Chapter Text
Chapter 5
|Day One|
14 Years Ago
Dudley Dursley sat hunched over his desk, his broad shoulders seeming to cave in on themselves as he stared at the mess of papers before him. Course catalogs and registration forms lay strewn across the surface. The harsh fluorescent light of his small dorm room cast stark shadows, only making the space feel more cramped than it already was.
He picked up a catalog, its glossy pages slipping through his fingers as he flipped through it without really seeing the words. How strange it felt to be here, surrounded by the mundane concerns of university life. Just months ago, he'd been in hiding, his world turned upside down by a conflict he barely understood. A war fought with wands and spells, where the impossible became an everyday occurrence and danger lurked in every shadow. Now, that extraordinary realm had vanished as quickly as it had appeared in his life. It was as if it had all been a dream.
Dudley set down the catalog and rubbed his eyes, feeling the exhaustion settle over him. He glanced out the window at the bustling campus below. Students milled about, laughing and chatting, their biggest concerns likely centered around weekend plans and what classes their friends were taking. The transition back to normal life felt jarring, like stepping off a spinning carnival ride onto solid ground.
Dudley turned back to the papers on his desk, feeling overwhelmed by the choices before him. He picked up a pen, twirling it between his fingers as he tried to focus on the task at hand. School had never been his forte, but he was here now, wasn't he? Might as well make the most of it.
His eyes caught on a line of text: "Introduction to Psychology." It was a topic that he knew very little about, but it was a term that stuck out to him from hearing other people use it. 'Psychology', or 'therapy', or 'psychiatrist' had been terms he'd heard before from school counselors. People who had tried to prevent him from… doing the kind of damage he eventually did. Unbidden, Timothy's face flashed in his mind. Glasses askew, eyes wide with fear—
Dudley's breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away. No. Not now. He'd gotten good at this, pushing the memories down, burying them deep where they couldn't touch him. But as Timothy's face faded, another took its place. Harry. His cousin's green eyes, so similar to Timothy's, stared back at him from his mind's eye.
Did he make it? The question rose, unwelcome but not unfamiliar. They'd been told the war was over, but no one had mentioned Harry specifically. Was he—
Dudley shook his head sharply, again forcing the thought away. He couldn't think about that either.
He looked back at the course description, the words blurring slightly as he tried to focus. Introduction to Psychology. An exploration of the fundamental principles governing human thought, emotion, and behavior...
The passage set off a series of thoughts in Dudley's mind that he hadn't really been able to entertain while in hiding. They'd been whisked away from their house and into hiding by Dedalus and Hestia only a few scant weeks after the meeting with school officials.
Maybe... maybe this could explain it to me. His fingers tightened on the catalog. Maybe there's a better way than just... pushing it all down.
The idea was strangely compelling. Dudley took a deep breath, considering the registration form with his pen in his fingers, glancing at the course code and where it would go. He'd been living inside his own head for a year, and his mind had been terrible company.
Dudley read the course description again, his eyes lingering on particular phrases. 'Cognitive processes.' 'Behavioral patterns.' A strange mixture of anxiety and excitement churned in his stomach. This... this could be it. A way to understand himself.
But as the hope started to bloom, doubt crept in. What if the course just confirmed what he already suspected? What he already knew? That he was, at his core, a bad person? The thought sent a chill down his spine. He'd been trying so hard to control his behavior, to prevent himself from causing damage to others like he used to. But what if it was all futile? What if he was simply... broken?
Maybe I don't want to know, he thought, a familiar urge to retreat, to hide from uncomfortable realities, rising within him. It was the only way he'd been able to handle the isolation of being in hiding with his mental state. It would be easier to just pick something else, something safe and unchallenging. Business, maybe. Or sports science. Anything but this potential minefield of self-discovery.
But even as the thought formed, Dudley knew he couldn't do it. Couldn't keep running, couldn't keep lying to himself, couldn't keep trying to do it on his own. He might learn unpleasant things about himself if he took the course, but didn't he kind of owe that to his… well, his victims?
I'm not a good person, Dudley admitted silently, the words bitter even in the privacy of his own mind. But maybe I can at least learn why.
That's what he really needed. His life had been profoundly devoid of happiness and joy since he'd been forced to confront the monster he actually was. He couldn't keep living like this, it was eating him from the inside out.
