2 September 1997
"Look what I found in the attic," Dudley told his parents. "I'm calling him Frankie."
Frankie was the little Frankenstein kid from the attic. Dudley had hauled him down the stairs after Frankie had finally fallen asleep following a long, long game of hide-and-seek. Frankie was good at turning into furniture, but Dudley had started to recognize that any slate-topped furniture with knobbly legs was probably Frankie in disguise. It helped that between him, Frankie, and the bats, most of the other furniture in the attic had been broken.
"He's got … scurvy, I think," Petunia whispered.
"Leprosy, I'd call it," Vernon said.
They both looked horrified.
Frankie had matted hair, slimy skin the color of soggy newspaper, and fingers with one too many joints. It was hard to tell whether he was a ten-year-old kid or a tiny old man. He gave off a weird smell, too – not body odor, but a mix of dust and decaying wood.
"He eats furniture," Dudley said. "I saw him eat a whole table leg, bolts and all."
After chewing up the table leg, Frankie had tucked up into a ball and rolled away down the path Dudley had made. Dudley had found him curled up asleep on the top of a bookshelf and lowered him down the hatch in a blanket. He still didn't trust the ladder.
"They've got a lot of nerve, running off and sticking us with their mangy child," Vernon said. "So THAT'S why she was so concerned about … everything. Wanted to make sure we'd be good guardians for this … this…"
"I think he's a Frankenstein," Dudley said. "He doesn't have the bolts, or the scars, but he's got everything else. Like I said, Frankie."
"The whole time, she's had another orphan lined up ready to go," Vernon muttered. He glared down at the sleeping Frankie. His face began to redden.
"BOY!" Vernon barked. Frankie slept on.
"I SAID, BOY!"
Vernon reached out a hand to jostle Frankie awake but drew back at the last second. "Whatever he's got, it might be catching."
Petunia recoiled. "Dudders! You ought to go have a bath. And change your clothes."
Dudley didn't mind the idea of a bath. He set Frankie on one of the old blankets he'd thrown down and went off to wash off the dust, splinters, and sweat from his morning's work.
The sun had set, and neither Hestia nor Dedalus had returned. Frankie had woken up around three o'clock, laughed at the Dursleys, and leapt back up into the attic as if he had a spring inside him.
"That's got to be a nine foot jump he just made," Dudley said. Frankie was even weirder than Harry. Frankie Hunting was more fun than Harry Hunting had been. Frankie would probably like being put in a toilet. Although, Dudley thought, if he ended up gobbling up the porcelain, the bathroom situation would be even worse than it already was.
Vernon just shook his head. "Never mind him, for the moment."
"We've been thinking, Dudley," Petunia started, "and we don't want to frighten you, but…"
"What happens if they don't come back?" Vernon finished.
"Why wouldn't they come back?" Dudley asked.
Nobody said anything. The Dursleys fell silent, thinking of the possibilities. It didn't seem likely they'd been dragged to the middle of nowhere only to be abandoned deliberately, but …
You never really could tell with their sort.
And soldiers don't always come back from battle.
A tense moment passed, with the only sound the rain on the windows.
Vernon cleared his throat. "Here, we're dependent on them, for everything. Food. Safety. Heat. Do you notice there's no wood pile, no coal? I'm not even sure how long the water will come out of the pipes, without one of them fixing it up."
Petunia pulled her arms in close to her body, almost hugging herself. "They'll come back."
"And what if they don't? We've got to have a plan. Now, I've made escape attempts before."
At least once a day, since they'd arrived in July. Usually more. At least fifty times total, by Dudley's reckoning.
"What happens? When you try to leave?" Petunia asked. "You've never said. You come back… confused."
"I don't know how to explain it," Vernon said. "I…" he reddened and shook his head, "I think I need a partner. It's got to be a team effort if it's going to work at all."
Silence once again fell.
Dudley's stomach felt cold and hollow. He'd never joined his father on the escape attempts, as he hadn't been sure what might be waiting for them on the other side of the magical protections around the place. It was the fear that had convinced Dudley the war was serious. He'd been afraid of magic stuff for years, but Harry had started being afraid the summer of the Dementors – shouting at night, rustling through newspapers and spying out the news, tensing before opening every letter and note. Harry hadn't been afraid before, from what Dudley could see, not for years. He'd been bored, or excited, or contemptuous. But he had flashes of fear that summer, and that was different. Dudley had followed him, hoping to get the upper hand at last, if even for a moment, and then – dark skies and cold and despair, and Harry yelling "RUN!"
