that he had conjured sprinted past him.
The Dementor's eyeless face was just barely an inch from Deacon's when the lion hit it, now thrown up in the air and soared away like its fellow, absorbed into the darkness. The lion entered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.
The moon, stars, and street lamps all burst back to life, and a warm breeze swept the alleyway. The trees rustled in neighboring gardens, and the rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again.
Arthur instantly rushed over to Deacon, his shirt now sticking to him, drenched in sweat. He was just too shocked. Dementors appeared in Little Whinging.
Arthur reached Deacon, who was still curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking. He bent down to try and get him up when he heard loud, running footsteps behind him.
On instinct, he raised his wand and stood back up, spinning on his heel to face who it was.
Mrs Figg, their batty old neighbor, was panting into sight. Her grizzled grey hair escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag swung from her wrist, and her feet were partly out of her tartan carpet slippers.
"Sent by Dumbledore to keep an eye on me?" Arthur spat at her, remembering hearing the name Arabella Figg from Dumbledore back in June. He just simply connected the dots.
"Yes. And don't put that wand away, there might be more of them around," she said, looking absolutely furious. "Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"
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