Harry had grown over the school year. This did not make him a giant—Dudley was still slightly taller—but it felt odd not to crane down to catch his cousin's eye. Harry's face had rearranged itself as he grew, his jaw stronger than it used to be, his eyes not quite so wide under his thick round glasses. Harry had always had mum's skinniness, but for the first time that skinniness was also accompanied by something of mum's pinched look.
Dudley knew he'd changed himself: with a year of (mostly) sticking to his diet and rejoining the boxing club, this time in earnest, he had gained muscle. He'd also gained the title Junior Heavyweight Inter-school Boxing Champion of the Southeast, which Dudley had grinned about for days, remembering the shock of his knockout blow through the meat of his arm and the way his opponent had fallen flat out cold.
And the cheers! They had been even sweeter than the slice of pie he'd treated himself to after.
Dudley had never been prouder of anything in his life. So he didn't know why when dad talked about having a boxing champion for a son he could only paste on a smile.
/
During the day, Number 4 was stifling with summer heat. Even the turn of the ceiling fan merely stirred the heat, doing nothing as far as Dudley could tell. His clothes gained pools of sweat under the arms, and mum sat fanning herself between sips of iced tea.
Dudley spent all the time he could in his room, making folded wreaths. He started with a small, flat diamond from one sheet of paper, then slid another one on the end, turning and turning until he had a circle. Dudley put one around his headboard, another around his neck. He took the circles apart again and hid them in his schoolbag, then went downstairs into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of iced tea. When he glanced into the living room, he saw that Harry had flung himself on the couch between mum and dad as they watched the news.
"What are you so interested in, boy?" Dad hissed.
"The news," Harry said.
"The news!" Mum spat. "That's a likely story."
Harry didn't reply, but kept his face glued to the screen.
"What trick are you trying to pull this time?" Mum sneered.
"Nothing. I want to watch the news."
"You think you're going to impress someone?" Dad growled. "You think we don't know what kind of freak you are?"
Harry kept his eyes on the screen.
Mum ground her teeth.
This was another thing that had changed about Harry. Instead of trying to avoid the Dursleys, he was hanging around them any chance he got, watching TV. It made Dudley uncomfortable.
Harry, he decided, didn't belong on the couch between mum and dad, though not for the reasons they were trying to insinuate. Harry was always running, light on his feet. When he wasn't running, he could be found sitting in his room, where he talked to his owl or sent Hedwig flying out across the yellowing expanse of Little Whinging, bringing back dead mice and letters in shimmering ink.
Harry paged through spell-books with moving pictures inside; he rummaged through a heavy school trunk stuffed with long black robes, he wrote using parchment and feather-quills. Why would Harry of all people want to sit in the stale, perfumed living room watching the news?
/
Drought seared the pristine lawns of Privet Drive. The patter of sprinklers (except Mr Next-door's) disappeared. Heat-haze rose from the blacktop. The midges whined, filling the air in droves.
/
The only time Little Whinging came alive was at night. The moment the sun's grip loosened, Dudley was out, leaving mum with a fib about going to tea.
Instead, with the gang, he took to his racing bike until the wind covered up the clink of china inside boxy houses.
They stopped at the corner shop and stole fags under the disapproving shouts of the proprietor, took to the play park, climbing on the swings and egging each other on to greater and greater feats of daring. They laughed when the chains broke and landed on wood-chips, getting splinters on their palms. They smoked their ill-gotten loot on street corners, delighting in the disapproving looks from passing cars, throwing stones at windshields. Dudley's legs ached with the burn of pedals as he over the quiet streets, whooping, drunk on his own power.
/
They shoved little Mark Evans' face into the fence and punched him till the bastard cried uncle. Dudley grinned, watching snotty tears run down the kid's cheeks, and clapped his friends on the back.
Across the empty road, Harry was sitting, broken trainers perched on the low stone wall.
"That guy gives me the creeps," Gordon said, looking at Dudley's cousin.
The dim summer air crackled like warm fire.
/
Sometimes in the distance Dudley would see Harry walking alone along the curb, hands in the pockets of his torn jeans, nicking the magazines from the bins of unwary houses.
Harry, too, only seemed to come alive at night.