Then the next summer, a lot of wizards and witches had met the Dursleys at King's Cross Station. Dudley, out of habit, had tried to shrink in on himself and look innocuous. They were a mixed bunch: the shabby ginger dad with his mental twins, the even shabbier scarred bloke, the pink-haired bird, the old pirate in the bowler hat who had a particular grudge against Vernon. It was Dudley's first time visiting the station. He hadn't bothered before, but he'd been – not so much worried about Harry – but curious. He'd had a good view of everything, with his height, especially since his parents had wanted to keep to the edges of the crowd.
He saw parents, nervous, looking down the tracks for the train, bobbing their heads, touching their throats. He saw kids hugging a little too long, girls' eyes welling with tears. He saw parents rushing to grab their kids from the train and teleporting away without any friendly goodbyes.
Then there was that bunch that had threatened the Dursleys – don't mistreat Harry. Dudley had cowered, sure, but he'd noticed things too. Harry's friends, a scrawny ginger and a brunette with messy hair, had both walked too slowly and smiled too weakly for teens setting off on holiday. Shabby ginger dad looked old, much older than he should.
For all their swagger, when the wizards and pink-haired witch had walked away, they'd scanned the crowd in all directions, and their faces had been grim. No laughs or claps on the back for how they'd got one over on the Muggles. No gloating. No grinning or jokes, even from the twins.
The wizards were afraid.
So when Hestia and Dedalus had told Dudley and his parents that this house was safe, and don't leave, he had listened. It was boring here, and frustrating, and he lost his temper about three times a week or more. But, if not a home, it was at least a base. An H.Q. of sorts. You're not supposed to leave.
What if they needed to, though?
What if their only options were leave or starve.
"We have to be able to leave, even just for a little bit," Dudley said. "To make sure we can, in case they don't come back."
"But it's dark, dearest," Petunia said. "And there's no moonlight, with all these clouds."
"First thing tomorrow, then," Vernon said. "We'll map the place out – together - and we'll find an exit."
3 September 1997
Dudley lay awake, hoping to hear a CRACK amidst the drumming of rain on the roof. He'd packed a knapsack with money and a few essentials, in case their escape worked. His mind spun with thoughts of fighting wizards, torture, and death.
The sky shifted to grey, and Dudley could see from his window that the meadow was now more of a bog. The rain had stopped, at least.
Unlike his parents, who had snored all night, he hadn't slept.
Vernon had tried to draw a map of the property and thrown several balls of paper to the ground with disgust. "Can't get the ruddy thing to come out right!"
"They've made it Unplottable," Petunia said. "There's a spell – it keeps the owls away and makes a place impossible to find if you don't already know it. Or to draw maps for it."
"Hmpf. Could've used that a few years ago," Vernon said. "Now, why couldn't some of them have put that up around our house?"
"We mostly know the place, Dad," Dudley said, getting back to the map. "Little house, meadow all around, river and hills to the east, rocky gorge to the north, forest to the south and west."
"There's that village we can see across the hills. That's where we need to aim."
"She said she'd be sending owls to a beech copse to the southwest," Petunia said. "I think we ought to check there first, to see if she's managed it. If she has, they're probably still alive." She looked outside and wrinkled her nose. "The place is a boggy mess, all mud." Her shoes were practical, but not meant for the wet.
Vernon snorted. "Never thought I'd hear you want to find owls."
She gave a dry little laugh. "There's a war on, Vernon."
"What's a beech tree look like?" Dudley asked.
"Light grey trunks, golden leaves in autumn," she said.
Vernon beamed, impressed.
"I was a Girl Guide, you know."
Dudley got an idea. "Wait here," he said. "I gotta check something."
He hauled himself back into the attic, where there was just enough light to see the meandering paths. "Psst – Frankie? You there?"
Thump. Thump.
"Got any boots? Wellies?"
Giggle. Rustle.
Creak. Thump.
Dudley made his way to the noises.
"Nice!" he looked around and patted a moldy grey chair that looked Frankie-like. Frankie had found a trunk full of wellies, mackintoshes, and sou'wester hats. "Thanks, that'll do fine."
