Adventures of Harriet Potter

Dudley Demented

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing; the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage girl who was lying flat on her back in a flower bed outside number four.
She was a skinny, fiery-red-haired, bespectacled girl who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. Her jeans were torn and dirty, her T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of her trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harriet Potter's appearance did not endear her to the neighbors, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as she had hidden herself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening she was quite invisible to passersby. In fact, the only way she would be spotted was if her Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living room window and looked straight down into the flower bed below.
On the whole, Harriet thought she was to be congratulated on her idea of hiding here. She was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth, but on the other hand, nobody was glaring at her, grinding their teeth so loudly that she could not hear the news, threatening to violate her within an inch of her life, or shooting nasty questions at her, as had happened every time she had tried sitting down in the living room and watching television with her aunt and uncle. Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harriet's uncle, suddenly spoke. "Glad to see the girl's stopped trying to butt in. Where is she anyway?"
"I don't know," said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. "Not in the house." Uncle Vernon grunted. "Watching the news . . ." he said scathingly. "I'd like to know what she's really up to. As if a normal teenager cares what's on the news — Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about her lot on our news —" Harriet fought not to snort. "Vernon, shh!" said Aunt Petunia. "The window's open!"
"Oh — yes — sorry, dear . . ." The Dursleys fell silent. Harriet listened to a jingle about Fruit 'N Bran breakfast cereal while she watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harriet was very pleased that she was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking her around for tea whenever she met her in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's voice floated out of the window again.
"Dudders out for tea?" he asked. "At the Polkisses'," said Aunt Petunia fondly. "He's got so many little friends, he's so popular . . ." Harriet repressed another snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harriet knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harriet had seen them at it during her evening walks around Little Whinging; she had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. Avoiding Uncle Vernon as she'd already ran out of Contraceptive Potion.
The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock news reached Harriet's ears and her stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a month of waiting — would be the night — "Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers' strike reaches its second week —"
"Give 'em a lifelong siesta, I would," snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader's sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harriet's stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers . . . She let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again . . . and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had happened yet . . .
She kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not recognized for what it really was by the Muggles — an unexplained disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident . . . but the baggage-handlers' strike was followed by news on the drought in the Southeast ("I hope he's listening next door!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, "with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!"); then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress's divorce from her famous husband ("as if we're interested in their sordid affairs," sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).
Harriet closed her eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the newsreader said, "And finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in Barnsley, has learned to water-ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more . . ." Harriet opened her eyes again. If they had reached water-skiing budgerigars, there was nothing else worth hearing. She rolled cautiously onto her front and raised herself onto her knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window.
She had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession. A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath, and the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys' living room, and as though Harriet had been waiting for this signal, she jumped to her feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of her jeans a thin wooden wand as if she were unsheathing a sword. But before she could draw herself up to full height, the top of her head collided with the Dursleys' open window, and the resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.
Harriet felt as if her head had been split in two; eyes streaming, she swayed, trying to focus on the street and spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright again when two large purple hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around her throat. "Put — it — away!" Uncle Vernon snarled into Harriet's ear. "Now! Before — anyone — sees!" His tone containing a thinly veiled threat that he'd be visiting her in her room later. "Get — off — me!" Harriet gasped; for a few seconds they struggled, Harriet pulling at her uncle's sausage-like fingers with her left hand, her right maintaining a firm grip on her raised wand. Then, as the pain in the top of Harruet's head gave a particularly nasty throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harriet as though he had received an electric shock — some invisible force seemed to have surged through his niece, making her impossible to hold.
Panting, Harriet fell forward over the hydrangea bush, straightened up, and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through various nearby windows. Harriet stuffed her wand hastily back into her jeans and tried to look innocent. "Lovely evening!" shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs. Number Seven, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. "Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!"
He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious neighbors had disappeared from their various windows, then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harriet back toward him. Harriet moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon's outstretched hands could resume their strangling. "What the devil do you mean by it, girl?" asked Uncle Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury. "What do I mean by what?" said Harriet coldly. She kept looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see the person who had made the cracking noise. "Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our —"
"I didn't make that noise," said Harriet firmly. Aunt Petunia's thin, horsey face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon's wide, purple one. She looked livid. "Why were you lurking under our window?" she said coldly. "Yes — yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, girl?" Uncle Vernon said, narrowing his eyes after a glance at her bubbies. "Listening to the news," said Harriet in a resigned voice. Her aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage. "Listening to the news! Again?"
