Dumbledore's Night Out

“Excuse me, Minerva, but I shall need to take my leave of the castle this evening.” The Headmaster was swirling an ornate cloak of deep blue decorated with the constellations around his shoulders as he spoke, “Won’t be too long but I may be out until dawn. You’ll be Acting Headmistress in my absence.”

Minerva McGonagall pursed her lips but didn’t say anything as she watched the headmaster descend the staircase towards the ornate carriage waiting before the main gate of the castle. He opened the heavy oaken doors and paused then to meet her gaze.

“It won’t be a bother, will it?” His words echoed in the empty chamber.

“Not at all Headmaster.” She curtsied smartly. “We will eagerly await your return.”

“Good, good. Poor Snape. He’ll be heartbroken to hear I’ve left you in charge.” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye as he disappeared behind the door. “Hope you have a peaceful night, Minerva.”

________________________________________________________________________
The water gushed out of the tap, filling the tub as steam rose above the surface of the water and moved ghost like among the thick bubbles forming on top.

The kettle whistled loudly on the stove.

Pavarotti was crescendoing on the record player as the golden needled moved over the ebony disc, sending operatic notes soaring over the cozy room lit by the crackling fire in the hearth.

Minerva McGonagall stopped the water when the tub was full with a mountain of bubbles. She took the kettle off and poured herself a steaming cup of delicious herbal tea, with a piece of honeycomb dissolving deep in it’s dark golden recesses. And she turned the opera music down a bit and slid into the overstuffed chair next to the blazing hearth. And then Minerva McGonagall reached for the book next to her.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!!

“My word! Who can that be at this hour of the night.” She said, standing and quickly putting the book down on the seat and covering it with a shawl.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!!!

“Mr Filch!” She stared down at him from over the top of her halfmoon spectacles as she swung the door open, “The castle had better be on fire for disturbing me!”

The man simply stood before her paralyzed, his mouth hanging open stupidly, stammering the same syllable over and over again. It was then that she realized that she was only wearing a dressing gown and a pair of slippers and had her hair all up in curls.

“Well, if you have no better reason for disturbing me other than the fact that you are a complete idiot!” She said, pulling her dressing gown tight above her cleavage, “I suggest that you go be a fool on someone else’s doorstep. Professor Snape’s for example.”

“No, er, marm.” He said blinking a few more times, “I er, that is, sorry marm, I just never knew you had a pair o’–– that is, there’s something fishy going on marm. It’s Professor Trelawney marm.”

“Oh dear.” Minerva McGonagall shook her head, “I’d better come take a look then.”

The acting headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry walked briskly through the winding passageways and torchlit tunnels of the massive castle, following the small, bent, haggard man in front of her. She made sure to keep her nightgown clasped tightly at her neck, while using her other hand to adjust the curlers in her iron grey hair. Her bright pink fluffy slippers made a slight squeaking noise as she walked. They had been a gift from Albus and though she hated the things she could not deny that they were the most comfortable and warm slippers she had ever known. It was rumored that Albus had a matching pair himself that he wore while he sat behind his desk in his study.

“Here we are.” Filch said bending down to meet the mangy cat at the stairwell.

“Well, I see Mrs. Norris but where is Sybill?” McGonagall’s foot was tapping impatiently, sending a rapid tattoo of pink squeaks down the stairs.

“She’s coming up through this passage right now.” Filch licked his lips hungerly,“You know in the old days we’d hang not only students up for breaking rules, but teachers too.”

“Well, that is fascinating Mr. Filch but I believe I heard that the lower boys bathroom has been clogged again. A rapid, feces multiplication charm, it would appear.” She said pointedly.

“Awe, marm, can’t you, you know, maybe help me out, since it is a charm an all.” Filch whined as he stood up from petting the cat.

“No.” McGonagall’s glare was daggers. “I really can’t. Thank you, Mr. Filch.”

And as Filch disappeared down the hallway, the statue behind Minerva began to swing outward. And then stopped. From the crack in the darkness a faint, frightened voice asked urgently, “Who’s there?”

“Sybil, is that you?” McGonagall tried to peer through the crack between the statue and the wall but there was no answer, “Come now, Sybil what’s all this then? Why are you out this hour of the night. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“No. No it isn’t me. It is... someone else.” The Divination teacher choked lamely.

“Oh, come Sybil, don’t be like that.” McGonagall felt her temper flare as she swung her wand and sent the statue flying to the side, revealing a very frightened Sybil Trelawney clutching a brown paper bag to her chest, with a crate magically hovering behind her, full of bottles of Butterbeer. “Professor Trelawney! How dare you!”