An ottoman giggled and turned back into Frankie. He pointed at Dudley and rolled about the floor, laughing.
"You tricked me! Good thing you helped me find this lot, or I'd give you what for."
Frankie hit himself in the head with a bat a few times and laughed some more.
"Not that you'd notice the difference," Dudley said. "Look, Frankie – we're going to try leaving. Going out. Away. You wanna come?"
Frankie grimaced and quivered, covering his head.
"Alright, well. Guess you have plenty of furniture to eat. I think we'll be back, but – take care of yourself, alright?"
Frankie turned back into an ottoman.
Petunia practically fell at Dudley's feet when he showed her the rain gear. "Dudders! You're – you're so clever! Such a resourceful boy!"
The gear had some magical quality that made it all fit, regardless of their different sizes. The Dursleys, who once would have shunned such freakish equipment, donned it with only a moment's hesitation.
They headed out to the southwestern edge of the meadow, squelching and sliding as they hit patches of mud. Dudley's stride was longer, and he was in better shape, so he reached the edge of the forest first. He scanned the trees, looking for grey trunks and listening for owls. Of course, they'd be asleep during the day.
"You can go into the forest a ways," Vernon said. "I've been in before – see, where I've marked? I've generally headed down to the river, toward that village you can see in the distance, but I've tried over here a few times." A few of the trees lining the meadow showed a small "V."
Dudley ducked under a branch, and the tree dumped a bucketful of water on him when he jostled it. Some trickled under his mackintosh.
They followed Vernon's blazes, and Dudley could see other signs of his father's past escape attempts. Vernon was a big man, and while the rain had washed away any footprints, there were plenty of snapped twigs and crushed brambles showing the paths he'd taken.
About a hundred feet into the forest, when they could no longer see the house, the blazes stopped.
Vernon placed a hand on each of them and nodded, tense. "This is around where it happens," he said. "I get so far, and then – I end up walking back to the house in a daze."
Dudley rubbed the deep grooves in one of the tree trunks. Wet bits of bark and lichen came off on his hand, and the whole forest smelled damp and alive.
"I hate to say this," Petunia said. "But we should split up. It won't do to have all of us stumble into whatever trap they've set."
"I'll go ahead, and you two watch me and see what happens," Vernon said.
"Let me!" Dudley felt chagrined that during their whole beautiful summer here, he'd never ventured into the woods. His father had come to no harm. And, truth be told, he didn't fancy staying back with his mother and waiting around.
"No, Dudders, stay back here with me."
"NO! No, I really want to do this!"
His parents let him have his way, as they almost always did.
"After all, nothing bad's happened to me out there."
"You're so BRAVE, darling! Do be careful."
Vernon sounded gruff and looked rather proud. "Do you have your pocketknife, Dud? Good, good. Make blazes every few trees, and call back to us as you go, so we can hear how far you get."
Dudley straightened his backpack and set off.
The understory of the forest was a mix of soft bracken weighed down with rain and thick clumps of brambles. Dudley skirted the brambles. He felt fine so far, but he hadn't headed directly away from the house. As he turned around a particularly large clump of thorns, he suddenly remembered he ought to have brought a weapon. That bat would have done nicely.
No matter.
Plenty of sticks to hand. Dudley found one that had a nice weight to it and tested it out against some of the brambles. They bounced, rather than breaking, and sprayed water up into his face, along with some moldy old berries. Irritated, Dudley stamped at the brambles with his heavy boots, and was pleased when he managed to snap a few of the older canes.
He continued on and remembered that his father had all the money. No. He had some money of his own, and he'd brought it. He patted his wallet, reminding himself there was enough for batteries. There was space for some food in his knapsack. And this trip wasn't all about getting fully supplied, anyway, just proving that they could get supplies – that they weren't trapped, doomed to starve in an abandoned house that ran only on magic. And this first bit was to check to see if there were owls in some beech trees, which would mean … something. Something Dudley couldn't quite remember.
He was late. Very late. For… a thing.
A thing that was very important, that he'd forgotten.
Dudley stopped and scratched a "DD" in a tree, then gave it extra scratches just for fun.
He wondered what Piers was doing now. It was Wednesday morning, so he was probably getting ready for classes.
Had he forgotten to go to class?