"Well, it changes every day, you see," said Harriet. "Don't you be clever with me, girl! I want to know what you're really up to — and don't give me any more of this listening to the news tosh! You know perfectly well that *your lot* . . ." said Uncle Vernon venomously. "Careful, Vernon!" breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon lowered his voice so that Harriet could barely hear him, ". . . that your lot don't get on our news!"
"That's all you know," said Harriet. The Dursleys goggled at her for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia said, "You're a nasty little liar. What are all those —" she too lowered her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word, "— owls — doing if they're not bringing you news?"
"Aha!" said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. "Get out of that one, girl! As if we didn't know you get all your news from those pestilential birds!" Harriet hesitated for a moment. It cost her something to tell the truth this time, even though her aunt and uncle could not possibly know how bad Harriet felt at admitting it. "The owls . . . aren't bringing me news," said Harriet tonelessly. "I don't believe it," said Aunt Petunia at once. "No more do I," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "We know you're up to something funny," said Aunt Petunia. "We're not stupid, you know," said Uncle Vernon.
"Well, that's news to me," said Harriet, her temper rising, and before the Dursleys could call her back — or Uncle Vernon could haul her to her bedroom and violate her, she had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall, and was striding off up the street. She was in trouble now and she knew it. She would have to face her aunt and uncle later and pay the price for her rudeness, but she did not care very much just at the moment; she had much more pressing matters on her mind.
Harriet was sure that the cracking noise had been made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be following her right at this very moment? As this thought occurred she wheeled around and stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely deserted again and Harriet was sure that Dobby did not know how to become invisible . . . She walked on, hardly aware of the route she was taking, for she had pounded these streets so often lately that her feet carried her to her favorite haunts automatically. Every few steps she glanced back over her shoulder. Someone magical had been near her as she lay among Aunt Petunia's dying begonias, she was sure of it. Why hadn't they spoken to her, why hadn't they made contact, why were they hiding now?
And then, as her feeling of frustration peaked, her certainty leaked away. Perhaps it hadn't been a magical sound after all. Perhaps she was so desperate for the tiniest sign of contact from the world to which she belonged that she was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises. Could she be sure it hadn't been the sound of something breaking inside a neighbor's house? Harriet felt a dull, sinking sensation in her stomach and, before she knew it, the feeling of hopelessness that had plagued her all summer rolled over her once again . . .
Tomorrow morning she would be awoken by the alarm at five o'clock so that she could pay the owl that delivered the Daily Prophet — but was there any point in continuing to take it? Harriet merely glanced at the front page before throwing it aside these days; when the idiots who ran the paper finally realized that Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and that was the only kind Harriet cared about. If she was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from her best friends, Ron and Hermione, though any expectation she had had that their letters would bring her news had long since been dashed.
"We can't say much about you-know-what, obviously. . . ." "We've been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray. . . ." "We're quite busy but I can't give you details here. . . ." "There's a fair amount going on, we'll tell you everything when we see you. . . ." But when were they going to see her? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had scribbled, "I expect we'll be seeing you quite soon" inside her birthday card, but how soon was soon? As far as Harriet could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron's parents' house. She could hardly bear to think of the pair of them having fun at the Burrow when she was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, she was so angry at them that she had thrown both their birthday presents of Honeydukes chocolates away unopened, though she had regretted this after eating the wilting salad Aunt Petunia had provided for dinner that night and the rather horrifying session of Uncle Vernon violating her later that night. So much so she retrieved the chocolates to comfort herself with them.
And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn't she, Harriet, busy? Hadn't she proved herself capable of handling much more than they? Had they all forgotten what she had done? Hadn't it been she who had entered that graveyard and saved Cedric from being murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed . . . ? Don't think about that, Harriet told herself sternly for the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough that she kept revisiting the graveyard in her nightmares, without dwelling on it in her waking moments too.
She turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along she passed the narrow alleyway down the side of a garage where she had first clapped eyes on her godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to understand how Harriet was feeling; admittedly his letters were just as empty of proper news as Ron and Hermione's, but at least they contained words of caution and consolation instead of tantalizing hints: "I know this must be frustrating for you. . . ." "Keep your nose clean and everything will be okay. . . ." "Be careful and don't do anything rash. . . ."
Well, thought Harriet, as she crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road, and headed toward the darkening play park, she had (by and large) done as Sirius advised; she had at least resisted the temptation to tie her trunk to her broomstick and set off for the Burrow by herself. In fact Harriet thought her behavior had been very good considering how frustrated and angry she felt at being stuck in Privet Drive this long, reduced to hiding in flower beds in the hope of hearing something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban, escaped, attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone on the run with a stolen hippogriff . . .
Harriet vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the parched grass. The park was as empty as the surrounding streets. When she reached the swings she sank onto the only one that Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around the chain, and stared moodily at the ground. She would not be able to hide in the Dursleys' flower bed again. Tomorrow she would have to think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, she had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night, because even when she escaped nightmares about Cedric and the Muggle police officer she had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and locked doors, which she supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling she had when she was awake. Often the old scar on her forehead prickled uncomfortably, but she did not fool herself that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very interesting anymore . . . In the past her scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger again, but now that Voldemort was back they would probably remind her that its regular irritation was only to be expected . . . Nothing to worry about . . . old news . . .
The injustice of it all welled up inside her so that she wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn't been for her, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And her reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that she could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! Crying herself to sleep as Uncle Vernon's seed oozed out of her young slit. How could Dumbledore have forgotten her so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together without inviting her along too? How much longer was she supposed to endure Sirius telling her to sit tight and be a good girl; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had returned? These furious thoughts whirled around in Harriet's head, and her insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around her, the air full of the smell of warm, dry grass and the only sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the park railings.
She did not know how long she had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted her musings and she looked up. The streetlamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the park. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along. Harriet knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakably her cousin, Dudley Dursley, wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang.
Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year's hard dieting and the discovery of a new talent had wrought quite a change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly told anyone who would listen, Dudley had recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-School Boxing Champion of the Southeast. "The noble sport," as Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more formidable than he had seemed to Harriet in the primary school days when she had served as Dudley's first punching bag. Harriet was not remotely afraid of her cousin anymore but she still didn't think that Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately was cause for celebration. Neighborhood children all around were terrified of him — even more terrified than they were of "that Potter girl," who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooligan who attended St. Marie's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Girls.
Harriet watched the dark figures crossing the grass and wondered whom they had been beating up tonight. Look round, Harriet found herself thinking as she watched them. Come on . . . look round . . . I'm sitting here all alone. . . . Come and have a go. . . . If Dudley's friends saw her sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for her, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn't want to lose face in front of the gang, but he'd be terrified of provoking Harriet . . . It would be really fun to watch Dudley's dilemma; to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond . . . and if any of the others tried hitting Harriet, Harriet was ready — she had her wand . . . let them try . . . She'd love to vent some of her frustration on the boys who had once made her life hell —
But they did not turn around, they did not see her, they were almost at the railings. Harriet mastered the impulse to call after them. . . . Seeking a fight was not a smart move . . . She must not use magic . . . She would be risking expulsion again . . . Dudley's gang's voices died; they were out of sight, heading along Magnolia Road. There you go, Sirius, Harriet thought dully. Nothing rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what you'd have done . . . 
She got to her feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever Dudley turned up was the right time to be home, and anytime after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had threatened to lock Harriet in the shed if she came home after Dudley again, so, stifling a yawn, still scowling, Harriet set off toward the park gate. Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all owned by large, square owners who drove very clean cars similar to Uncle Vernon's. Harriet preferred Little Whinging by night, when the curtained windows made patches of jewel-bright colors in the darkness and she ran no danger of hearing disapproving mutters about her "delinquent" appearance when she passed the householders. She walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley's gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harriet stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.
