4 September 1997
Dudley dreamed he was sliding down a waterslide. The water splashed his face and soaked him, and he looked down to see there was no pool waiting for him, just a yawning crevasse filled with dark, hooded figures holding wands.
He bolted awake and screamed.
He was on the roof.
It was raining.
Dudley flung his arms out and scrabbled on his back until he could grab onto the chimney. He wasn't the biggest fan of heights.
His panicked breath slowed as he hugged the rough bricks. He hadn't been in real danger of sliding off to the ground, he realized. The roof – which now sported a large, jagged hole and several owls – was a shallow pitch, but he could have rolled off in his sleep.
He heard an odd, hooting sort of laugh.
Frankie was on the roof with him and was doubled over with a fit of giggles.
"What in the – Frankie?! Did you make that hole in the roof and drag me up here?" Dudley yelled.
Frankie nodded and laughed some more.
"You're mental!" Dudley took some time to try out some new swear words, which just made Frankie laugh harder.
An idea occurred to Dudley. "Are you just getting me back for taking you down from the attic while you were asleep?"
Frankie nodded.
"Well… Don't do it again! Ever! I could get hurt. Not to mention now the house is filling up with rain." Dudley wiped his wet hair back from his eyes with the hand that wasn't holding on to the chimney. His hair had grown quite shaggy in the last few weeks, and his mother hadn't thought to bring her scissors. Dudley was rather hoping to get away with growing it out. He'd also stopped shaving his tiny patch of whiskers. Despite checking it each day in the mirror, it still showed no signs of becoming a lumberjack-style beard, or even a goatee.
"I was just trying to help you, Frankie. Thought you needed a bed or something."
Frankie dove back into the attic and turned into a chest of drawers. As always, he was a mottled grey.
Dudley sighed and looked over the rain-soaked meadow and forest. There was nothing in the soggy scene to indicate violence or danger. Just a bleak forest growing more bare-branched by the hour and a meadow that was more puddles than grass. Hestia said there was a ghost chasing her now. Dudley wondered what the ghost looked like and if it could talk. Or if he'd even be able to see it.
Dudley glanced down the roof to the hole. "Frankie! Got any hammers or tools in that attic?" He remembered another thing he was supposed to look for. Something to fashion into a medal for Hestia killing those wizards. Ribbon. Something shiny.
The rain had seeped under Dudley's leather coat, and he shivered.
He eyed the hole in the attic. It was farther away than he liked.
He took a deep breath and aimed his feet toward the hole. He inched along, sliding on his back in spurts, using little motions of his hands and feet to move him along. Finally, he reached the edge of the hole and swung back down into the attic.
"Nice work, Frankie. Really," he said. "Not like we don't have loads of other problems - now Dad'll have to figure out a way to fix the roof. On top of everything else."
Or, he thought, maybe one of the wizards could fix the roof with magic.
Dudley poked around the attic looking in drawers and shelves for small trinkets that could be made into a medal. The rain was turning the attic floor into quite a puddle, so he set one of the cauldrons underneath the hole in the roof. The cauldron looked big, but it hardly covered half of the hole. Of course, it had needed to let Frankie through while dragging Dudley – however he'd managed that.
Dudley set out a few more cauldrons. The rain pinged and bounced into the metal, and quite a bit escaped from between them.
Dudley knew he should probably go get one of the wizards. Dedalus would be his best bet – Dudley didn't fancy talking to the new people. He was nervous around them generally, and now that he'd spent the wee hours of the morning listening in on their top-secret conversation, he was also afraid he'd give away the new spy post.
He rifled through a drawer of faded yellow handkerchiefs. The owls sitting on the bureau shifted in their sleep, and one opened an eye to peek at him.
Frankie switched back into his human-ish form and started banging away at the cauldrons filling with water. At the disturbance, a few of the owls woke and screeched at him.
Frankie threw an old boot at the owls, and they scattered up to the rafters.
Dudley sat at the spy post for a few minutes, but he couldn't hear anything downstairs. His watch read 9:17 a.m. His stomach rumbled, and he shivered again.
"You might be in trouble, Frankie," he said. "They're not going to like all this mess. Better hope it's easy to clean up, or no breakfast for you."
Frankie was busy stuffing his mouth with a cobweb full of old dead bugs and paid no heed to Dudley's threat.
Dudley flipped open the hatch and lowered himself down as quietly as he could.