No. Smeltings was very far away. And he wasn't in uniform.
He had left the gas on.
No. He didn't cook. And the house didn't use gas, anyway.
He had… he had…
The moderate anxiety Dudley had felt over the last few paces increased to a dread.
His boxing coach had always said that fear was a natural response, and nothing to be ashamed of. "Nobody WANTS to get hit. You have to be a bit mental to get in that ring. You've got to tell that natural response that it's fine. PICTURE yourself. PICTURE going up to the ring. PICTURE getting in it. PICTURE getting hit, and not minding it, and PICTURE hitting back harder." He had Dudley and the rest of the team PICTURE every step of the match, of everything going well.
Dudley tried to PICTURE seeing the beech trees, seeing the owls. He PICTURED going back and telling his parents that Hestia had at least managed that much, that she was probably just delayed.
His breath was fast, loud. The little puffs of vapor that formed with every breath were bunching together.
"I'm not scared," he told himself. "I'm excited."
He stared at the tree. DD. "Those are my initials," he said out loud. "What are they doing here?"
He hadn't moved in the last few minutes. He looked back at his footprints, dark in the fallen leaves. There was the bramble he'd attacked. There was the blaze he'd carved just before this one.
He looked ahead and picked the next tree he'd carve up. It was a young tree, white, with soft flakes of bark that would be fun to peel away. He PICTURED carving DD into the trunk.
He slowed his breathing by counting the seconds he exhaled, breathing OUT for twice as long breathed IN.
He took a step toward the white tree.
BOXING! He'd forgotten he had a boxing lesson, and Coach would be furious!
He stopped. No. No boxing.
His anger at losing out on part of his season overrode his dread, and he took another step.
GET AWAY! He had to get away.
Dudley growled in frustration and broke into a run, ignoring every other impulse until he smacked his hand on the white tree. He fought off the panic as he carved his initials into the trunk, inhaling the sharp scent and trying to picture what came next.
He couldn't remember why he was surrounded by trees. Something to do with owls? Looking for owls? He'd never gone bird-watching before, so why had he decided to start when the forest was dripping?
Behind him, he saw another tree with DD high on the trunk. He should go there. He must have followed that path before. He turned his head to look at the white tree again, and saw that beyond it, past a trio of boulders, was a stand of smooth grey trunks topped with light yellow leaves.
Beech trees, thought Dudley, and wondered why he knew that.
His mouth felt dry. He slurped some water off a curled leaf.
He took a step toward the beech trees, fighting the weight of his knapsack, which felt like he'd crammed it full of bricks.
He heard a thump on the forest floor, just ahead and a bit to the right. Something brown had fallen from the trees. Then there was another thump, behind and to the left. Dudley gave up on trying to get to the beech trees for the moment and went to check out what had fallen.
It was an owl. A medium-sized, orange-brown owl, with yellow claws and beak lay dead on the forest floor. Its eyes stared straight up, unblinking.
Another thump. Then another.
Dudley didn't know what was happening, but the GET OUT and GO BACK HOME urges were now too strong to ignore. Whatever was killing the owls could start killing young boxers in short order.
There was another thump, but this time, there was a screech as well. The owl was still alive. Dudley raced to it – it needed help, and it was also in the right direction. The bird was screeching, thrashing, clawing the ground in pain. The end of its wing was missing. Not the feathers, but part of the wing itself. It would never fly again.
Dudley's head had cleared a little as he'd moved back toward the meadow. He remembered he'd spent the whole morning the day before setting the attic up as a room for owls. He'd wanted to find owls. That's why he'd come to the forest.
"Hi," he told the owl. "I'm Dudley."
The owl continued to thrash and opened its beak in an effort to bite Dudley.
"Let's get out of here," he whispered. "It's not safe." He took his mackintosh off and dropped it over the owl, then wrapped it up so it couldn't claw or peck him. He cradled it in one arm and raced back, following his blazes.
It took only a few minutes to reach his parents.
"D-Dudders?" his mum asked.
"What're you two doing out here? We've got to get back – come on! Something's killing owls all over the place in there." Poison gas? But poison gas couldn't chop off the end of an owl's wing and leave hardly any blood.
"COME ON!" Dudley yelled, turning around to shout at his parents as he continued to crash back through the woods. They started following him, and he didn't stop running until he'd reached the house.