“Please. Please.” Sybil fell to her knees, almost dropping the brown bag she carried clutched to her chest, “Please, Minerva. Don’t. Don’t take it away.”

“Sybil! You are a Professor of Hogwarts!” Minerva McGonagall rose up to her full height, aided by her head of curlers, to peer down at the poor Divination Professor. “I had heard that you’ve had a bit of trouble with cooking sherry and the like but I never thought the day would come you’d turn drunkard. And here! On these sacred grounds of all places!”

“Please, McGonagall.” She was on the verge of tears. “I have to. I need to. Please don’t.”

“Well, I am sorry, Sybil.” Minerva glared down over her glasses and then her eyes softened, “Very well. Take your... purchases to your room and have a care that none of the students see you. But be warned...”

Sybil swallowed as the glowing end of the wand was inches from her neck, “If I should see you displaying public drunkenness or if I should think for one moment that this... problem of yours.... is placing any of the students at harm... I will not only report you to the Headmaster, Sybil, but I will sober you up myself in a most painful and immediate way!”

“Th-th-thank you, Acting Headmistress.” Sybil gulped dryly and then she disappeared up the staircase leading to her chambers, the line of cases of butterbeer clamouring behind her as they followed her up.

“Now, where was I.” McGonagall sent the statue crashing back into place with a quick flip of her wand.
________________________________________________________________________
The water in the tub was still pleasantly warm, even if it did not steam as much as it did before and if there were noticeably less bubbles floating above it.

The honey had dissolved completely and the tea had also turned a bit shy of lukewarm.

The record was scratching at its end, and Minerva had to turn the needle to begin Pavarotti’s aria over again. As she did she picked up her book, took her cup of tea, and walked into the bathroom. She peeled the robe and nightgown off and slid her tired body into the water until only her head and arms were visible. In one hand she held the book, in the other the cup of tea, leaning her head back against the edge of the tub.

“Hmmm, delicious.” She said to herself as she sipped the honey tea. “Would be even better if it were a strong glass of spiced mead, but honey tea isn’t the worst substitute for honey wine.”

And she took another sip.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!!!

“If that is Filch again...” Minerva McGonagall knew enough drying spells to have her back in her nightgown and robe and slippers and back at the door just as the second round of knocks began.

KNOCK KNOCK KNO––

“Oh, er, ello marm.” It was indeed Filch again.

“What is it this time, Mr Filch.” McGonagall was resisting as hard as she could the urge to turn the rat faced man into an actual rat. “And it had better not be another waste of my time like last time. And those boys bathrooms had better be taken care of.”

“Oh, er, it is marm.” And then as if the logic centers of his brain took some time to catch up with his mouth he stammered, “That is. No it isn’t. That is to say. I have reason to believe a certain young man will be sneaking out of quarters tonight to be with a certain young lady, marm. To perform certain activities of a nocturnal nature.”

“What!” And McGonagall did not even attempt to stop her slippers form squeaking this time as she stormed down the hallway, “This is an outrage! Hogwarts would never live down the notoriety if a student returned home in a compromised state! Where is this meeting to take place, Mr. Filch?!”

“Well, as I understand it, the young lady is to meet the gentleman in the second floor corridor at half past eleven, marm.” He spoke with a snicker.

“Mr Filch, I shall go see to this.” McGonagall turned red-faced as she walked towards the passage that led to the second floor corridor. “And Mr. Filch, while I applaud your attempt to comb your hair, next time, start with a bath first.”

And she left the blushing Filch standing in the warm light of her doorway.
________________________________________________________________________
“What if someone catches us?” His voice echoed up the darkness of the stairs.

“It’s a risk we have to take. When else could we do this?” Her voice demanded pleasantly, “Besides, you worry too much.”

“Well, I guess I’m ready if you are.” He spoke and his voice echoed up the walls of the long corridor.

Minerva stopped as she heard the voice. It was very familiar. Probably one of her transfiguration students. Possibly someone in her house. She felt the anger inside leap and the wall sconces around her flicked to light as she stood before them, hands on her hips. Then her mouth fell open and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. Their faces matched her own.

“Professor Flitwick!” She gaped and stammered moving from one to the other, “Professor Sprout! I am shocked!”

“I’m, er, sure, not as much as we are.” Flitwick said morosely. “Hello, Minerva.”

The two Professors were standing with their arms around each other, a bouquet of roses on the ground behind them. They were iridescent roses, Minerva’s personal favorite. Knowing Flitwick he’d probably heard her mention them and had misremembered them as Sprout’s favorite instead.

“Well, in all my years!” Minerva found her steam again and recovered quickly, “I have never heard of a Hogwarts Professor–– two Hogwarts Professors!–– and in the second floor corridor of all places! Have you no shame!”