Successfully having crept back to his room, he found Remus and Dedalus stretched out on two bunks.
He took off his wet socks and found dry clothes to wear from his closet. He decided to get dressed in the bathroom.
Downstairs, Hestia was sleeping on the couch, and Tonks was slouched in a chair. She was glaring at a cup of tea, and her hair was that disgusting bogey color again.
She switched her glare from the tea to Dudley. He gave a little half wave.
"Er, hi. I mean, good morning. I mean…"
"Wotcher, Duncan," she said.
"Er – there's a hole in the roof, and it's raining all in the attic. And Frankie's fighting with the owls." Dudley didn't bother correcting her about his name. With any luck, she'd be out of here soon, and never need to use it.
Tonks closed her eyes, raised her teacup to her lips, and set it down again without drinking.
Dudley stayed back from the witch as she rose to her feet and walked to the staircase. He didn't fancy catching whatever magical illness she had.
"What's all this lot doing here?" she asked, pointing at the pile of junk he'd tossed out the attic days ago.
"I had to clear out parts of the attic to make room for all the owls," he explained. "Didn't know where to put it."
She shook her head and stepped onto the first rung of the ladder so she could see into the attic. She sighed. "Dunno if Reparo's going to work on that. I'm not the greatest with household charms anyway."
"If you can make a hammer, my dad's good at fixing things," Dudley told her.
"Hmmm."
She climbed the ladder the rest of the way and stood looking at the hole. The rain was coming down harder now. "Reparo," she said, pointing at the roof. It didn't move.
She rolled her eyes and glared at Dudley again. "Why."
Dudley shrugged. "Dunno. It was just like that when I woke up." He was still mad at Frankie, but considering he'd been locked away in the attic for who knows how long, Dudley didn't want to rat him out. Unless he absolutely had to.
She shook her head in irritation and made a huge, sweeping motion with her wand, forming an arc across the width of the hole. Between the rafters and jagged splinters, a shining tarp-like dome appeared. The rain stopped pelting into the cauldrons, and it was instantly quieter and more still.
"Evanesco," she said, and the water in one of the cauldrons vanished. "Evanesco, Evanesco, Evan – " she made a horrible, heaving sound and spewed into the cauldron. "Evanesco." The sick vanished, but not the smell. Dudley clasped his hand over his nose and mouth.
She turned back to head down the ladder. "I guess Dedalus and Hestia have been letting you lot get away with murder," she said. "But I don't appreciate all this. Keep it together, yeah? Keep it civil, and we'll get along fine. Otherwise …" she paused and shook herself.
"Yeah, okay," Dudley said.
"You're welcome, by the way," she added, and set off down the ladder again.
Right. He should have thanked her. Dudley mentally kicked himself. He also raised his middle finger at her back, because there was no reason to be so snippy about everything.
He stood in the attic for a moment, wondering if he'd bother her by making breakfast for himself. He wondered if Dedalus or Hestia had brought back more food, and if the biscuits that had been turned into owls had been turned back into biscuits, and if they were safe to eat.
His stomach rumbled again.
He headed after the surly witch. Luckily, she'd ensconced herself in the sitting room, so he was able to get into the kitchen. There wasn't much food left, but he ate the rest of the biscuits that were still in the package.
If anyone complained – well, they should just get out to the shops, then, shouldn't they?
23 June 2020
9:17 a.m.
Dudley stared at his own face framed in a tiny rectangle, surrounded by other tiny rectangles. He had an extra monitor set up so that one screen could show the rectangles of tiny, angry people, and the main monitor could show his files. And his in-progress video game.
So far, the news reporter had asked everyone to say their name and place of business, and Dudley had already gone. There were still three people left to introduce themselves, after repeated technical difficulties.
Behind Dudley's head, the "Happy Birthday!" banner and balloons waved gently. No one had commented on them, and Dudley felt disappointed. As Sylvia Roberts introduced herself and her small, local business (tea room), he realized he should have put the "40" sign in the background. Anyone might think it was one of his kids having a birthday, rather than himself.
"Thanks, Sylvia! Okay, next up, we've got Noel Talbot, owner of the Hep Cats Dance Studio. How has the pandemic affected your small, locally owned business, Noel?" The reporter leaned forward in her rectangle with a concerned look. Behind her, a shelf of books and odd ornaments indicated she was a cultured, well-traveled sort of person.