/
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT AN HOUR LIKE THIS?" Dad thundered. Dudley, upstairs in his room, turned up the TV. Whatever Harry answered was lost under the noise. "YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY, LOITERING AROUND LIKE A HOOLIGAN? THE STREETLIGHTS CAME ON HALF AN HOUR AGO!"
The cartoons flashed bright in front of Dudley's eyes with endless static movement.
"DUDLEY ALWAYS GETS HOME AT A REASONABLE TIME—"
He could not hear Harry's response, though he could imagine the sullen mutter of it: Dudley just walked through the door five minutes ago—
"IF YOU EVER COME HOME AFTER HIM AGAIN, YOU'LL BE SPENDING THE NIGHT LOCKED IN THE GARDEN SHED! YOU HEAR ME?"
Dudley turned the TV volume higher and rooted in the back of his closet for one of his forbidden cakes. He tore the plastic wrapper and took a bite, making sure to taste it for as long as he could. It was his rule. Dudley could break his diet if he wanted to, but only if he let himself enjoy it.
/
When Dudley was a boy, he'd been able to sleep through anything. At fifteen, he found himself waking. A howl tore through the hall; a whimper in Harry's voice. "Don't," his cousin begged. Dudley waited for dad to rouse, to pound his fist against the wall until Harry stopped. But dad slept, his snores rattling the walls. Harry's nightmare obviously didn't disturb him the way a hooting owl did.
"Don't," Harry said again. For a minute he fell silent. Dudley started to drift off once more, when the moaning started again. "Don't kill Cedric!" There was a keen, and again Harry pleaded, "don't kill Cedric!" Harry sounded like he was trying, and failing, to fight; the pleading turned to sleep-jumbled sobs.
"Dad!"
The sound was so clear and piercing that Dudley sat upright, staring with wide eyes toward the room across the hall. He had never once heard Harry call out for help from his dead father. Like mum and dad, he kept quiet about them, as though all the Dursleys knew it was best to pretend James and Lily didn't exist.
"Help me! Dad! Mum!"
Harry was dreaming.
The cries turned to mumbles. Harry's bed creaked. The mumbles faded off into snores.
Dudley remembered, years ago, sitting beside Harry at the kitchen table while dad brought a workman in to bar the window of the smallest bedroom. He remembered Harry saying, "Apparently someone wants to kill me," in a matter-of-fact voice.
And Dudley remembered the giant talking about how James and Lily died: at the hands of a monster who'd tried to kill Harry too, and left him with a tangled scar on his forehead.
/
Dudley had lived in the same neighbourhood all his life, and he could name every sign and street-corner, every quirk and imperfection pointed out by mum's keen eyes. But there were not many of them, even by the standards of Petunia Dursley. Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all owned by large, square owners who drove very clean cars.
But no matter how large and square the houses and no matter how shining the cars, Dudley thought that it was only at night, when the curtained windows made patches of jewel-bright colour in the darkness, that Little Whinging seemed big enough to hold him.
"...squealed like a pig, didn't he?" Malcolm said, to a round of guffaws.
"Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers.
"Same time tomorrow?" asked Dudley.
"Round at my place, my parents will be out," said Gordon.
"See you then," said Dudley.
"Bye, Dud!"
"See ya, Big D!"
The gang scattered.
Dudley walked through the night-dark streets, hands in his pockets, humming tunelessly. The sky was royal blue and endless above him; and the sweet scent of lilac filled the air.
"Hey, Big D!"
Dudley turned.
"Oh," he grunted. "It's you."
Harry had a strange half-smile; his eyes glittered behind the thick roundness of his lenses. "How long have you been 'Big D' then?" There was a hum around him like static from a TV screen.
"Shut it," snarled Dudley, turning away.
"Cool name," said Harry, grinning and falling into step beside his cousin. "But you'll always be 'Ickle Diddykins' to me."
"I said, SHUT IT!" said Dudley, hands curling into fists. Harry had a way of taking up space without even trying, and the road which had seemed so endless a minute ago was now suffocating. Dudley choked on his anger, knowing it would be moronic to clock Harry even if he wanted to.
"Don't the boys know that's what your mum calls you?"
"Shut your face."
"You don't tell her to shut her face. What about 'Popkin' and 'Dinky Diddydums', can I use them then?" Harry taunted.
You don't tell her to shut her face either, Dudley thought, but he said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting Harry demanded all his self-control.