The blush on Sprout and Flitwick’s cheeks could not compare to the crimson Minvera McGonagall’s cheeks were flushed as she stammered for words, and finding exactly the words, to describe the activities of the second floor corridor, “This is–– That is to say–– as Professors of Hogwarts I would expect you two to be preventing such–– hankypanky–– between students! Not setting some sort of example of–– of–– styles and methods!”

“McGonagall, please! We were just––” Sprout blurted but Flitwick interrupted her, “Our apologies, Acting Headmistress. Go ahead and report us to the Headmaster when he returns. You are right, we should have acted our ages.”

“Indeed you should have. I suggest you both return to bed.” And as they turned to leave she coughed and said blushing, “Your own beds, I should emphasize.”

And the two disappeared down different corridors off the main corridor. The flowers that had previously been on the ground had been secreted away with the two retreating lovers.
________________________________________________________________________
Minerva McGonagall was on her way back to her room when she turned a corner and bumped into Professor Severus Snape. The man with the sallow face and oily black hair that hung in curtains on either side of his face snarled at her before forcing a smile and giving a small mock bow.

“Evening, Acting Headmistress.” He shot venom towards her with his eyes.

“Severus! What are you doing wandering the hallways this time of night.” Her eyes returned the mutual hatred.

“I should ask you the same thing, Acting Headmistress.” He snapped each syllable as he spoke them.

“I happened to be attending to important Hogwarts business that is none of your concern, Severus!” She snapped and glared at him over the tops of her halfmoon spectacles in a way that would make weaker men soil themselves, “You still have yet to answer my question.”

“I set alarm enchantments around my storeroom.” Severus glared down at the floor as if being forced to reveal some terrible secret against his will, “I’ve been missing things from my storeroom ever since that Potter boy started here. I’m sure he’s stealing it. I went to check on it.”

“And pray, did you find what you were looking for?” McGonagall snapped back.

“Unfortunately it appears my alarm enchantments were mistaken.” Severus said with a mock bow, “Now, as much as I love our little chats, Minerva, I really must be off to bed. We can’t all wander around the halls of Hogwarts aimlessly at night. Some of us actually have classes to teach. Teach something of worth that is.”

And he turned to walk away from her and had gone a good distance down the hallway before he heard her call out to him, without turning to face his departure, “Oh, before I forget, Severus, before you return to your quarters, could you please put Mr. Longbottom down. He should get a good night’s sleep before his insightful classes with you in the morning. Wouldn’t you agree, Longbottom?”

“Yes, Professor.” Neville’s small voice echoed from the deep darkness far above the two professors. “Thank you, Professor.”

“And then you can run along Professor Snape.” She smiled coyly at him as he stomped away frustratedly, the sound of Neville’s whimpers following along in the darkness above.
________________________________________________________________________
By the time Minerva McGonagall was back in her room the record of Pavarotti was scratching noisily again. The candles were dripping wax on her rugs, the fire was burning low and red. Her tea had gone cold and she knew the bath water would be lukewarm at best. She raised her hand and was ready to return it all to the state she had found it in, but then sighed as she lowered her wand and her head. Odds were, the second she had heated everything back and was just getting comfortable there would be another knock on her door.

Instead, she picked up her book and slid off her robe, slipping her slippers off. She adjusted her nightgown and got in beneath the covers of her thick down blanket. She picked up her book and readied herself to disappear into the world of the written word. Then she remembered something and laid the book down and reached into her side drawer, withdrawing a small pot with a screw-on lid. She opened and proceeded to cover her face in the neon green paste smelled faintly of spice and roses. Then she picked her book up and began reading again.

She had not even come to the end of the first page when...

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Oh, for the love of all––” And she slammed the book shut, and then slammed the book down on the side table, threw the covers back, swung her legs over the side right into the slippers, squeaked over to the door with such furor that squeaking has never sounded so frightening, and then threw her robe over her shoulders as she flung the door open with one motion, glaring down at the little man cowering in the pool of light coming from her room, “WHAT NOW!”

“I-I-I.” The little man’s eyes were bulging out of his head, “That is, a-a-a matter has arisen in the Great Hall.”

“Oh, has it now!” She stepped out, slamming the door and causing the wall scones to flutter. “Which Professor is it this time, pray tell! It isn’t Madam Hooch or Professor Lockeheart this time is it! Or perhaps Madam Pomfrey is selling opium to students now!”

“N-n-no it’s nothin’ like” But he got no further as she marched down the corridor.

“I don’t care what it is like! I swear if I catch one more Professor of Hogwarts in a compromising situation I’m going to––” But as she came to the great doors of the main hall, Filch tried to step in front of her. “Mr Flinch. Move!”

