"Vernon," Petunia said in a faint voice, "was that really us? How could we have treated a child that way? What came over us?"
Vernon Dursley was no less bewildered than his wife, but his anger was at that moment overriding every other emotion.
"I think it was more of your…" he rotated his pudgy hand in the air and spat out the next words, "…magical business."
He himself found certain moments of his behavior toward his nephew deeply unpleasant to recall, but unlike his wife, what he felt was not guilt — it was anger.
"Not mine!" his beloved wife flared. "I have nothing to do with any of it!"
Vernon sighed. He had no desire whatsoever to hurt his wife. But he did want to hurt someone — someone responsible for all the ugliness that had happened in their home, and in his head, when it came down to it.
The nearest wizard was… his nephew. Who was currently sleeping like the dead after returning from those magic people of his. Thin and somehow… fragile. Vernon understood that he would sooner thump anyone who laid a finger on that… little fawn. A good solid thump: left hook to the jaw first…
Petunia quickly grasped that her husband was most likely right.
"But who could have wanted this?"
"I don't know, Pet. Maybe someone just decided to… have a joke," Vernon said, reddening. He remembered those jokes, the lowest of the low. Just the wedding alone… still unpleasant to recall, being so completely powerless.
"But against a little child, the way Harry was then? Why?"
"And do those people need logic or justification for anything?"
"Thank God it's over. Maybe we ought to go to church?"
Vernon shrugged. He took a rather cool view of church. And was already thinking about something else.
"What do you think, Pet — whoever caused all this, were they watching us? Even occasionally?"
"I'd have noticed," Petunia said tartly. "Strangers on our street are practically unheard of."
"Practically?"
"Yes. And any that do appear, you can be quite sure our local gossips discuss them from every angle. Though wait — Figg has rather odd cats. They're always getting into my flower beds. And the old woman herself… Do you remember how long she's been our neighbor?"
Vernon raised his fair eyebrows into an arch, wrinkling his forehead.
"I can't remember. It always seemed like she was there. When we moved in, she… No, I don't remember her. Hmm, I don't like this, Pet. So in public we'll have to behave exactly as before. You understand: scold Harry, snap at him for any little thing…"
"Yes. We don't know what was done to us, and we don't know what will happen to us for it."
Petunia shivered and opened Sleeping Murder somewhere near the middle. Reading was a wonderful help for her nerves and occasionally offered some interesting and useful ideas.
After the spectacular dinner of one compulsive reader, the Dursleys couldn't help but grow curious as to what he had found in books bought purely for show. It was the done thing to have books in the sitting room — so they would have them. Detective fiction was popular? Then they would buy detective fiction. So first Petunia, then Vernon, had actually opened them. And been drawn in. As anyone would be: Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Dick Francis, Graham Greene.
And they had begun to read — nowhere near their nephew's level, naturally, but they had managed to discover a number of pleasant things. Among them, how lovely it was to exchange impressions over an evening cup of tea. And now both were firmly opposed to their own lives turning into a detective story. They preferred to read, not to become characters themselves. But since that was how things were shaping up…
"Keep an eye on Figg, dear. And we'll need to talk to Harry."
In the morning, for the first time in his life, Harry woke when he was ready. No one had come to rouse him. His mind ran briefly over stumbling home with his armload of books… from the doctor, right. He'd still have to explain that. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, assembling a few versions, so they wouldn't flay him for the lie on the spot. Or at least not too badly.
For instance… "They said more reading would be good for my eyes — develop them. See the paper's different shades? The different heights and shapes of the letters?" Or perhaps "I just went in while I was waiting for the bus." Or tell them outright that someone was selling expensive old books cheaply that he needed. Deciding he'd work it out as he went, Harry slowly got to his feet, listening to the stillness of the house.