"So who've you been beating up tonight?" Harry said. "Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—"
"He was asking for it," snarled Dudley.
"Oh yeah?"
"He cheeked me."
"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true…"
A muscle was twitching in Dudley's jaw. He knew Harry loved how furious he was making Dudley, and that Harry was spoiling for a fight; he also knew he'd be lucky to end up like Aunt Marge if he fought back.
They turned right down the narrow alleyway which formed a short cut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.
"Think you're a big man carrying that thing, don't you?" Dudley said after a few seconds, airing what he would not have dared to refer to under the open sky.
"What thing?" Harry pressed nastily.
"That—that thing you are hiding," Dudley stammered.
Harry grinned again. "Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s'pose, if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time…" In the unlit alley he, too, could do what he wouldn't have dared along Little Whinging's wide roads. He pulled out his wand, and Dudley looked sideways at it.
"You're not allowed," Dudley said. "I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to."
"How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?"
"They haven't," said Dudley. He knew they hadn't, because if they had, Harry wouldn't have bothered waving his stick around before using it. It was still hard to sound sure with the wand pointed in his direction, knowing what it could do.
Harry laughed softly, his teeth flashing white. With his wand in his hand he was fearless.
"You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?" Dudley snarled.
"Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten year old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?" Harry jeered.
It's not me that keeps banging on about it, Dudley thought with sudden spite.
"He was sixteen, for your information," he snarled, "and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out—"
"Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry's wand?" Harry sneered.
"Not this brave at night, are you?" Dudley snapped.
"This is night, Diddykins," Harry taunted, gesturing with his wand. "That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this."
"I mean when you're in bed!" Dudley snarled.
He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.
"What d'you mean, I'm not brave when I'm in bed?' said Harry. "What—am I supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?"
"I heard you last night," said Dudley breathlessly. "Talking in your sleep. Moaning."
"What d'you mean?" Harry said again. But this time he must have known what Dudley meant. He looked down, his hand tightening around his wand as though for the first time in their spat he felt he needed it. Dudley felt strangely triumphant.
He laughed harshly. "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!'" Dudley mimed. "Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?"
"I—you're lying," said Harry in a shaking voice. His face had gone grey and pinched, making him look more like mum than ever. In a flash Dudley realized that the taunt, which he'd used to make Harry feel small, had actually hit home.
"'Dad!" Dudley pressed his advantage. "'Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo hoo!'"
"Shut up," said Harry quietly. "Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!"
But Dudley wasn't going to stop. "'Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to—' Don't you point that thing at me!"
Dudley backed into the alley wall. In a flash Harry had pointed the wand directly at Dudley's heart. He bared his teeth, face twisted into a snarl. "Don't ever talk about that again," Harry spat. "D'you understand me?" The expression on his face was so full of loathing it would've looked at home under dad's moustache.
"Point that thing somewhere else!" Dudley shouted.
"I said, do you understand me?"
"Point it somewhere else!"
"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—"
Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch black and lightless—the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.
"W-what are you d-doing?" Dudley stammered. "St-stop it!" He groped forward, anchorless.
"I'm not doing anything!" Harry snapped uneasily. "Shut up and don't move!"
"I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I—"
"I said shut up!"
The cold was so intense he was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. Dudley didn't know what Harry had done to the world, or to Dudley, that could have taken even the stars from the sky. A sinking dread numbed him.
"I'll t-tell Dad!" Dudley whimpered, stumbling. "W-where are you? What are you d-do—?"
"Will you shut up?" Harry hissed, "I'm trying to lis—"
But Harry fell silent then, and in the silence Dudley heard something that was neither himself nor Harry; something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths.
"C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!"
"Dudley, shut—"
WHAM! The sound of Harry's voice had showed Dudley where he was, and he felt the sting of his blow connecting. Harry's skinny form went flying across the alley, and with a hollow clatter of wood his wand flew out of his hand. But the darkness didn't recede.
"You moron, Dudley!" Harry yelled, his fingers scrabbling against the ground.
Dudley ran, hit the alley fence, stumbled.
"DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!"
The rattling sound was in front of him, and there was a heavy tide tugging him to his knees. Dudley screamed.
"DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!" Harry shrieked. "WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand! Where's—wand—come on—Lumos!"