". . . squealed like a pig, didn't he?" Malcolm was saying, to guffaws from the others. "Nice right hook, Big D," said Piers. "Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley. "Round at my place, my parents are out," said Gordon. "See you then," said Dudley. "Bye Dud!" Piers said. "See ya, Big D!" the others said. Harriet waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had faded once more she headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very quickly she soon came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his ease, humming tunelessly.
"Hey, Big D!" Dudley turned. "Oh," he grunted. "It's you." His tone was sour. "How long have you been 'Big D' then?" said Harriet. "Shut it," snarled Dudley, turning away again. "Cool name," said Harriet, grinning and falling into step beside her cousin. "But you'll always be Ickle Diddykins to me."
"I said, SHUT IT!" said Dudley, whose ham-like hands had curled into fists. "Don't the boys know that's what your mum calls you?" she taunted, grinning slightly. "Shut your face." Dudley said hotly, his anger showing. "You don't tell her to shut her face. What about 'popkin' and 'Dinky Diddydums,' can I use them then?" taunted Harriet. Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting Harriet seemed to be demanding all his self-control.
"So who've you been beating up tonight?" Harriet asked, her grin fading. "Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago —" It was a massive effort to reign in her anger. "He was asking for it," snarled Dudley. "Oh yeah?" she said, doubting it herself. "He cheeked me." Dudley said, as if he needed a reason to hit someone. "Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true . . ."
A muscle was twitching in Dudley's jaw. It gave Harriet enormous satisfaction to know how furious she was making Dudley; she felt as though she was siphoning off her own frustration into her cousin, the only outlet she had. They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harriet had first seen Sirius and which formed a shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.
"Think you're a big woman carrying that thing, don't you?" Dudley said after a few seconds. "What thing?" Harriet said, confused by the sudden shift in the conversation. "That — that thing you're hiding." said Dudley. Harriet grinned again. "Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s'pose if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time . . ." she said with a fleeting grin. Harriet pulled out her wand. She saw Dudley look sideways at it. "You're not allowed," Dudley said at once. "I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to."
"How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?" she said. "They haven't," said Dudley, though he didn't sound completely convinced. Harriet laughed softly. "You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?" Dudley snarled. "Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten-year-old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?" she said, her temper breaking through her control. "He was sixteen for your information," snarled Dudley, "and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out —"
"Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harriet's wand?" Harriet taunted, hoping Dudley didn't see her actual gut-wrenching fear his simple statement caused her. "Not this brave at night, are you?" sneered Dudley. "This is night, Diddykins. That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this." she said sarcastically. "I mean when you're in bed!" Dudley snarled. He had stopped walking. Harriet stopped too, staring at her cousin. From the little she could see of Dudley's large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look. "What d'you mean, I'm not brave in bed?" said Harriet, completely nonplussed. "What — am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or something?" On the inside she was close to a panic attack, reliving all the times Uncle Vernon had violated her. Every plea she'd made for him to stop, every moment of pain that was punctuated by her body giving her unwanted pleasure, every ounce of horror she'd felt as his seed flooded her womb.
"I heard you last night," said Dudley breathlessly. "Talking in your sleep. Moaning." He sounded pleased to be getting such a reaction out of her. "What d'you mean?" Harriet said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in her stomach. She had revisited the graveyard last night in her dreams. Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter then adopted a high-pitched, whimpering voice. "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!' Who's Cedric — your boyfriend?"
"I — you're lying —" said Harriet automatically. But her mouth had gone dry. She knew Dudley wasn't lying — how else would he know about Cedric? "'Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo-hoo!'" Dudley taunted, pushing his only weapon. "Shut up," said Harriet quietly. "Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!"
"'Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's nearly killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to —' Don't you point that thing at me!" Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harriet was pointing the wand directly at Dudley's heart. Harriet could feel fourteen years' hatred of Dudley pounding in her veins — what wouldn't she give to strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he'd have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers —
"Don't ever talk about that again," Harriet snarled. "D'you understand me?" She was dangerously close to doing something she'd regret. "Point that thing somewhere else!" Dudley insisted. "I said, do you understand me?" said Harriet pointedly. "Point it somewhere else!" said Dudley. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" Harriet shrieked. "GET THAT THING AWAY FROM —" Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.
Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch-black and lightless — the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant grumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them. For a split second Harriet thought she had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that she'd been resisting as hard as she could — then her reason caught up with her senses — she didn't have the power to turn off the stars. She turned her head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil. Dudley's terrified voice broke in Harriet's ear.
"W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!" he said in a panicked tone. "I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!" she said, her tone going from angry to terrifyingly tactical. "I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I —" Dudley said, sounding close to pissing himself from what he thought she was doing. "I said shut up!" she said intensely. Harriet stood stock-still, turning her sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense that she was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up her arms, her nipples were erect on her bubbies, and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up — she opened her eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing . . .
It was impossible . . . They couldn't be here . . . Not in Little Whinging . . . She strained her ears . . . She would hear them before she saw them . . . "I'll t-tell Dad!" Dudley whimpered. "W-where are you? What are you d-do — ?"
"Will you shut up?" Harriet hissed, "I'm trying to lis —" But she fell silent. She had heard just the thing she had been dreading. There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harriet felt a horrible jolt of dread as she stood trembling in the freezing air. "C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!" Dudley said, assuming she was doing it to scare him silly. "Dudley, shut —" WHAM! A fist made contact with the side of Harriet's head, lifting Harriet off her feet. Small white lights popped in front of Harriet's eyes; for the second time in an hour she felt as though her head had been cleaved in two; next moment she had landed hard on the ground, and her wand had flown out of her hand.
"You moron, Dudley!" Harriet yelled, her eyes watering with pain, as she scrambled to her hands and knees, now feeling around frantically in the blackness. She heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, stumbling. "DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!" she yelled at him, not wanting to think about what Uncle Vernon would do to her if the thing left Dudley soulless. There was a horrible squealing yell, and Dudley's footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harriet felt a creeping chill behind her that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.
"DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!" Harriet muttered frantically, her hands flying over the ground like spiders. "Where's — wand — come on — Lumos!" She said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help her in her search — and to her disbelieving relief, light flared inches from her right hand — the wand-tip had ignited. Harriet snatched it up, scrambled to her feet, and turned around. Her stomach turned over. A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly toward her, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came. Stumbling backward, Harriet raised her wand.
"Expecto Patronum!" A silvery wisp of vapor shot from the tip of the wand and the dementor slowed, but the spell hadn't worked properly; tripping over her feet, Harriet retreated farther as the dementor bore down upon her, panic fogging her brain — concentrate — A pair of gray, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the dementor's robes, reaching for her. A rushing noise filled Harriet's ears. "Expecto Patronum!" Her voice sounded dim and distant . . . Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand — she couldn't do it anymore, she couldn't work the spell —
There was laughter inside her own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter . . . She could smell the dementor's putrid, death-cold breath, filling her own lungs, drowning her — Think . . . something happy. . . . But there was no happiness in her . . . The dementor's icy fingers were closing on her throat — the high-pitched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head — "Bow to death, Harriet. . . . It might even be painless . . . I would not know . . . I have never died . . ."
She was never going to see Ron and Hermione again — And their faces burst clearly into her mind as she fought for breath — "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harriet's wand; its antlers caught the dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the dementor swooped away, batlike and defeated. "THIS WAY!" Harriet shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, she sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. "DUDLEY? DUDLEY!"
She had run barely a dozen steps when she reached them: Dudley was curled on the ground, his arms clamped over his face; a second dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prizing them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head toward Dudley's face as though about to kiss him . . . "GET IT!" Harriet bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag she had conjured came galloping back past her. The dementor's eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley's when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness. The stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.
Moon, stars, and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighboring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again. Harriet stood quite still, all her senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to normality. After a moment she became aware that her T-shirt was sticking to her; she was drenched in sweat. She could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging . . . Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking. Harriet bent down to see whether he was in a fit state to stand up, but then heard loud, running footsteps behind her; instinctively raising her wand again, she spun on her heel to face the newcomer. Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbor, came panting into sight. Her grizzled gray hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist, and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harriet made to stow her wand hurriedly out of sight, but — "Don't put it away, idiot girl!" she shrieked. "What if there are more of them around? Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"