I wonder… are the Dursleys even alive? He dressed quickly and went downstairs. His uncle, buried in his newspaper, didn't react to his appearance at all, and his aunt directed him to the kitchen with a single nod. Harry ate a fairly generous and good breakfast quickly, then drifted, bewildered, back to the sitting room, expecting to be given a list of chores for the house and garden. Instead…
The conversation was long and astonishing. Playing at spies together, knowing he'd have support at home — he could never have hoped for such a thing. Holding a grudge about the past? He could easily have done exactly that. Something even tempted him to. But what was the point? Since Uncle Vernon had proposed "burying the hatchet"… He'd have to read this Cooper fellow. Probably interesting too. Now he'd have to put on a show of being mistreated. Along with the Dursleys. Extraordinary. But it was infinitely better than the old torment. And how remarkable it turned out to be — just to talk with adults and know they'd take you seriously.
True, he was still a little afraid — what if it all went back to the way it had been? So however much he wanted to share his thoughts and troubles with his aunt, especially about not finding a way to tell Hermione about wizarding clothing and what had happened at Flourish and Blotts, he held his tongue. Enough for now that the scolding would be for show, and his job was to play along.
Dudley Dursley was in shock. When he had slept his fill and looked out of his room, he heard quiet voices in the sitting room. Drawing closer, he could see from the stairs that his parents were whispering secrets together… with Harry?! Without him? Secrets? Right, he'd sort this out. Dud thundered downstairs full of indignation and immediately let it spill over everyone.
His father gave him a strange smile, held his mother back with a hand on her arm, and sent him off to get dressed, wash, and eat breakfast. He'd be told later, apparently. Right. Dudley got dressed faster than a fireman on a call and rushed back down — to the bathroom. He'd be told, would he. He'd find out himself, it wasn't for nothing that his brother had told him so many interesting things. He took his toothbrush out of its cup and pressed the cup against the wall that adjoined the sitting room. The sound wasn't wonderful, but he caught the gist. And his parents somehow failed to notice that their boy's wash was taking rather a long time.
When Dudley had made his third circuit around Harry with an air of great mystery, Harry finally lifted his shaggy head from yet another book.
"Just hang on, I'm nearly done, I'll tell you after."
"That's not what I'm on about," Dud surprised him. "I heard what you and Mum and Dad were saying."
"And?" Potter tensed. His cousin had quieted down, true enough — but to suddenly believe in his goodwill? It was somehow easier with his aunt, and even his uncle. Especially after their very reasonable theory that someone had cursed them, and now it had worn off. It did sound right. A pity Harry couldn't detect traces of spells. Though it was done somehow, wasn't it?
Your glasses aren't entirely ordinary — they're an artifact, take care of them, that same familiar voice surfaced from somewhere. If you attune your sight in a certain way, you'll be able to distinguish a wizard by their bright aura, a Squib by a thin pale veil, and a Muggle by the absence of either. Laid spells are visible in the aura too — you can tell them apart by their colors and shades.
Someone shook him by the shoulder.
"What? What is it? Why…" He was deeply annoyed — the memory had been interrupted at the most interesting part.
"What's happening with you?" His cousin frowned. "Even I wanted to hit you again."
"Er… why didn't you?"
"Oh, get out. Are you an idiot?"
Harry looked into the piggy little eyes in puzzlement: something flickered in them that was entirely unfamiliar to him. He nearly recoiled when Dudley leaned in close to his ear.
"I swear, old Figg is watching you."
"Why do you say that?"
Dudley Junior's intellect, while still only around the level of a seven or eight year old, was, as it turned out, paired with a gift for observation that nature had not skimped on. And children notice things that others miss entirely. Harry was given so many examples that he simply couldn't doubt his cousin.
When Petunia came back from the kitchen into the sitting room, she nearly lost the power of speech again at the sight of her son and her nephew gravely shaking hands. Not Dudley too, was her first thought, immediately followed by a second. He was part of it as well. He hurt Harry. I need to talk to him.