In the cold, directionless glow of Harry's wand, Dudley could see the thing in front of him clearly; a figure robed in tatters, floating, curling its gnarled fingers toward his throat. With every breath it seemed to suck the night in, every star, every sound, and its putrid, death-cold breath filled his lungs. In the monster's breath, Dudley drowned.
The giant seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head, "NEVER —" he thundered, "—INSULT—ALBUS—DUMBLEDORE—IN—FRONT—OF—ME!"
He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley—there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, and Dudley felt a pain in his bottom like something growing and twisting from his skin.
Dudley gasped for breath through his nose like he was swimming in deep water, trying to keep his mouth shut while the vortex in the hooded robe brushed its papery fingers against his neck.
Dad clocked Harry round the head. "YOU'D BETTER BE GRATEFUL WE EVEN LET YOU LIVE!"
"Yes Uncle Vernon."
Dudley turned back to the TV and grabbed another bread roll.
Dudley fell to the ground heavily, back against the dirt, and the creature came toward him, floated over him.
"The ones who live at Number 4?" Mrs Next-Door laughed. "I wouldn't be caught dead with them if it wasn't for politeness. Social climbers," she sniffed. She was sitting out on her lawn chair, taking the sun; completely unaware of Dudley on the other side of the picket fence, on the garden bench behind the bushes where he had fallen asleep an hour ago. Dudley rubbed his eyes and blinked, unable to believe his ears.
"Did you hear about the father?" her companion added sagely. "They say he once spent an entire day barricading his family inside—hammering plywood over the doors—even the milkman couldn't come in!"
Dudley's lungs were rattling almost as loudly as the creature's, now. He curled up, arms across his face, trying to shield himself from the inexorable darkness.
"Wait there sweetums, your bath will be ready in just a minute," mummy said, locking the bathroom door and turning on the water, testing the temperature with her hand.
She put the toilet seat up and kneeled in front of it, sticking her fingers up her throat to make herself sick. Thick yellow chunks of acid went plopping into the toilet.
Dudley watched the tub fill with water as mummy heaved, and stood up, and flushed the toilet, nice and neat.
"DUDLEY? DUDLEY!" Harry's footsteps came closer, pelting wildly against the ground. "GET IT!" he screamed, and the moon, the stars and the 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.
The lilac trees bloomed, sweet under pools of liquid light.
/
Dudley's feet moved in a daze. He could feel Harry's broad shoulders under his arm. Harry stepped, sagging, along the street. Mrs Figg was saying something about sorcery.
"Dumbledore—the ministry—underage magic—"
In his mind's eye, Dudley could still see Mum bent over the toilet, trying to make herself as clean as the inside of her house.
"Dementors—magic—MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!" There was a huge crack of displaced air.
The only real thing seemed to be Harry's back, holding him steady. Dudley tottered and swayed, sweat on his brow, shivering though the chill had already gone.
Stumbling like a drunkard, they made their slow, painful way up number four's garden path.
The hall light was on. Harry stuck his wand back inside the waistband of his jeans and rang the bell, and they watched mum's outline grow larger and larger, oddly distorted by the rippling glass in the front door.
/
"Phone the police, Vernon! Phone the police! Diddy, darling, speak to Mummy! What did they do to you?"
"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."
"BOY! COME HERE!"
Harry turned around in reluctant obedience and trudged behind the procession. Mum helped Dudley into a chain, and sponged the sick from his leather jacket. His was still nauseous, the world swimming in and out of focus: the scrupulously clean kitchen had an oddly unreal glitter after the darkness outside.
"What have you done to my son?" dad said in a menacing growl.
"Nothing," said Harry.
"What did he do to you, Diddy?" mum said in a quavering voice. "Was it—was it you-know-what, darling? Did he use—his thing?"
Dudley nodded dully.
"I didn't!" Harry said sharply, as mum let out a wail and dad raised his fists. "I didn't do anything to him, it wasn't me, it was—"
A screech owl swooped in through the kitchen window. Narrowly missing the top of dad's head, it soared across the kitchen, dropped the large parchment envelope it was carrying in its beak at Harry's feet, turned and zoomed outside again and off across the garden.