“Well, it’s just. Professor. You may want to.” But he got no further as she flung him aside with a flip of her wand and then proceeded to smash the doors open, dust rising into the air. She stepped inside and readied herself for the worst.

What she did not ready herself for was the chorus of voices.

“SURPRISE!”

And suddenly the room was transformed and bright lights shone everywhere, streamers and balloons and flowers were everywhere. And so were all her students and colleagues. They all looked at her with shock on their faces and suddenly she became very aware of her state of dress and her face. She turned on the spot and swished her wand and she was standing before them in her usual somber black dress with her hair piled neatly on her head in a tight bun, her face stern and taught without so much as a green smudge.

“Minerva, I must say, you do know how to make quite an entrance.” Dumbledore said as he stepped out from the crowd towards her, “I do hope you will forgive me for not telling you but Potter said it should be so much better for you as a surprise, and I quite agree.”

“Potter?” Minerva gasped overwhelmed as the boy appeared next to them.

“Well, when Professor Dumbledore told me that it was your birthday I thought we could make it special for you. You know. As a way of saying thank you. You now. For everything with Quidditch and everything.” And the boy stammered as he toed the ground nervously.

“Thank you, Potter that was very sweet.” She said casting a meaningful glance towards Dumbledore. “If misguided.”

“Oh, come now, Minerva, have a glass of spiced mead. I sent Sybil to get some of your favorite.” He handed her a glass full of amber gold liquid.

“Sybil?” And she gave a small laugh, “And I thought the poor dear was turning to drink.”

“Of course you did.” Sybil said dreamily as she circled by, “I foresaw that.”

“Right.” She said taking the glass from Dumbledore and feeling her instincts kick in looking up, “Longbottom! What are you still doing floating on the ceiling!”

“Ah, yes, I believe Neville and Severus were in charge of the decorating committee.” Dumbledore’s eyes were half-moons of mirth at some private joke.

“Well, that would explain the reason the streamers are black and all set so––” But she simply shook her head before continuing. “And I suppose Sprout and Flitwick were only busy getting flowers for me.”

“As a matter of fact, yes they were.” Dumbledore produced a bouquet of the iridescent roses. “These are for you.”

“Well, thank you Albus but you really shouldn’t have troubled yourself.” She said taking the bouquet in her free hand, “I mean, keeping the children up at such hours of the night.”

“Ah yes, I had almost forgotten.” And here Albus turned and tapped a somewhat rotund man on the shoulder, “Minerva, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. I believe you are a fan of his music. Signore Pavarotti, this is the woman I was telling you about.”

“P-P-Pavarotti!” And a crimson blush spread across Minerva’s cheeks.

“Signora.” he said and bowed, kissing her bouquet holding hand. “It is a pleasure.”

“Oh, well.” And she blushed even further, touching up her hair, “I, er, the pleasure is all mine.”

“Our friend here has agreed to give us a small performance tonight. If its not too late for such things, of course.” Dumbledore’s eyes gleamed wickedly.

“Oh, very well.” She said, giving a small smile and taking a sip of the honey wine, “I guess I could be persuaded to listen to a song while I finish my drink.”

And so she sat down next to the headmaster and Filch who had somehow managed to find his way into the seat next to her, smelling suspiciously of cologne. The music began and as the wine warmed her and the music of Pavarotti washed over her, she did not even mind that the two Slytherin boys behind her were giggling and pointing at the last remnant of a curler in her hair or that Sprout and Flitwick were sneaking out of the side door, fingers interlaced. For a moment, she simply relaxed and enjoyed the music and the warm glow that she was among people who cared so much for her.

“Happy Birthday, Minerva.” Dumbledore whispered softly as the next song began.

“Yes.” She whispered back, a tear on her cheek, “It has been a happy birthday. Thank you Dumbledore. Sometime I don’t know what I would ever do without you.”

The Death of Vernon Dursley

“...and I saw multitudes
to every side of me; their howls were loud
while, wheeling weights, they use their chest to push
They struck against each other; at that point,
each turned around and, wheeling back those weights,
cried out: Why do you hoard? Why do you squander?”
-Dante’s Inferno, Canto VII

The Death of Vernon Dursley

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. His heart was pounding a tattoo in his massive chest as it rose and set with fury. He rolled over slowly, like some kind of landed manatee, swinging his fat feet to the floor with a meaty slap.

“Petunia. Oh, Petunia I had the most terrible dream. You had left and you’d taken our Dudders with you.” He turned to face a cold and empty bed beside him.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive leaned his mammoth form forward and buried his small fat face in his meaty hands. And he began to cry. It had been no dream. This had all really happened to him. He was all alone now. All alone in Number Four, Privet Drive.