The whole family sat around the kitchen table over tea. Harry was giving an account of his trip to Diagon Alley. He apologized to his aunt for the deception, and forgiveness was promised on the condition of a full account of everything he knew. It was a little frightening, but Aunt Petunia's signature biscuits, piled generously on his plate, and a jam roly-poly… He'd never dreamed of such things before. And how good it all tasted.
He's relaxed, thought Vernon. Well done, Petunia.
And no spells required, Petunia thought with private satisfaction, sliding another slice of cream roly-poly toward her nephew.
Mmm… Harry and Dudley worked their jaws contentedly and thought of nothing at all for now. The culinary talents of the mistress of number four Privet Drive were not without reason the envy of the surrounding housewives.
And then Harry talked, and talked.
Dudley had always been afraid to admit his interest in the wizarding world, but curiosity, now awakened, demanded satisfaction, and so he was seizing his chance. But when his cousin, in vivid detail — which turned out to be mostly dark — described not only his visit to Diagon Alley but gave a brief summary of what he had spent two years doing at school, Dursley Junior was horrified.
"Right, no — I don't want to see this wizarding world of yours anymore. Not even a peek — I don't want to!"
Only when he saw the faces of his mother, his father, and a completely dumbfounded Harry did Dudley realize he'd given himself away.
Vernon's heavy hand descended on his nephew's shoulder and… gave it a warm squeeze. Harry flinched slightly in surprise: his uncle was smiling at him.
"I'm sorry, Harry."
They had called him by his name. He wanted to exhale, but it took him a moment to remember how.
"Is there really no way out? Is there anything that could be done so you don't have to go back to that dreadful school?"
Harry sighed and spread his hands, looking apologetically at his aunt. He still couldn't quite get used to her pitying him.
"We need to find out as much as possible about the laws of this world of yours!"
Harry gave his uncle a broad smile.
"You're really interested? I'll go and get them!" And the moment Vernon nodded, he bolted upstairs for the books.
"The boy's not stupid…"
"He'd have been dead by now if he were," his son put in.
Fair point, really. Vernon ruffled his head as well.
"Dad, are we going to be like spies now?" The child's eyes blazed with enthusiasm.
"What if we just moved away?" His wife seemed to voice his own thought.
Vernon grimaced: they'd already tried that once, with spectacularly poor results.
"They'll find you," Harry said, returning and handing his uncle an enormous volume, rather dashing any hopes of easy escape from the wizards. "I don't know yet how they do it, but they'll find you. Here — A Compendium of the Laws of Magical Britain with commentary by someone or other; the bookseller said he'd won nearly all his cases in the… in the wiz… in the court, at any rate."
Vernon carefully took the heavy tome and warily lifted the leather cover.
Vernon Dursley, having read himself to the point of furious indigestion through the labyrinthine tangle of statutes and precedent law, decided to turn his mind to questions that didn't produce quite such a violent reaction. Namely: who had lifted the spell, and why. Was it the same person who had cast it, or someone different? Or had it simply faded on its own, the way it had with his nephew? What exactly had happened to them? Because it wasn't just their treatment of their nephew that had changed — their general wellbeing had improved as well.
Harry in his room was carefully writing out fresh questions in his notebook, one after another.
Why did I consider Dumbledore my savior, when the letter was a standard invitation that he merely signed, and which would have arrived regardless?
Was I in such a bad state at that moment — or, he thought back to his reaction in the bookshop, were there some kind of charms on it. On every letter?! That's impossible. But I never even touched them myself — the owls wouldn't let me.
…Why, if everyone cared so much about me as a hero, did no one ever ask about my clothes, or why I had the cheapest school supplies possible? Why did no one wonder how or where I was living? In the first days everyone was staring at me from all sides — surely they saw that much. Boarding schools, as I now know for certain, are supposed to look after their students. So what is wrong with Hogwarts? Or what is wrong with me?
…All orphans have someone looking out for them — who looks out for me? The Dursleys? Now, yes — but before?