But Dudley's hand hovered over the registration form, a wave of doubt crashing over him. Who am I kidding? The thought, and the feeling associated with it, was sharp and accusatory. Someone like me doesn't have a 'why'.
His past pressed down on him, a blanket of guilt and shame. Memories flashed through his mind: fists connecting with flesh, cruel words spat in anger, the fear in Timothy's eyes—
No. Stop. Could someone who'd caused so much pain ever truly learn to control it? The answer seemed obvious. No. Of course not.
And yet...
He thought back over the past year. The times he'd felt the old anger rising, the urge to lash out—and how he'd managed to push it down too, just like his guilt. It wasn't much, just the barest hint of control. But it was something.
What if this course actually gives me what I'm hoping for? The possibility of finding the peace and comfort with himself that had been absent for the last year loomed before him. A normal, happy life—the very thing he'd always assumed was his birthright.
As the idea took shape, an unexpected wave of nausea washed over him. His stomach churned, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. It seemed... wrong. Unnatural. How could he even contemplate happiness when Timothy was—
He pushed back from the desk, suddenly unable to look at the registration form. The guilt that had become his constant companion erupted, whispering in his ear, insidious and relentless: You don't deserve a good life. You don't deserve happiness.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe the only way to truly make amends, to pay for what he'd done, was to ensure he never experienced that happiness. To deny himself the very thing he'd stolen from Timothy. The thing he might have stolen from others as well, and just never been forced to confront.
I just want to stop hating myself, Dudley thought. But I don't know how to do that and not turn back into a monster.
Dudley's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. The pain was grounding, a physical anchor in the storm of his emotions. He'd taken steps towards controlling who he was, but now, faced with the possibility of an actual improvement to his quality of life, he felt himself teetering on the edge.
Is this what I really want? Or is this just another form of running away? Another excuse to avoid consequences?
Dudley took a deep breath, trying to force the chaos in his mind to calm. He closed his eyes, focusing on the simple act of breathing—in and out, in and out. Chaotic thoughts would make him lose control, turn him back into the monster again.
When he opened his eyes, a newfound clarity settled over him. All the what-ifs and maybes, the fears and doubts—they were based on his assumptions. But what if even his understanding of how to be good was based on those same flawed assumptions? That he did the wrong thing even when he meant to do the right thing. Right now, he was fumbling in the dark, grasping at shadows. But this class... it might shine a light. Offer a path forward, however uncertain.
All his fears, his guilt, his doubts—all if it came from his own understanding. But this class? It might actually provide some answers. He hesitated for a moment, but eventually with a great deal of willpower and uncertainty, he signed his name on the registration form.
Dudley's heart hammered against his ribs as he stood frozen in the lecture hall doorway. The room stretched before him, a sea of unfamiliar faces and expectant chatter. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. What am I doing here?
He hunched his shoulders, trying to shrink his large frame, and shuffled down the aisle, hyper-aware of every movement. He wasn't nearly as large, relatively speaking, as he used to be when he was younger, but he still felt like he was sticking out conspicuously. This wasn't a setting that came naturally to him.
Choosing a seat near the back, he slid into it with as much grace as he could muster. The plastic chair creaked, the sound piercing through the ambient noise. Dudley winced, his face flushing hot with embarrassment as a few nearby students glanced his way.
Bloody hell, he thought, fighting the urge to bolt from the room, I don't belong here.
The smell of freshly printed syllabi and coffee mingled in the air, a scent that most students found invigorating, but that only served to heighten Dudley's discomfort. He fidgeted with the strap of his bag. Slumping lower in his seat, he wished he could disappear entirely. The professor hadn't even arrived yet, and already he felt overwhelmed.
Maybe this was a mistake, he thought, his resolve wavering. Maybe I'm not cut out for this after all.
A girl with long dark hair brushed past, the scent of her perfume catching his attention. Dudley's gaze followed her, noting the easy confidence in her stride. How did people do that? He'd only ever felt comfortable in a crowd when he knew they were intimidated by him, but that isn't the type of confidence he saw in the people around him.
He shifted his gaze, taking in some of his future classmates. A tall guy with wire-rimmed glasses held the attention of several other students near the center aisle, fielding questions about something they seemed to be interested in. His assured gestures and easy smile spoke of someone comfortable in their own skin.
A few rows ahead, a girl with hair like burnished copper meticulously arranged her notes, each movement precise and purposeful. Dudley glanced down at his own haphazard pile of materials, feeling a twinge of inadequacy.