"OWLS!" dad bellowed, the well-worn vein in his temple pulsing angrily as he slammed the kitchen window shut. "OWLS AGAIN! I WILL NOT HAVE ANY MORE OWLS IN MY HOUSE!"
Dudley barely noticed the letter, or that Harry was reading it. He barely noticed dad, purple-faced, shouting, his fists still raised; he barely noticed mum's arms around him. Dudley's insides were queasy, all the terror he'd ever felt trying to squeeze itself through him at once.
Harry pulled his wand out and turned to leave the kitchen.
"Where d'you think you're going?' dad yelled. He pounded across the kitchen to block the doorway into the hall. "I haven't finished with you, boy!"
"Get out of the way," said Harry quietly.
"You're going to stay here and explain how my son—"
"If you don't get out of the way I'm going to jinx you," said Harry, raising his wand.
"You can't pull that one on me!" dad snarled. "I know you're not allowed to use it outside that madhouse you call a school!"
"The madhouse has chucked me out," said Harry. "So I can do whatever I like. You've got three seconds. One—two—"
A resounding CRACK filled the kitchen. Mum screamed, dad yelled and ducked, and Harry wheeled around, looking for the disturbance, his wand outstretched.
"OWLS!" Dad howled, as Harry crossed the room and wrenched the window open. Harry unfolded the letter tied to the owl's leg and looked at it for a long moment.
"Right," Harry said suddenly, "I've changed my mind, I'm staying." He flung himself down at the kitchen table defiantly and faced mum and Dudley. Mum glanced despairingly at dad.
"Who are all these ruddy owls from?" dad growled, catching her glance.
"The first one was from the Ministry of Magic, expelling me," said Harry shortly. "The second one was from my friend Ron's dad, who works at the Ministry."
"Ministry of Magic?" dad bellowed. "People like you in government? Oh, this explains everything, everything, no wonder the country's going to the dogs…." he waited as though expecting Harry to respond.
When Harry didn't give him the satisfaction, dad glared at him, then spat out, "And why have you been expelled?"
"Because I did magic."
"AHA!" dad roared, slamming his fist down on top of the fridge, which sprang open, letting several of Dudley's low-fat snacks topple out to burst on the floor; Dudley watched them go with a kind of mournful dread. "So you admit it! What did you do to Dudley?"
"Nothing," said Harry. "That wasn't me—"
"Was," muttered Dudley. Mum and dad bent over to listen.
"Go on, son," dad said, "what did he do?"
"Tell us, darling," mum whispered.
"Pointed his wand at me," Dudley mumbled. Nothing made sense. The only thing he knew was that magic had happened and Harry had been there. Harry would explain. He'd have to, because Dudley could still remember the creature crawling through Dudley's head and the thoughts that it had stirred up were still there, floating uneasily like dead things, bloated and bobbing on the surface of a lake.
"Yeah, I did, but I didn't use—"
"SHUT UP!" mum and dad roared in unison.
"Go on, son," dad repeated, moustache blowing about furiously.
"All dark," Dudley said hoarsely, shuddering. "Everything dark. And then I h-heard… things. Inside m-my head…"
"What sort of things did you hear, popkin?" mum breathed.
But Dudley only shuddered and shook his head. He couldn't explain. If he tried, he would only sound as though he were being foolish, scared of a few memories.
"How come you fell over, son?" dad said, in an unnaturally quiet voice, the kind of voice he might adopt at the bedside of a very ill person.
"T-tripped," said Dudley shakily. "And then—"
He gestured at his chest.
"Horrible," he croaked. "Cold. Really cold."
"OK," said dad, in a voice of forced calm, while mum laid an anxious hand on Dudley's forehead to feel his temperature. "What happened then, Dudders?"
"Felt… felt… felt… as if… as if…"
"As if you'd never be happy again," Harry supplied dully.
"Yes," Dudley whispered, still trembling.
"So!" said dad, voice restored to full and considerable volume as he straightened up. "You put some crackpot spell on my son so he'd hear voices and believe he was—was doomed to misery, or something, did you?"
But it wasn't crackpot, Dudley thought. It was true. All those memories were true.
"How many times do I have to tell you?' said Harry, temper and voice both rising to match dad's. "It wasn't me! It was a couple of dementors!"
"A couple of—what's this codswallop?"
"De—men—tors," said Harry with exaggerated slowness. "Two of them."