The shopping cart wheel squeaked laboriously, as if trying to make as much sound as possible as the wheel went round and round on the rusty axel. The fluorescent lights above the grocery store aisles flickered in time to the circular squeaking. He made the shopping cart seem small beside his massive form as he leaned his tweed jacketed arms against it for support.

“Now. Now, then. Let’s see here.” He stammered as he walked and talked to himself. He had no one else to talk to anymore. Not since Petunia and Dudley had left. He tried not to think of that morning when Petunia had stormed out of the house, Dudley in tow. Dudders would be fine. He was a big boy and he’d be sure to find a job in the mines up north. Vernon had. And he had been younger at that time.

“Excuse me, sir. But do you know where the peas are?”

Vernon recoiled from the old, shaking woman who had interrupted his thoughts. Right into the rickety cart. There was a moment of tipping, when the cart was balanced on just two wheels. He saw it as if time had slowed down. He tried to reach out, to grab it, but it was as if he was moving in slow motion with the falling cart. Dancing some strange, treacly dance. It was just a bit too far, a fraction out of his reach.

Then there was the cacophony of broken jars, battered containers, and beans spilling out across the floor and skittling along the tiles. He was breathing hard, his face must have been the color of a ripe tomato, he thought as he seethed towards the old woman. But where the old Vernon would have began yelling, cursing, telling her to watch where she was going, blaming her for sneaking up on him, he suddenly felt the anger turn to something else. Something worse.

His chest tightened, he couldn’t breathe. He felt like the walls were warping and twisting and towering over him, as if the ceiling and the fluorescent lights were slowly descending, coming to crush him. He wheezed and cursed and his eyes watered as he clenched them shut tightly. The panic beat furiously at the darkness behind his eyelids. It filled him, consumed him, coursed like ice through his veins and made his prodigious stomach shudder and convulse. He wanted to throw up.

Instead, he opened his eyes slowly. He saw the old woman standing with her hand covering her quivering mouth. She was saying something. Asking him something. But Vernon could not place meaning on the words “are you alright” or “do you need me to call an ambulance”. And then it passed. The entire episode had lasted no more than a few seconds even though it had felt like an hour of agony.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was shaking as he stood. Damn, this was the reason why Petunia had left and why Dudley had left and why everyone now pretended not to know or remember he existed. He walked down the aisle like he was in a trance ignoring the wraith figure of the old woman hovering at the background of the aisle and the tipped cart and its scattered contents. Maybe he was in a trance. Maybe it had been that Potter boy’s doing.

It was always the same thing, over and over again. First the owls, then the flying Ford Anglia, then the wizards. Every time something had upset his life it always, always, always came back down to that boy! The boy who lived, they called him. Many a night had Vernon prayed, to no particular god or deity, that the boy had died instead. He could still have his life. His sanity. His wife and son. Every good thing had left his life when the Potter boy had shown up. Some of it had just taken longer.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive left the store empty handed and went back to his tomblike house on Privet Drive. The rooms were cold and smelled of the stark emptiness that hotel rooms reeked of. The surfaces felt wrong, the walls oily and greasy with dust. The floorboards creaked with menace that their slumber should be disturbed. The house felt wrong without Petunia there baking a cake or Dudley eating it. Now it was just him. He sunk into the couch. Willing his form to merge with it, for it to swallow him. Encase him.  He turned the telie on, but there was only commercials for Sunbright, liquid pine cleaner on. Sunbright, add a dash of sunshine to your home. And no matter which channel he put on, no matter how long he stayed on that channel it was only commercials. Only ever commercials for Sunbright, liquid pine cleaner. Add a dash of sunshine to your home.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive couldn’t sleep. He paced the round mat that covered the wooden floor of his bedroom. His bedroom. Not theirs anymore. Round and round the mat he went as he paced and thought and muttered and tried to remember what he had been trying to do. Like some monk in deep meditation while walking the labyrinth on the floor of a cathedral. He’d been trying to sleep. That’s right. That’s right. Sleep. He lowered his hefty frame onto the protesting, squeaking bedframe and willed himself to sleep. Willed himself not to dream. Not again.

Mr Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. His face was covered in sweat and maybe tears. He rolled over slowly, grunting with the effort to face the other side of the bed.

“Petunia. Petunia I had the most terrible dream. You had left and you’d taken our Dudders with you. And I was alone in the house and there was only one commercial on the telie.” He turned to face a cold and empty bed beside him again.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive buried his face in the warm, soaked pillow and bit into the fabric as he groaned in agony. And he began to sob big, warm tears. It had been no dream. This had all really happened to him. He was all alone now. All alone in Number Four, Privet Drive.