His eyes briefly settled on a young woman with warm brown skin, her quiet self-assurance a stark contrast to his own discomfort. She was the one with the perfume that walked past him a moment ago, he realized. Something about her calm confidence and cheer intrigued him. Maybe it was the contrast it made to the things his father always said about 'those immigrants'. Not that his father's opinions had been much help over the last year.
Come on, Dursley, he thought, straightening slightly, You can do this.
The professor walked to the front of the room, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun. She surveyed the class with piercing eyes that seemed like they would see right through Dudley. He shifted uncomfortably, but her stern expression passed over him without stopping.
"Welcome to Introduction to Psychology," she said, her voice carrying easily through the hall. "I'm Professor Winters. In this class, we'll be exploring the intricate workings of the human mind and behavior."
Dudley found himself leaning forward, his earlier discomfort fading as he focused on her words. She outlined the course, touching on various branches of psychology. Throughout the term, they'd cover some history of psychology, clinical psychology, cognitive psychology, and the list went on. When she mentioned developmental psychology, Dudley sat up straight and grabbed his pen. This was the topic he'd been most interested in.
"Early experiences shape our personalities and behaviors in profound ways, and is the topic that you are all most likely to be comfortable with since you can relate it to your own experiences," Professor Winters explained, "so that is where we will start the term. The relationships we form, the environments we grow up in—all of these factors contribute to who we become."
Dudley scribbled notes carefully, the pen feeling small and clumsy in his hands. Professor Winters discussed theories of attachment and the impact of parenting styles, and Dudley couldn't help but think of connections to himself as she spoke.
"Children who experience consistent love and support tend to develop secure attachments," the professor said. "Those who face neglect or inconsistent care may struggle with relationships later in life."
Dudley's pen stilled. He thought of Harry, locked away in that cupboard under the stairs. He thought of himself, showered with gifts but never taught to care about others.
He brought the pen back to his notebook and found himself writing with an intensity he'd never experienced before. His usual reluctance to engage academically had vanished, replaced by a burning curiosity that felt entirely unlike him.
"Nature versus nurture is a fundamental debate in psychology," Professor Winters continued, her voice cutting through the scratch of pens on paper. "Are we born with certain traits, or are they shaped by our environment?"
Dudley paused his note taking and his brows furrowed. He'd been working under the assumption since that happened that he just was that way, and he had to learn to deal with it and control it. To accept that he was like a wild animal that might maim someone for no reason, and work to limit the danger and damage.
But if he actually wasn't that way naturally? In some ways, that was worse. That meant that he… that he could have been different. That he didn't have to be this way, if only other things had happened to him instead. It sent a pang of loss through him. A loss for the person he wished he was, instead of the person he actually was.
The topic shifted to personal growth and neuroplasticity, and Dudley's eyes widened as the professor explained how people change. His mind raced. It wasn't too late? But if that was true, then it had always been true… and that meant he had always been capable of not being the dangerous wild animal he now viewed himself as.
The responsibility and accountability this implied was crushing, and a new wave of guilt and shame washed over him, overwhelming his senses for a moment. If he had been smarter he could have changed himself before it happened?
He glanced down at his large hands, the same hands that had once been used to cause fear and pain. They had made him a popular athlete at Smeltings for hurting his opponents in the boxing ring. Now they gripped a pen, eager to learn. The irony wasn't lost on him.
This was what he had been hoping for, in some ways. Answers, not guesses. It was possible to change, he wasn't doomed to be the bully and brute forever. Even though it added a new component to his ever-present guilt and despair, it also provided his first suggestion of a way forward. Now if only Professor Winters would get to the part where she explained how a person changed. But to Dudley's frustration, she wound down her lecture after completing her overview.
"Now," Professor Winters said, her gaze shifting to one of warm invitation, "I'd like to hear your thoughts. How might our early experiences shape our behavior?"
Dudley felt his stomach clench, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening within him. Part of him—a new, tentative part—yearned to speak up, to share the connections forming in his mind. He hadn't ever really experienced this before, the feeling of understanding happening from within himself instead of being handed to him.
It was novel, and exciting, and it made him want to feel more of it. He could almost feel the words on his tongue, a comment about his own childhood taking shape.
I could talk about how my parents' treatment affected me, he thought, rehearsing silently. I could talk about how their praise of my bullying might have...