"And what the ruddy hell are dementors?"
"They guard the wizard prison, Azkaban," said mum.
Two seconds of ringing silence followed these words before mum clapped her hand over her mouth. Dad was goggling at her. Dudley had not been so shocked to hear anything his mother said since that night in the hut on the rock so many years ago.
"How d'you know that?" Harry said.
"I heard—that awful boy—telling her about them—years ago," mum said jerkily.
"If you mean my mum and dad, why don't you use their names?" said Harry loudly.
Dad looked at mum, opened his mouth and closed it, as though not sure what to say. Finally he croaked, "So—so—they—er—they—er—they actually exist, do they—er—Dementy-whatsits?"
Mum nodded.
Another owl zoomed through the still-open window like a feathery cannon-ball and landed with a clatter on the kitchen table, causing all three of the Dursleys to jump: as usual only Harry took the lunacy in stride, holding out his hand for the message.
"Enough—fucking—owls…" muttered dad distractedly, stomping over to the window and slamming it shut once more.
Harry read the note the owl gave him while everyone watched with baited breath. Predictably, dad ran out of patience first. "Well?" he said. "What now? Have they sentenced you to anything? Do your lot have the death penalty?"
"I've got to go to a hearing," said Harry.
"And they'll sentence you there?"
"I suppose so."
"I won't give up hope, then," dad said.
"Well, if that's all," said Harry, getting to his feet.
"NO, IT RUDDY WELL IS NOT ALL!" dad bellowed. "SIT BACK DOWN!"
"What now?" said Harry snappishly.
"DUDLEY!" dad yelled. "I want to know exactly what happened to my son!"
"FINE!" roared Harry. He still had his wand clutched in his hand, and at his words, red and gold sparks shot from the tip, lighting the room like a sparkler.
Dudley flinched.
"Dudley and I were in the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk," snarled Harry. "Dudley thought he'd be smart with me, I pulled out my wand but didn't use it. Then two dementors turned up—"
"But what ARE Dementoids?" asked dad furiously. "What do they DO?"
"I told you—they suck all the happiness out of you," said Harry, "and if they get the chance, they kiss you—"
"Kiss you?" said dad, his eyes popping slightly. "Kiss you?" Predictably, the thought that there might have been anything queer involved in Dudley's attack disturbed him more than if Dudley had come home with teeth missing and a dislocated arm.
"It's what they call it when they suck the soul out of your mouth."
Mum uttered a soft scream.
"His soul? They didn't take-—he's still got his—" Mum seized Dudley by the shoulders and started shaking him like she might hear his soul rattling around inside him. Dudley'd never known a soul was a thing that could get separated out. He'd not been sure he'd even believed in souls at all till now. His mind strained for what he recalled of religious talk: a soul was where you lived. It collected all your actions in it like a jar getting slowly filled and at the end you'd see what you were made of.
"Of course they didn't get his soul, you'd know if they had," said Harry.
"Fought 'em off, did you, son?" said dad loudly. "Gave 'em the old one-two, did you?"
It was magic, Dudley thought. If it hadn't been for Harry—
He remembered drowning. Cold seeping through him. Death opening its jaws.
"You can't give a Dementor the old one-two," said Harry through clenched teeth.
"Why's he all right, then?" dad blustered. "Why isn't he all empty, then?"
"Because I used the Patronus—"
WHOOSH.
With a clattering, a whirring of wings and a soft fall of dust, a fourth owl came shooting out of the kitchen fireplace.
"FOR GOD'S SAKE!" dad roared, pulling great clumps of hair out of his moustache, a sure sign he was at the end of his rope. "I WILL NOT HAVE OWLS HERE, I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS, I TELL YOU!"
Harry read the letter with a frown.
Harry saved me, Dudley thought. Why?
"—a peck, I mean, pack of owls shooting in and out of my house. I won't have it, boy, I won't—"
"I can't stop the owls coming," Harry snapped, crushing the letter in his fist.
"I want the truth about what happened tonight!" dad barked. "If it was demenders who hurt Dudley, how come you've been expelled? You did you-know-what, you've admitted it!"
"I did the Patronus Charm to get rid of the dementors,' Harry explained. "It's the only thing that works against them."
"But what were Dementoids doing in Little Whinging?" said dad in an outraged tone.
