That I Should Rise and You Should Not

Chapter Seven

It had come upon the world so quietly that Dudley had barely noticed it at first. Rumours, whispers just touching the surfaces of conversations. Shady glances shared between his friends as they murmured in the back of the classroom—did you see that Youtube video—did you read that article—did you hear about that incident?

Perhaps it was because of Harry that he started to take more notice of the subtle changes in the neighbourhood. Harry had taught him to be observant, to never let his guard down, just encase he had to run from one of those—Death Eaters—in the end, it was not an eater of death that came upon them, but the undead themselves.

So clearly the memory was burned into him, like the scars that littered his arms from glass shattering. Dudley fingered the thick lines marring his skin.

Mr. Duncan from number five Privet Drive had woken them screaming, smashing on the back door of the house. Harry had only left a few days prior, and Dudley had thought he could finally relax for the rest of the summer, no longer would he have to watch out for his cousin around his father and mother.

All his instincts told him, the moment he was awoken in the dead of the night, by the screams and the smashing of glass, that the world he knew was no more.

Thundering down the stairs after his father, he had encountered a horrific scene. He knew Mr. Duncan's two sons had been into drugs, he and his friends had caught them a few times in the park, behind the dumpsters—it had not been a pretty sight.

But it was nothing like this. Drugs didn't do this, at least, not that he knew of. Drugs didn't make sons eat their fathers in the living room of their neighbour. The screaming and wailing was echoed down the street and he finally realized he was hearing sirens, and there was a distinct scent of smoke filling the air.

"Go," his father ordered, "I'll deal with this."

He might not have liked his father much, but he did respect the man as a son.

"Mum!" He had grabbed his mother, dragging her up the stairs. "Get a bag, just grab what you can." Shoving her into her room he had madly dashed for his own, ripping open his wardrobe, yanking out the emergency bag he had stashed away. Harry had drilled it into him, have it there, keep it there, check it every month, repack it every month, someday you are going to need it, someday the wards will fail, someday they will come.

Was this it?

He had no idea, but he had to act how Harry had taught him. Did he had time to get his friends? He had panicked at that moment, not knowing if he had drilled into Piers the importance of his get-away bag enough. Snatching up the bag, he threw it over his shoulder and tore out of his room, slapping open the door into Harry's room. Desperately he had searched for the correct floorboard and hacked at it with his pocket knife, finding within it, the precious few wizarding coins, a note Harry had written for such a disaster, and the spare keys into Mrs. Figg's house.

Stuffing them all into his pockets he ran back out into the corridor. His mother stood, dressed in a flowery skirt and cardigan, bearing a heavy suitcase. He'd snatched it from her.

"Come on!"

"Dudley—"

"Move."

"Your father."

"Dad! Come on!" Thundering back down the stairs Dudley rounded into the living room, pulling back in horror at the sight. His father had just lay there, in a pile of blood, his throat ripped out, his eyes staring at the ceiling. He'd heard the strangled cry his mother gave behind him, and it caused him to react, realizing that Mr. Duncan's sons were still staggering about—eating—eating his father.