The wheel on the shopping cart squeaked even more in protest as it attempted to turn on the axle that was bent out of shape. He pushed onward anyway, trying to force his way down the aisle against the agonized wail of the cart’s wheel. He was focused. Determined. He would be indomitable. He pushed through the aisle, secretly glad to see that there was no people. He was not certain what he would have done had there been any. He furtively checked behind him every few second though, just in case.

It was not that he had ever had a problem with people. They all simply had problems with him and that had been their own fault and their own business to deal with. No, this was new and different and unwelcome. Since the first day that redheaded wizard had blown up his fireplace he had been haunted. Haunted by how normal the wizard man had looked. Old men in beards and robes and hags with warts and pointy hats he could stand against. He could resist. But that redheaded wizard man had looked like any one of the gents at the pub. If he hadn’t just materialized out of a fireplace, Vernon would not even have suspected him of being a wizard.

And there was the problem. And Vernon groaned audibly with a slight shudder of terror as he saw another cart begin to nose around the edge of the aisle. The young boy and his mother came into view and Vernon tried to keep moving but found, suddenly, that he couldn’t. He was frozen, like some deer in the headlights of an oncoming lorie, all he could do was stare wide, bulging eyed at them.

Maybe the mother decided she didn’t need to buy any melons today. Or more likely she noticed the strange man glaring at her and her son standing next to the melons. Either way they didn’t turn down the aisle and instead continued past Vernon’s line of sight. As the last trace of other person disappeared, Vernon finally let out a breath and leaned against the cart. That was the problem.

If Vernon couldn’t tell witches and wizards apart from normal people then how could he tell who was who. Anyone could be a witch or a wizard. That woman pushing the cart, or even just the boy. Hadn’t Petunia’s own sister been a freak like that. A perfectly normal family. Nothing strange or out of the ordinary until one day the little freak just started spouting magic and making problems and owls started arriving and things went amok. Anyone could be one of them. Waiting. Just waiting.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive glanced over his shoulder nervously again as he stood in line to pay for his groceries. A bag of peanuts. A cherry pie. A container of Sunbright liquid pine cleaner. Add a touch of sunshine to your home. He licked his salty lips nervously as he watched the cashier finish ringing up the people in front of him. His nervous gaze flicked back and forth between the woman and her son walking out, and the cashier behind the register. A blond haired boy with a speckling of acne across his cheeks and chin. He smiled a metallic grin at Vernon that spoke nothing of friendliness and everything of boredom.

“How are you today then, sir? Find everything alright?”

This is the part where I speak. This is the part where I answer, Vernon thought as he felt himself begin to sweat. He felt his tongue like a lead weight in his mouth, forcing his mouth to gape open but not moving to form any words. His throat was constricting, getting smaller and smaller as his lungs began beating at his chest to try and squeeze more air through his constricted windpipe.

“Sir? Is anything the matter?” Metal mouth was looking scared as he stepped towards Mr. Dursley’s shaking form and touched his arm.

“Ghwa!” Vernon stuttered and groaned, “What are you doing to me?!”

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to make sure you were al––” But the boy couldn’t say anything further.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me! You filthy, disgusting, wizard! Don’t think I don’t know!” Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive shrieked as he backed away from the cashier, inching towards the door. “You think you’re some big secret, that none of us know! Well, I do! I know! I know! And I’m telling you right now, that no one pulls one over Vernon Dursley, no they do not!”

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was panting heavily and out of breath as he slammed the door to Number Four, Privet Drive, cracking the glass set in it, and leaned his bulky frame against it. The inside of the house was dark and cold. It reminded him of his boyhood. When he and his sister had been taken to an old castle on summer holiday. How they had found the cemetery and an old sepulcher belonging to some ancient and long dead family. They had gone in and the air had tasted stale and cold and the deep darkness had not left their souls even after they had left the old tomb. The darkness in Number Four, Privet Drive felt exactly the same–– deep.

“Damn, wizards!” He cursed as he stomped through the house, strangely invigorated and roused by his escape from the cashier in the grocery store. “Thought they’d get me, did they! Well, I know a thing or two about their kind, I do! For one, I know that they exist! So they can’t cheat me or trick me into thinking I’m going mad! Its all just a trick. It’s a trick and the only defense is not to give ‘em any ground, it is! That it is! That it is!”

Number Four, Privet Drive was silent in answer to his roaring at the rafters. He seemed to calm a bit, tucked in his shirt and took of his tweed jacket. The kitchen had always been Petunia’s realm. Vernon had been very kind and generous to give up this as his wife’s territory. But now he was lord of all again. And so he threw his jacket on the counter, and swung open the pantry door.