A person who couldn't be asked to notice when a man had a load of birthday kit up behind him.
Dudley tapped on the desk, trying to sound interested when Noel said more or less the same as everyone had – closing one's business was a good way to have one's business close.
"We could – we could do line dancing! Space everyone well apart?" Noel threw out suggestions. His voice cracked in desperation.
"We're going to get to suggestions for safety a bit later, everyone," the reporter said, as the chimes, cartoon hands, and comments flooded in.
Dudley tried to estimate what Noel's weight class might be. Looked like a welterweight. Spindly neck, weak jaw, but broad in the shoulders.
He imagined a spray of blood shooting from Noel's split lip. Noel's head snapped back briefly under the one-two jab from the man of similar build down in the lower left rectangle. Noel reeled back against the ropes, then lurched forward, a maniacal determination in his eye. He danced around the next punch, jabbing at his opponent's ribs, just as Dudley – Coach D – had taught him. LEFT HOOK, Dudley thought, and Noel sent out a left hook to the ear. Too bad, Noel, you kept it too wide there, and he blocked you. Noel froze for a moment. MOVE, NOEL! You like dancing, right?! So DANCE! Noel started moving more, blocking, waiting for an opportunity, and –
"Dudley? Mr. Dursley? You there? Can you hear me still?"
"Sorry, yes! I'm here. Audio cut out for a moment."
"Right, no problem. So, if you would, Dudley, could you just let us know how you've tried to connect with your customers during the pandemic?"
"Sure, right, well, I've been leading some video workout sessions," Dudley said, as he scanned his open notes on his other screen. "Also, walking people through how to install their own punching bags at home, things like that. We got classes for kids, adults, you name it. Even doing family sessions!" He remembered his wife coaching him on what to say. Can't be too cheery, or it'll sound like you don't need to reopen. "But, you know, it's tough for a lot of people to keep up their routines at home. We want to get everyone back in the gym."
The reporter nodded in sympathy. "True – I've definitely been finding it a challenge! There's only so many miles on the treadmill I can put in before it gets a bit samey."
"Yeah, yeah. People go to the gym to have some fun. And boxing – it's great for everyone!" Dudley had reached the end of his bulleted list and sat back, relaxing.
"Everyone?" the reporter inquired. "Surely, you've only got a fairly small slice of people interested in boxing? Rather a tough sport, I should think?"
"Nah, anyone can box if you have the gear," Dudley said. "Great way to relax, hitting a bag. Getting in the ring. Great for everybody, like I said."
The reporter laughed, a short little forced chuckle. "Lovely. And, let's return to our yoga instructor for more at-home workout advice. Cora Fawcett, have you been leading these in-home workouts?"
Dudley didn't pay attention to Cora's answer. He opened another window on his alternate monitor and checked the route he wanted to take that afternoon. Little beach trip with the family, picnic. As of yesterday, the weather had looked promising – yes, still good.
Damn.
The reporter was asking him another question. Why wouldn't she just move on to the next person?
"Yeah," Dudley said, not really thinking about his reply.
"Really? Elderly folk and pregnant women? Boxing?"
"Sure, sure!" Images from the past flashed into Dudley's mind. "I mean … not saying you should hit 'em. But, the bagwork's nice. Fun. Great way to relax." He realized he'd said that twice, now, and hoped he didn't sound too stupid.
Several of the people on his screen looked skeptical.
Dudley muted himself and hoped they'd just leave it. He drummed on the desk with his fingers.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the reporter moved on to ask about a bowling alley.
A few minutes later, he heard from a Lamaze instructor, "Tricia? If I may, before I'd answer, I'd just like to circle back to Mr. Dursley's comment. I don't think boxing sounds like a safe activity for everyone. Are you sure about that, Mr. Dursley?" She sounded as if she didn't think boxing was safe for anyone. Another one of the traumatic-brain-injury brigade, Dudley thought.
Dudley – to unmute himself - mashed the space bar rather harder than necessary. "Yeah, well. Ask any doctor you like. Exercise is important for everybody, and boxing's great exercise." Dudley was happy he'd insisted on wearing his tie. Made him look authoritative. "Plus, some of my first students were elderly and pregnant. Well. Not at the same time. I mean - one was elderly, one was pregnant."