He drew a crooked rectangle, wrote Statute of Secrecy inside it, drew two arrows from it — one ending in Hagrid! and the other in Owls! — propped his chin on his fist and fell into thought again. What it added up to was completely monstrous: whoever, or whatever, had sent them to him had cared nothing for the Statute. Right.
But then he drew breath, his eyes went wide, and he scratched across the page again — he needed to get used to it, after all.
…Why did the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, great wizard, fail to sense a possessed Quirrell right under his nose? Couldn't he? Or — Harry thought for a long time and nearly just dropped a blot on the page, but did finish the sentence, — didn't he want to?
While Harry practiced his penmanship, the elder Dursleys discussed the situation they found themselves in. To say they didn't like it was an understatement of the first order. But there was nowhere to run, and they were definitely not ready to emigrate — though Vernon had voiced even that thought. Mostly he was worried about his son. And about his wife, of course. Just as Petunia was worried first and foremost about both of them. But the fate of their poor orphaned nephew was no longer a matter of indifference either. And there were some bright spots, after all.
Their son had started behaving with surprising quietness: he had finally begun to read as well. Mayne Reid and James Fenimore Cooper — his parents didn't notice immediately, and by the time they did, it was too late.
Vernon started his own notebook, in a thick leather binding as solid and imposing as himself. Into it he began copying out all the laws pertaining to interactions between wizards and Muggles, and the more he wrote, the less he liked any of it.
The elder Dursleys, digging through their memories, eventually reached the conclusion that they had begun to change from the day their nephew had been left on their doorstep. The aversion — or rather, hatred — had grown in proportion to the boy himself. And that was definitely a spell. Because what sane adult would ever dream of using a child of three or four as a domestic servant and berating him for being too slow? It was madness.
So what had happened? Who had lifted the spell? That remained unclear. But both husband and wife had begun to feel better; the atmosphere in the house had stopped being as oppressive as it once was, and the frantic tempers had somehow subsided all round. Duddikins and Vernon gradually stopped eating as though it were a competitive sport, while Petunia, conversely, developed a healthy appetite. And living in the home that her nephew had magically renewed was very pleasant indeed.
On the subject of the home: Petunia spent some time heroically restraining herself from inviting people over — she longed to show it off, but that would mean answering questions. How, and when, and who, and how much, had it all cost. She would have to spin stories — she could hardly tell the truth, that it had been done in a moment of fright by her own twelve-year-old nephew. What manner of fright must it have been.
And then the talk would start, and the gossip would creep across the town. No — safety before all else. Better to enjoy the lovely house themselves than to expose their precious son, their dear husband, her magnificent self, and — as it turned out — her perfectly decent and useful nephew to risk. He might be the source of the trouble, but only indirectly; the danger didn't come from him.
Their conclusions were simple. To wizards, they were no better than animals, and could be done to as anyone pleased. Therefore they needed to protect themselves somehow. Harry needed to be helped somehow. The physical protection side of things was Vernon's domain. But magical protection — well, they could see that their nephew, no longer hiding it in the least, was working through one book after another. They had provided him with another hundred pounds, which Harry spent at that same second-hand shop, which finally cemented his friendship with the bookseller.
"Which is faster — a spell or a bullet?" Vernon asked his nephew one afternoon.
"A bullet, definitely…" Harry ran through it again, thinking of what he'd seen at school and on television, and nodded with conviction.
The elder Dursley brightened, filled out some paperwork, obtained a firearms license, drove to Manchester, and came back with two boxes. One contained a Sterling Mk VII, which Petunia for a while gave a wide berth, and the other held a pair of Bulldog revolvers. The Sterling was naturally claimed by Vernon. And Harry, almost trembling with excitement, learned that one of the Bulldogs was for his aunt and the other — for him. All that remained was to learn not only to shoot but to hit things, which he expected to be fairly simple. He was wrong. On their first family outing to a shooting range, no one hit the target except Vernon. He moved to twirl his moustache in pride, but couldn't repeat the feat. That was how it stayed: one out of thirty.