There was an old wheel of cheese, a round cask of ale, and a single shriveled onion. He opened the fridge but found it bare and empty, reminding him of his grocery store fiascos and why he’d have to return there again the next day. Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive did not need reminding of that, and shut the fridge. He took out the wheel of cheese, the cask of ale, and the onion.

A match was lit in the growing gloom of the blue twilight that seeped through the windows. The candle sputtered to life and glowed faintly. Very faintly, a halo of warmth and comfort. The table was set for one, with the best bone china and sterling silver cutlery. A round goblet, some old family heirloom was filled to the brim with the warm ale. On the plate, round circles of raw onion sat next to cheese riddled with holes.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive surveyed his work with pride. He did not need Petunia. He had prepared a fine meal, a damn fine meal, all on his own. He sat and cut into the onion. It bit his tongue and watered his eyes and burned around the edges of his mouth. The cheese was sharp and tangy but offered little as far as flavor went, coating the inside of his mouth with thick, fatty warmth. The ale washed it all down and sat like a smouldering log in his stomach. The silver on the china made a soft clinking sound, like hail on a window pane, in the cavernous silence inside Number Four, Privet Drive.

Perhaps it was the food, since it had been almost two days since he had eaten last. Or perhaps it was the ale, the alcohol slowly numbing his sense and dulling the throbbing migraine at the back of his head. Or perhaps it was the candlelight, like a small spark of hope in the inky darkness of despair that surrounded him. But for some reason, a flush of warmth glowed through Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive and he felt that maybe, just maybe, even with Petunia and Dudley gone, everything was going to be fine.

And then that warmth grew warmer. Like a coal being blown on, it glowed just a bit too much, just bordering on discomfort. He kept eating, throwing the cheese and the onion slices and the ale back as fast as he could, trying to bring the gentle warmth back. But it just got worse. The coal had solidified in his stomach into a burning lance of hot white, pain. He clutched the table, his face turning red, the room growing smaller, the pain getting hotter and hotter. And then everything started spinning.

He pulled the tablecloth with him as he fell to the floor, trying to find something solid, something he could anchor himself to. He opened his mouth to curse but instead the cheese and onion and ale began to come up, waves of vomit and sick all over the floor, down his shirt. He stumbled down the hallway and up the stairs, leaving a trail of cheesy, oniony, ale behind him. He threw open the bathroom door and launched himself against the porcelain bowl. He pressed his face through it and heaved over and over again, feeling his body convulse and shake, his eyes water, his lungs quake for a breath in between the waves of sickness. The round bowl shook under his straining fists that held the sides. Time slipped away from him as he lay there, covered in his vomit and the stale taste of the ale in his mouth.

Mr. Vernon Dursley did not even try to change. His shirt had lost buttons in the mad dash to the bathroom. He simply fell on the bed and closed his eyes. No pacing the mat tonight. No trying to go to sleep. His body quivered with the expectation of rest. He let the obsidian blackness of the room take him.

He woke with a start. The room was dark and smelled faintly of an odor he could not place. Sweet but cloying. He had had the strangest dream. More of a nightmare. But then the horrid thought occurred to him that it hadn’t been a dream. That Petunia and Dudley were actually gone.

“Gone.” He whimpered to the darkness.

“What?” came the groan from next to him.

He turned his bulky frame to face the thin woman in the bed next to him. He felt tears well up in his eyes. It had all been a nightmare. Some terrible twisted dream! He reached for Petunia and she smiled at him groggily. Then Petunia was gone. Just a horrible skeleton in her place, with smoke pouring from her round, eye sockets. The smoke reached out long hands into his mouth and filled his throat. He tried to cough, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe.  

Mr Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive woke with a start. He coughed again as he got a mouth-full of smoke. His room was filled with it. He jumped up yelling as he did.

“Petunia. Wake up! There’s something wrong! Dudders must have set fireworks off in the house again!” She wasn’t there. Again. Just the empty bed beside him. He followed the trail of sick down the stairs to the smoldering tablecloth and the small fire licking at the side of the table. The candle from last night, he thought.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive buried his sooty face in his greasy hands. He would take care of the fire in a moment. It wasn’t going anywhere. For a moment. For a moment he had truly thought that maybe it had all been a dream. That maybe Petunia had never left. That maybe his life wasn’t falling apart. Now the grey emptiness took him and he couldn’t even find tears. He just sat there. Maybe he’d let the fire burn him up. Maybe he’d never move from that spot again.