More chimes. More cartoon hands. More comments. High impact. Osteoporosis. Risk of injury. What do obstetricians recommend? Trimester this, trimester that.
Dudley felt the muscles in his cheeks stiffen. He saw the image of his face and tried to relax his forced smile. His neck was turning red, and he looked more menacing than he wanted to.
"Do you have many pregnant boxers using the gym?"
The gym was closed. Dudley swallowed, trying to think. Had anyone using his gym over the past few years been pregnant? How would he even know? It wasn't always easy to tell, and it was dangerous to ask. Not like anyone had up and given birth on the mat. He cleared his throat. "Well – hard to say, really. Not like we ask, is it?"
"But you ought to, you know. You ought to warn people of the risk of injury."
Dudley had a sheaf of papers for people to sign. He hadn't read through them too carefully himself – lots of dry stuffy phrases in a small font.
"Yeah," said Dudley, "yeah, sure, but I mean, you can warn all you want. But you know, they don't like being told what to do, some of them. And it's good for morning sickness, so you know, makes 'em feel better. And, er, not like we can really go checking, now can we?"
"Sorry, is that how you talk about pregnant women?"
"Isn't it rather irresponsible of you, Mr. Dursley…"
Nicole stood in the doorway of their office. "What? Are you doing?" she mouthed at him. "STOP."
"We modify our yoga instruction for pregnancy, so I can't imagine just …"
"Sorry, sorry!" Dudley said. "Nobody's getting hurt. Like I said, just hitting the bag, and if it's too much, then you know, switch it out, sure. Ask your doctor!"
He rubbed his neck, and his hand came away covered in sweat. Brilliant, Dudley, he thought.
The conversation moved on, mostly because everyone was eager to agitate for their businesses to reopen, and they couldn't get to their talking points if they were jumping down Dudley's throat about geriatrics-and-obstetrics.
4 September 1997
Dudley had started his morning exercises directly after breakfast. Weights. Skipping rope. After that, he liked to alternate between the speed bag he'd brought from home and the punching bag that Dedalus had conjured for him.
As he hit the speed bag, Dudley's mind cleared of owls and magic. Stress melted away until he wasn't a bored, lonely teen missing school, friends, and the basic conveniences of modernity. He was a man, and the only thing in his mind were the sounds of his breath and his gloves drubbing on the bag. He hopped and switched his stance to work his left shoulder more.
He saw, in his peripheral vision, a figure entering the room and sprawling over the barbell.
Tonks.
Dudley took a step to offer her his glove, but she was already back on her feet.
He nodded and turned to the punching bag. He was conscious of her watching him, so he punched the bag with extra ferocity. He didn't want these new people thinking he was weak. Dudley lowered his head and forced his anxiety out of his head. Thoughts nudged their way back in anyway.
They'd been living with Hestia and Dedalus for weeks, and he still wasn't sure where he stood with them. Dedalus was friendly but so weird it was hard to tell if his affection was genuine. Hestia treated him like a strict schoolteacher, although he thought she might be softening toward him.
He didn't like the numbers, either. Three Dursleys, two weirdos. That had been tough enough. Four weirdos, one ghost (possibly?), forty-odd owls, and ... the Dursleys were well outnumbered. Was Frankie on their side? He'd busted a hole in the ceiling and dragged Dudley through onto the roof, so Dudley didn't feel too confident in their friendship at the moment.
Dudley hit the bag harder.
There was a life outside this house, and some day he'd get back to it. He stared briefly at the photo he'd taped to the bag.
Gordy Pike, the kid he'd have to beat if he wanted to be National Champion. Pike was fast, had a wicked right hook, and ignored most punches like they were gentle raindrops.
If he could get out of here… he needed to be ready. There wasn't any coach keeping him focused or helping him train, either. No videos of Gordy (and their lesser opponents) to work on strategy.
Dudley felt, deep in a cold place the Dementors had called up, that he didn't have what it took to do it on his own. These bags, these weights – without Coach, without a normal season, without the fun of being on the team, he'd lose for certain, even if he did keep up with shadowboxing and the bags.
Grunting, snarling nearly like an animal, he leaned into the bag hard enough that it danced on its chain.
Finally, his workout was completed. He mopped up most of the sweat that had fallen and pulled off his gloves. He heard his parents' voices coming from the sitting room – some sort of argument, already in progress. Showering sounded like a good idea, and if he slipped upstairs fast enough, he could miss being dragged into another quarrel that could end in getting blasted with a wand.