But exposing his own past… he knew who he was now at least, he just wasn't exactly eager for other people to find out. There was something too raw and vulnerable about even referencing something from his own past like that in front of everyone.
Dudley glanced around, noting the forest of raised hands, the confident voices of his peers filling the air. A girl with glasses spoke eloquently about attachment theory, while a guy near the front related early experiences to cognitive development.
Dudley knew that the person he had decided to be, that he had carefully thought about while his family was in hiding and there'd been so much time for thinking… that person would learn to speak up, and be honest, and be vulnerable. But he wasn't that person. He just wanted to be.
Professor Winters clapped her hands, drawing the class's attention and breaking Dudley from his musings.
"Alright, everyone. Let's apply what we've learned. Form groups of two to five students and discuss how early experiences might shape personality development."
The class burst into movement around Dudley. Chairs scraped against the floor as the other students eagerly sought out partners, friends, and strangers. The quiet hum of conversation swelled into an excited chatter.
Dudley remained rooted to his seat, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. He watched as classmates grouped up, effortlessly forming together. His eyes darted around, searching for any other loners he might approach, but everyone seemed to have found their place.
I should just ask someone, he thought, his palms growing clammy. He half-rose from his chair, but felt so out of place. He didn't fit in here. Anyone he asked to join would be able to see it.
"Hey," a bright voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. Dudley looked up, startled to see the girl with the intriguing perfume standing before him, accompanied by a friend. Her smile was kind, lacking any hint of the judgment he'd feared. "I'm Jinani, and this is my friend Millie. Would you like to join our group?"
Dudley blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected invitation. A mixture of relief and anxiety coursed through him. He nodded, managing a quiet, "Thanks," as he rose to join them, his earlier feelings of isolation fading away effortlessly at this one act of kindness.
Jinani and Millie settled into their seats, notebooks open and pens poised. He cleared his throat, searching for words that refused to come. He should introduce himself, shouldn't he?
"Um… I'm Dudley…" Dudley shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of the silence stretching between them. "Um… thanks for letting me join."
They both nodded at him, polite smiles on their faces.
"So," Millie began, her voice just as chipper as Jinani's had been, "early experiences shaping personality development. Where should we start?"
"Well…" Jinani tapped her pen thoughtfully against her chin. "We could look at attachment theory. The way children bond with their caregivers can have lasting effects."
Dudley nodded, recognizing the concept from the lecture. He opened his mouth to contribute, but his words again failed him.
"I, uh... that's..." He trailed off, face flushing.
Jinani and Millie exchanged a glance, their easy rapport making Dudley feel even more out of place. He hunched his shoulders, wishing he could disappear.
"What about parenting styles?" Millie suggested, filling the awkward silence. "That ties into attachment, right?"
"Definitely," Jinani agreed. "Authoritative versus authoritarian parenting leads to very different outcomes."
They continued their discussion, their words flowing back and forth with each other, but Dudley's pen remained motionless, his mind racing to keep up. He felt like an imposter, certain that any contribution would expose his ignorance. How did they already know so much about this? This was the introduction course, right?
Come on, he urged himself, say something. Anything.
"How do you both know so much already?" he found himself asking.
Jinani's eyes shifted to Dudley, a slight furrow in her brow.
"Oh, this was our favorite topic in college," she said with a chuckle. "We'd learn something new then sit in the park and talk about how superior it made us feel to everyone passing by." Her face quickly took on an embarrassed look. "Just… joking with each other, of course."
"Yeah," Millie agreed, her pale face flushing with color, "we um… we're not experts or anything. It's just… fun."
Jinani nodded in agreement, then gently steered the conversation in his direction.
"What do you think about this part?" she asked, pointing to a passage in her textbook. Her tone was encouraging, free of judgment.
Dudley blinked, surprised by the direct question. He could do this. This wasn't as intimidating as saying something in front of the whole class.
"Well," he began hesitantly, "I was thinking about how... how praise affects kids." The words came slowly at first, each one carefully chosen. "Like, if parents always praise their kid, no matter what they do... maybe that kid doesn't learn right from wrong properly." To Dudley's surprise, once he started speaking, the ideas began to flow more easily. "They might think everything they do is okay, even if it's... not great."
"That's a good point," Millie nodded, jotting down notes. She glancing up with a smile. "Overindulgence can definitely impact moral development."
"And maybe…" Dudley hesitated, but encouraged by their reactions so far, he continued. "Maybe if a kid only gets praise for being tough or strong, they might think that's the only way to be valuable."