People moved away from Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive as he shuffled down the sidewalk. His bedraggled appearance ––his unbottoned shirt, his messy hair, the trail of caked sick over his front–– was not nearly as unsettling as the dull, watery grey of his red-rimmed eyes that did not seem to blink. He walked down the aisle of the grocery store and he heard the squeaking whine again of a grocery cart wheel. He turned but there was no cart in sight.

He kept walking, another whining wheel joining the first one, and then another and another and another until the cacophony of whining, screeching, squeaking wheels pounded through his head reverberated through his faintly chattering teeth. And then the noise all turned to harmony as he saw the Sunbright cleaner. Of course, of course. That’s why he had seen the commercials over and over again. The universe was trying to tell him. The way that he could have his life back. Add a touch of sunshine to your home! Of course!

His hands were shaking as he grabbed the bottle and started walking towards the door. The acne faced teen from before tried to step in front of him, his metal words forming slowly in Vernon’s mind.

“I’m sorry sir, but you have to pay for that first.”

And then the boy was on the ground. And he was holding his stomach and he was crying. Crying and crying. Vernon realized he was holding his father’s revolver in his hand. But that couldn’t be right. The revolver was back at Number Four, Privet Drive, under his mattress. Petunia had insisted that he keep it there. He couldn’t be holding it.

He puzzled over the mysterious revolver as he stepped over the bleeding boy on the floor and out of the door. He continued down the street with his bottle of Sunbright, add a touch of sunshine to your home, when he heard the distant sirens through the haze of squeaking wheels in his mind. And then he realized.

“Those damn wizards!” He cursed to passerby’s in the street. “They did this! They killed the boy in the store and then put my father’s gun in my hand so they’d think I did it! But they don’t know that I know that they know! I still have it! I still have the element of surprise! And now I have the Sunbright too!”

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive was home. He slammed the door behind him but it just hung loosely from the hinge. He uncorked the Sunbright liquid pine cleaner–– add a touch of sunshine to your house–– and began splattering it in archs of bright orange across the walls and tables and chairs and carpet and ceiling and lamps and kitchen and everything else. He ran up the stairs, smearing the walls with the orange cleaner as he went, pouring it on the carpet.

And when he reached his small bedroom, he poured the last of the bottle over the bed and spread the soapy-sick mess around and around, building up a sticky white lather on the sheets, going round and round, digging his nails into the bedsheets until they started catching, tearing of one after another. Maybe that was what did it. Maybe that was what snapped him back. The stabs of pain coming from his bloodied fingers.

Realization dawned. The black streaks of sooty smoke against the wallpaper. The trail of crusted vomit in the carpet. The pink soapy-bloody suds on the bed. The cool press of the revolver in the pocket of his tweed jacket.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive took of his jacket and took out the revolver. He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror over the crusted and dirty sink. His eyes were red and wide and watery. Thick purple bags hung under them, crusted with dried vomit. His face was showing the prickles of a beard after two days of not shaving, also smeared with sick. He looked into those eyes and knew everything was over. No one would believe him. Those wizards had won. They had out thought him and trapped him and now the police would come and he couldn’t tell them about the wizards because of course no one would believe Vernon. But there was still something he could do.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive placed the cold barrel of the revolver in his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror as his thoughts raced through his head. He would do it. He would rob them of their goal. He would take himself out of the equation. He would make sure no bloody wizard got the better of him in the end.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive’s thoughts kept racing. It would be simple. Easy even. Probably painless. Maybe a moment but that would be it. He would do it. Just pull the trigger, Vernon. Come on, man up! Just pull the damn trigger and be done with all this! Put it all behind you! Come on, Vernon, do it! Do it! Don’t be such a coward, you piece of filth! You want those wizards to win! This is what they want! Don’t give it to them! Do it!

For a moment the face in the mirror changed to a dull grey face with deep black eyes. Mr. Vernon Dursley looked into the face of Despair. And he knew. He could feel it twisting at his heart, making his stomach heave dryly, that he couldn’t do it. He could never be brave enough to end it now. He let the revolver slump out of his mouth. He slumped to the floor and folded himself over, his forehead pressed against the bathroom tile.

Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive sobbed into the moldy grate of the grimey tiles. Not sure of what would happen now. Not sure of whether he’d ever see Petunia and Dudley again. Not sure if this was all just some sick form of hell and he was just being tortured by wizards or devils over and over again. Not sure if this was all just a nightmare and if he’d wake up again and again and again. But one thing he was sure of. If this was a nightmare and if he, Mr. Vernon Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, did wake up with a start again, he would not turn and call to Petunia. He could not bare it. Could not bare to feel the cold and empty bed next to him again. Again. Again.