"Couldn't tell you. No idea."
"It's you," said dad forcefully. "It's got something to do with you, boy, I know it. Why else would they turn up here? Why else would they be down that alleyway? You've got to be the only—the only—the only you-know-what for miles."
"I don't know why they were here," Harry said flatly.
Dad thought for a moment.
"These demembers guard some weirdo prison?" he asked craftily.
"Yes."
"Oho! They were coming to arrest you!" said dad, with the triumphant air of a man reaching an unassailable conclusion. "That's it, isn't it, boy? You're on the run from the law!"
"Of course I'm not," said Harry, shaking his head.
"Then why—?"
"He must have sent them."
"What's that? Who must have sent them?"
"Lord Voldemort."
"Lord—hang on," said dad, his face screwed up. "I've heard that name… that was the one who…"
"Murdered my parents, yes," Harry said dully.
"But he's gone," said dad impatiently. "That giant bloke said so. He's gone."
"He's back."
"Back?" mum whispered.
"Yes," Harry said, meeting her eyes. "He came back a month ago. I saw him."
The nightmare, Dudley thought. Don't kill Cedric, Harry had pleaded. But whoever Cedric was to his cousin, Lord Voldemort had killed him in front of Harry.
"Hang on," said dad, looking from mum to Harry and back again. "Hang on. This Lord Voldything's back, you say."
"Yes."
"The one who murdered your parents."
"Yes."
"And now he's sending dismembers after you?"
"Looks like it."
"I see," said dad. "Well, that settles it, you can get out of this house, boy!"
"What?" said Harry blankly.
"You heard me—OUT!" dad bellowed, and Dudley and even mum jumped. "OUT! OUT! I should've done this years ago! Owls treating the place like a rest home, puddings exploding, half the lounge destroyed, Dudley's tail, Marge bobbing around on the ceiling and that flying Ford Anglia—OUT! OUT! You've had it! You're history! You're not staying here if some loony's after you, you're not endangering my wife and son, you're not bringing trouble down on us, if you're going the same way as your useless parents, I've had it! OUT!"
Harry didn't move.
"You heard me!" dad said, bending forwards, his purple face so close to Harry that flecks of spit hit Harry's face. "Get going! You were all keen to leave half an hour ago! I'm right behind you! Get out and never darken our doorstep again! Why we ever kept you in the first place, I don't know, Marge was right, it should have been the orphanage. We were too damn soft for our own good, thought we could squash it out of you, thought we could turn you normal, but you've been rotten from the beginning and I've had enough—OWLS!"
The fifth owl zoomed down the chimney so fast it actually hit the floor before zooming into the air again with a loud screech. Harry raised his hand to seize the letter, which was in a scarlet envelope, but it soared straight over his head, flying directly at mum, who let out a scream and ducked, her arms over her face. The owl dropped the red envelope on her head, turned, and flew straight back up the chimney.
Harry darted forwards to pick up the letter, but mum beat him to it.
"You can open it if you like,' said Harry, "but I'll hear what it says anyway. That's a Howler."
"Let go of it, Petunia!" roared dad. "Don't touch it, it could be dangerous!"
"It's addressed to me," said mum in a shaking voice. "It's addressed to me, Vernon, look! Mrs Petunia Dursley, The Kitchen, Number Four, Privet Drive—"
She caught her breath, horrified. The red envelope had begun to smoke.
"Open it!" Harry said. "Get it over with! It'll happen anyway."
"No."
Mum's hand was trembling. She looked wildly around the kitchen as though looking for an escape route, but too late—the envelope burst into flames. Mum screamed and dropped it.
An awful voice filled the kitchen, echoing in the confined space, issuing from the burning letter on the table.
"REMEMBER MY LAST, PETUNIA."
Mum looked as though she might faint. She sank into the chair beside Dudley, her face in her hands. The remains of the envelope smouldered into ash in the silence.
"What is this?" dad said hoarsely. "What—I don't—Petunia?"
Mum said nothing. Dudley stared at her, his mouth hanging open. After everything mum had said about wizards—that they were freaks, that they were useless, terrible, disgusting—
"Petunia, dear?" said dad timidly. "P-Petunia?"
Mum raised her head. She was still trembling. She swallowed.
"The boy—the boy will have to stay, Vernon," she said weakly.