"That's fascinating, Dudley," Jinani's eyes lit up. "It ties into gender socialization too, doesn't it? How boys are often praised for different things than girls."
As they discussed his ideas, the weight of inadequacy began to lift, replaced by a tentative sense of belonging. He found himself leaning in, eager to contribute more.
"What if," he ventured, gaining confidence, "there was another kid in the family who got treated differently? How would that affect both of them?"
"Excellent point!" Jinani agreed, her enthusiasm infectious. "Sibling dynamics and different treatment can have a huge impact on personality development."
As their discussion flowed, Dudley relaxed into the collaborative atmosphere. He felt the thrill of intellectual engagement, of being valued for his thoughts rather than his size or strength. Once he'd started, the conversation became so easy and natural for him that he barely seemed to notice the time passing. Eventually though, Professor Winters interrupted the group discussions, announcing the end of class and asking each group to present their thoughts next time. Dudley helped Jinani and Millie gather their belongings, his movements careful and deliberate. He wanted to make a good impression.
"You know," Millie said, turning to him with a warm and genuine smile, "you were a little awkward at first."
Dudley braced himself, his old defenses rising instinctively.
"But," Millie continued, "you really paid attention and had some good ideas, once you spoke up. I'd be happy to work with you again on group projects."
A peculiar warmth spread through Dudley's chest, a mixture of embarrassment and pride he'd never experienced before. "Th-thanks," he mumbled to Millie before glancing at Jinani. She nodded in agreement, her eyes kind.
As they all left the lecture hall, Dudley realized that he was looking forward to the next class. The feeling was different. Exhilarating. For the first time since Smeltings, he felt a glimmer of hope for his future.
Present Day
Lyra's mind felt like shards of broken glass that didn't fit together. Grinding, sharp, and dangerous. Exhausted. At least the room was dark enough to feel alone in.
Mr. Dursley's wife… Lyra couldn't remember her name, but knew that she'd said it… this was her home office or something. The silver moonlight filtered through the window and cast a soft glow on the work desk and computer on the other side of the room.
Lyra was lying down on a pull-out bed. It was comfortable enough, and the blanket was warm, but this didn't feel like a bedroom. Lyra scowled as she pulled the blankets up near her eyes.
It was obvious that this entire 'rescue' had been unplanned. Mr. Dursley hadn't expected to whisk her away when he'd come to the school today, but then 'Harry-fucking-Potter', the literal wizarding messiah, had read her mind with Legilimency and she hadn't been able to hide any of it.
It felt violating. No one knew all the things Mr. Potter had seen in those few moments. Not even her mother.
But she was at least coherent enough right now to recognize that he hadn't done it on purpose. For the little solace that provided. Maybe that's what it was like to be that powerful, to not even be able to avoid reading the mind of someone as pathetic as she was.
I want a fucking smoke, Lyra thought. But she was afraid to leave the room.
None of this seemed real. It was all surely a dream. Maybe she had finally gone 'round the bend, and she was actually still in that room at the school. Mr. Dursley and his actual magical cousin were standing over her in concern and confusion.
She didn't want to sleep. That's what would wake her up, she was sure of it. This entire thing would end, and she'd be back where she always ended up, no matter what anyone did.
Nothing felt as dangerous to her as feeling safe. This place made her feel safe. But it was a lie, it was always a lie. None of this mattered, none of it was real, none of it—
Lyra's breath caught. Why was she standing next to Mrs. Dursley's work computer? Hadn't she just been under the blankets? She crawled back into the bed, pulling the covers back up.
She didn't know what was happening to her. It had never been this bad before, she'd never actually lost track of what was happening like this. That was dangerous. Constant awareness of her surroundings was the only thing that kept her safe. Or… safer, at least. Well, losing track of her surroundings was unsafe, that's probably the better way to think about it.
A thought bubbled up again, the same thought that had been tormenting her for hours and hours. She refused to let the thought use her voice, but she still heard its meaning without the words: what if this is real?
Lyra felt the tears come again, just like they had constantly throughout the day when this thought pressed in on her, and she hated it. Hated herself. She couldn't afford the weakness, she could never afford the weakness, but she couldn't stop the thought from coming no matter how hard she tried. The same thoughts as every other time before cycled through her.
If this is real, then there's no going back. If there's no going back, then I can't protect myself. If I can't protect myself, I need their help. And if I need their help, then I'm their prisoner.