"Mind if I have a go?" Tonks asked as he passed out of the room.
Dudley shrugged and passed her his sodden gloves. She flinched and held them away from her face, then dropped them. Her hair flashed from pink to that bogey green again.
Dudley stayed in the shower until his fingertips were wrinkled and his feet were bright red from the heat. Hestia had managed to get the water tank – or whatever was hooked up to the pipes – to stay hot no matter how long the water ran. Water vapor hung in the air, and Dudley wiped off the mirror to look at his whiskers again. Squinting and turning his head just right so the light caught them, he could make out a little patch of translucent hairs.
Downstairs, the argument was still in progress, but Dudley could hear an arhythmic thumping from the gym. He headed there and found Tonks whacking at the speed bag. No gloves on, poor stance, and…
"Step back!" Dudley said. "You're working against your shoulders there."
Tonks ignored him. "Thanks, I'm fine."
"You've got to have gloves, or at least wraps."
"I'm not wearing those things you gave me."
"Yeah, well, when you get blood all over my bag, wipe it off, will you?"
She stopped and rubbed her shoulder, then spared him a brief, irritated glance. "What's it to you? And why are you here?"
"Nothing." Dudley heard his father raise his voice to full bellow, and figured he'd be better off staying in the gym. "Just bored."
"Would normal bandages work for wraps?"
"Yeah."
A few minutes later, and Dudley had shown the witch how to wrap her knuckles with bandages she'd conjured. It felt good, showing off his knowledge as he showed her how to stand, how to start off slowly on the speed bag.
"What's that thing for?" she asked.
"Boxing ring. For sparring."
It wasn't all that fun, using the boxing ring to bounce around shadowboxing, but having it was better than not having it.
"Ever use it?" Tonks asked.
Dudley shrugged.
Then things got weird. Glaring at Gordy's picture, Tonks scrunched her eyes until they were nearly closed, and gritted her teeth. She grew, up to Dudley's height, and filled out. Her face bulged and rippled until it matched Gordy's cleft chin and sparse eyebrows.
She didn't look exactly like Gordy. The body was all wrong. It was Dudley's body. With Gordy's head - no, face. And somebody else's head, with a skull that was flatter in the back than either of theirs were.
"I'm a Metamorphmagus."
Weird word for Shapeshifter, Dudley thought. He didn't want to make her angry, though, so he just nodded like that was a normal thing to say, and a normal thing to do.
Dudley/Gordy/Tonks gestured at the ring. "Shall we?"
As Dudley got his gloves back on, he remembered something his coach had told him. "Gotta use mouth guards. You have one? Can you copy one if I get mine?" He turned to go back upstairs. "I'll be right back, I'll go get mine."
"Accio mouth guard," she said. "Oh, and – " she performed some complicated wand movements around her abdomen. "Won't work to stop a hex, but it'll do for some punching."
Dudley's mouth guard flew in through the door, and she caught it. "Hmm, not sure I can copy this exactly. Can't make that weird squishy stuff. What's it for? Protecting your teeth, I take it?"
"Yeah."
She did the wand movements again around her mouth while Dudley put in his mouth guard. His gloves were loose, but that was alright.
If Dudley had stopped to think, he might have considered against stepping into the ring with an untried, clumsy, magical, shapeshifting opponent who had shielded herself with unknown spells. He might also have noticed that the angry voices had stopped, and that there were footsteps moving down the corridor.
But Dudley wasn't one for considering and noticing when there was something else that he badly wanted. It had been a long time since Dudley had been able to hit someone, and he didn't want to question his good luck. He tried to remember his first sparring session with his team, the kind of advice his coach had given him, and offered some tips. His mouth guard got in the way and muffled his words.
The tips wouldn't have mattered anyway, as Dudley/Gordy/Tonks tripped and fell to the mat within seconds.
Later, Dudley would have time to reflect on the folly of towering over a pregnant woman (even if she was Shapeshifted to look like a combination of him and his biggest rival) in a boxing ring (that she had wanted to use). It looked, he supposed correctly, like he had hit her and knocked her down.
If it had been his own parents who'd walked through the door, Dudley might have gotten a few gasps or shouts.
Unluckily for Dudley, the person who walked through the door was Tonks' husband.
He didn't take it well.