She talks to them, Dudley thought.
"W-what?"
"He stays," mum said. She got to her feet again.
"He… but Petunia…"
"If we throw him out, the neighbours will talk," mum said. She was rapidly regaining her usual brisk, snappish manner, though she was still very pale. "They'll ask awkward questions, they'll want to know where he's gone. We'll have to keep him."
She's talked to them before, Dudley thought. All this time... everything she acted out in front of us… it was as pretend as the lies we tell the neighbours…
"But Petunia, dear—" dad tried.
Mum ignored him. She turned to Harry.
"You're to stay in your room," she said. "You're not to leave the house. Now get to bed."
"Who was that Howler from?" Harry said.
"Don't ask questions," mum snapped.
"Are you in touch with wizards?" Harry continued.
"I told you to get to bed!"
"What did it mean? Remember the last what?"
"Go to bed!"
"How come—?"
"YOU HEARD YOUR AUNT, NOW GO UP TO BED!" dad thundered. With a disdainful glance, Harry turned on his heel and stalked loudly upstairs, and none of the Dursleys could miss the way he slammed his bedroom door behind him.
No one spoke after Harry had gone. Dad coughed and shifted, giving mum a pleading look. Mum crossed her arms over her chest tightly before seeming to remember that Dudley was in the room.
"Diddikins," she cooed, "are you all right? Have you recovered?" she grabbed onto his shoulder in a clawed grip.
No, Dudley thought. How can I have? He wasn't sure he'd ever feel the same again. He could not forget the dementors, and he could no more easily forget the memories that came with them. They were memories that had sat quietly in his head for years before being pulled in front of him like criminals waiting for interrogation. Why are some of my worst memories about you and dad? The dementors had skipped past the names his teachers called him when they thought he couldn't hear, the cruel tricks his classmates had tried before he showed them he was too strong to ignore, even Aunt Marge with her wet slobbery breath and her pet bulldogs, and instead come to roost right on Privet Drive. Why did it take a dementor sucking all the happiness away for me to even realize it?
Dudley had filled his days with the distractions of TV and expensive gifts, and food, gobs of food, heaps of food, food he barely even tasted. He sat and let his mum pull him around like a doll and his dad speak over him and never said a word about it. He let Harry ask the questions and take the punishment, while always keeping one ear perked to whatever it was Harry asked, because Dudley wanted to know too. He folded paper obsessively, with the same frantic energy as mum when she vaccumed the carpets and wiped down the counters with her sterile spray. He went out at night with his friends and beat up small children and pretended it made him powerful. He didn't feel powerful. He didn't feel good. The only time Dudley had ever felt good was at school. He felt good about himself when he was boxing. He never had at any other time.
It wasn't a realization.
Dudley had already known this before the dementors showed him. It was why he had shouted at Harry earlier that night. He had known for years that he was cowardly and small, that no matter how much space he took up no one in his family would ever notice him as anything more than a china figurine on a sideboard. He could piss on the floor and mum would still gush about her sweet, angelic son, just as Harry could be as helpful as you please and never be anything more than a freak.
"Dearest? Sweetums?" mum said.
"Dudley."
"What was that?" mum said.
"My name's Dudley, isn't it?" Dudley said quietly.
"Why of course it is!" mum said with a fluttering little laugh. She gave dad a look of fond exasperation. "And you're the best Duddy-wuddy in the whole wide world—"
"Then how come you never use my name?"
"Don't you talk to your mother like that," dad snapped.
"Vernon, hush, he's had a fright," mum said.
"You never do," Dudley said. "You've never once called me by my name. And neither has dad. You never call Harry by his name either." his voice was rising. "Can you even remember what they are?"
"That's enough!" dad boomed.
"No," Dudley said, voice shaking. "I want to know—"
"I said don't ask questions!" said mum. The words rang in the air like a slap. Her eyes widened, and she looked at Dudley like she had forgotten, for a moment, that it was him she was speaking to and not Harry.
Dudley swallowed bitterly.
"I think you should get some rest," dad said meaningfully.
Dudley pulled himself to his feet. He looked from his mum's shocked, pale face to his dad's blotchy purple one. "Good-night," he said, stupidly.
He turned around and walked upstairs, walking to the room across from Harry's and shutting the door.