"Never mind, you definitely won't miss at close range," he attempted to console his wife on the way home.
In response, his dear wife offered him a good deal of interesting observations and, with an expressiveness quite unlike her usual self, confirmed her readiness to become a crack shot, training daily if need be. Harry grasped one thing clearly: his aunt was categorically opposed to close range. He agreed entirely. If someone was close, a pistol could easily be taken away. And wizards always threw curses from a distance. Yes, his aunt was right — no close range, and therefore: practice, practice, practice.
Driving to the shooting range in the neighboring town every time was slow and expensive. Vernon frowned. Petunia insisted. Harry put his mind to it: in that fourth-year textbook he had found a Silencing Charm, which he learned and offered to test at his own risk. The Dursleys agreed — apparently his method of "doing housework" had altered their relationship with magic, and they had accepted that it could turn out to be rather useful. By this point they would have made Harry study even if he had chosen not to.
First, though, he tested the charms with Dudley: playing at fighting, both of them yelled their lungs out. No reaction from outside — neither the neighbors nor the cats nor the elder Dursleys paid any attention to the racket. The main plan could proceed. Bringing his brother along was easy enough: what twelve-year-old boy is going to say no to a bit of shooting? And so a section of the back yard behind the garage became a shooting range.
They set up targets. Harry had become so practiced at wandless magic that he could summon the right emotion without needing to be dragged away from a book — he only had to picture it in his mind. It turned out there was no real difficulty to it; it simply consumed a great deal of energy and made him ravenously hungry. Fortunately, he was now being fed quite decently. Even more than the others. His cousin kept marveling at how much he could put away and still stay so thin. He worked it out soon enough: magic.
Harry and Aunt Petunia finished their accuracy competition. Friendship won — they had shot equal scores.
"We need to make it harder," his aunt said thoughtfully. "What do you think the actual situation would look like, if it came to shooting?"
She tensed slightly at her own question, but she wanted to know. Well — not wanted exactly (she had spent the past two weeks looking through property listings and continental real estate magazines), but needed to. Petunia intended to survive, to help her husband survive, to raise her son and if possible her nephew, and — ideally — to live to see grandchildren. Granddaughters, even better. And if achieving that required shooting on the move, well, she was already in reasonable shape. She could not kill anyone, but she could make sure no one killed them. She preferred to aim for the legs.
Harry after a pause finally managed:
"First of all, the best thing to do is get out of wherever the wand is pointing. And get behind something. Curses only travel in straight lines. Except for shields, I think."
"So you'd have to shoot off the cuff? And not necessarily at the head — anywhere would do?"
"Anywhere, Dud, the main thing is to hit. You don't do much spellcasting with a wound. Probably. Uncle Vernon said that wounded people only run that fast in films, didn't he?"
"Hang on — when they use a wand, they sort of have to draw with it, don't they? That takes time?"
"Depends on the spell… Oh — Aunt Petunia! You could aim right at the hand holding the wand! Then completely — you're a genius!"
Vernon watched in astonishment as a pleased Petunia, in an old tracksuit dusty from training, leapt sideways, dropped into a crouch, and raised her arm.
"Yes! Aunt Petunia, dead on!"
"That's much harder though," Dudley observed at the end of practice. His pudginess was already starting to trim, but he was still breathing heavily. The boy had dreams of learning to ride and throw a lasso one day.
"You can't carry weapons," Vernon added. "Or I'll end up in prison. And school's coming up soon."
"Well, it's unlikely anything will threaten any of you without me around," Harry said, going red. "I'd understand if you packed up and left. It might even be easier that way. You've been far too good to me now."
Dudley went quietly thoughtful. It was Petunia who answered Harry.
"We've already discussed that, Harry. And we concluded that either you, or we, or all of us were put under some kind of — what's your word — hex, or charm. We don't know why it wore off, but even though I never said it before… the way we behaved then seems completely abnormal to us now. We have to — now that you're in a difficult situation — we're obligated to help you."
Harry looked uncertainly at his uncle. Vernon nodded.
"Perhaps you know something, or could guess?"
He only shrugged. How could he? He had already understood that he knew depressingly little about the world in which he had spent nearly two years. And there was no one to blame for that but himself.
Harry was well aware that his studies so far had been conducted in a rather haphazard way, and that whatever had stuck in his head had done so mostly thanks to Hermione. Speaking of Hermione — he finally shared his thoughts about his friend with his aunt, told her about wizarding clothing, and immediately received a suggestion: look up a telephone number in a directory. So simple. The problem was quickly solved, but the Grangers unfortunately weren't home — only then did he recall that they were supposed to have gone to France. Well, he'd leave it until his birthday. He really was dim sometimes.
The search for an explanation as to why the spells had worn off produced no results. And how would Muggles have known what a cocktail of phoenix tears, basilisk venom, and the dissolved remnants of a Horcrux belonging to the most powerful dark wizard Britain had produced in centuries did to a living person? A wizard who, incidentally, from his school days had been a superb orator and storyteller, magnificently skilled at persuasion.
Harry was equally without any knowledge on the subject. He had no theory about it at all, but he liked the way his life had changed. And the way it continued to change pleased rather than worried him, despite a certain — or rather, very uncertain — danger. He shared as much with the Dursleys.
"Who needs me, and for what? Voldemort crashed into me and came off the worse for it — but I didn't do anything."
"Harry, I think it's not quite so simple as that," his uncle shifted in his armchair. "Or not only that. You're a wealthy heir, aren't you?"
"Well… it seems so," Harry said. He still didn't know the particulars of his fortune, but he had seen the heaps of gold in the vault with his own eyes.
"A wealthy orphan. Remarkable that none of your lot has made a move on you. Very remarkable indeed."
Harry sighed and shared his plans about visiting Gringotts. Vernon nodded approvingly.
"You're certainly not ready for that yet. But I can give you a head start," he said, and handed over his notebook. "I've noted all the laws regarding Muggles. Try to do the same for the inheritance of accounts."
While Harry sat grinding through this tedious but necessary work, his brother — yes, he found himself thinking of his cousin that way more and more often — was quietly finishing Osceola and testing a variety of cunning traps on Mrs. Figg's brazen and peculiar cats. The Native Americans knew their business, and Dudley had quickly come to appreciate it. He never quite managed to actually grab one of the furiously hissing creatures — he always had to let go — but their owner now regularly spent half a day calling in vain for one of her pets.
The cats were growing cleverer, and gradually so at that, but very quickly, while Dudley — imperceptibly to himself — was growing more inventive, and had begun to devise things on his own. Mrs. Figg had twice gone off somewhere with her cats, but always came back. And it clearly didn't agree with her. Dudley had nearly made a bet with Harry on when the dreadful old woman would crack and go for good — but he held back. That secret was his for now. Once he finally managed to pull it off, then maybe — if his brother could persuade their dad to get him another Bulldog.
Wait. He couldn't carry a weapon. But how would he protect himself without one? Bow and arrow? Out of the question. Too slow. Too awkward. And far too conspicuous — he might as well stick feathers in his hair and stroll through Little Whinging. But a catapult or a sling… And a lasso — it was really just a long thin strap or a rope, wasn't it?
Right then. If anyone tried to hunt them, Dudley Dursley would take to the warpath. And it didn't matter one bit whether they were wizards or otherwise. A stone flies slower than a bullet, but it certainly moves faster than a curse.
If only Harry could find an aiming charm, so a catapult would never miss. For Big D, this was still a thrilling game.
Osceola, Chief of the Seminoles — novel by Thomas Mayne Reid.