Mr. Dursley had offered her some control, the ability to choose if she stayed with his family or went with Mr. Potter. Yeah, fantastic. So she could choose… but her other choice was to become the prisoner of a wizard that was so powerful compared to her that he might as well be fucking God.
I fucking hate you, Lyra thought with bitterness. Why did I agree to see Mr. Dursley's cousin!?
It wasn't just selfishness either though. Caring about the burden she placed on others was the one weakness she still hadn't been able to stamp out entirely. A part of Lyra was worried about what she would do. The Dursleys had kids, she remembered him leaving to go talk to them upstairs.
Thank DiCaprio Mrs. Dursley's office is on the ground floor.
Normally Lyra wouldn't worry about being around kids. She didn't like them, but she wouldn't be concerned about her reactions. But it felt like she was still not entirely in control of herself, losing track of time, and seemingly shifting between realities. It's part of why, despite the fact that it had been hours, and despite the fact that Lyra was not an idiot, she still seriously considered the possibility that this was all a dream. It felt like dream logic. Just occasionally phasing from one awareness to another, without an apparent in-between.
Exhaustion tightened its grip on her, but she fought it. She couldn't sleep. That's how you wake up. That's how this terrifying, wonderful, surreal dream ends.
…
But today had just been so much. She hadn't been prepared for any of it. She'd known at the start of the day that she'd be meeting with Mr. Dursley and his cousin, but she could have never foreseen the events that would unfold after.
Or maybe the events didn't unfold, and this was all fake. That's why she needed to stay awake.
Can't fall asleep.
…
Can't sleep…
…
…
Stay… awake…
…
…
…
"Now, it's quite shocking to see, but remember, the fire doesn't hurt them," Dudley explained to his family.
"And you're sure this is how they do it?" Jinani confirmed again. "You haven't… mixed anything up? It's been a long time, Dud."
"Quite sure," Dudley confirmed. "I talked about it with Harry before he left last night."
"So they just come out of the fireplace?" Azari asked skeptically. She glanced at her brother, who also seemed to be unsure if their father knew what he was talking about.
"Yes, it'll flare up and—"
The fireplace in the Dursley living room suddenly belched emerald flames, causing Dudley to flinch despite his anticipation, but that was nothing compared to cries of shock and wide eyes of the rest of his family. Harry Potter stepped out first, and shortly after came two women and another man. Dudley recognized them vaguely, thinking he may have seen them during the night his family had been carried into the night, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever learned their names. The man and one of the women had bright red hair, while the other woman had very curly brown hair.
"Amazing," Azari whispered, her eyes wide with wonder. Young Harry, however, couldn't contain his excitement.
"You're really him! Harry Potter!" He bounced on his toes, then paused, a mischievous smirk on his face. "Back from the dead."
Harry Potter looked at the younger Harry curiously. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione however were less curious and more pale, Harry noticed. No doubt the comment made them think of the Battle of Hogwarts, something they rarely wanted to think about. Harry glanced over at Dudley for clarification.
"Sorry," Dudley said, obviously flustered by his son's comment, "you see, I told them that I named him for my cousin, Harry Potter. Naturally, they wanted to meet you, but…"
Harry nodded, understanding. That wouldn't have been something that Dudley could offer his kids when they asked.
"So at some point," Dudley continued, shooting an annoyed look at his son, "they got it in their head that the reason was because you were… passed on."
"Ah," Harry said in understanding, his own smirk spreading. The number of times he lack of death had been a surprise to other people was something he found amusing, and he honestly found the comment somewhat humorous with the context. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he said with a wink.
"Harry," Dudley began, clearing his throat, "these are our children: Harry, Azari, and Heather." He looked over at Harry's three companions. "And this is my wife, Jinani."
"This is my wife, Ginny," Harry said, gesturing to the red-haired woman, "and our friends, Ron and Hermione."
The adults exchanged awkward nods and polite smiles, but Azari and young Harry were practically buzzing.
"Can you all do magic?" Azari asked breathlessly. Her gaze darted between the newcomers, drinking in every detail.
"We can," Ginny said with a warm smile. "Would you like to see?"
As Azari nodded eagerly, Heather let out a dramatic sigh from her perch on the sofa.
"It's just people coming out of a fireplace," she muttered, returning her attention to her coloring book.
Dudley and Jinani exchanged a glance of amusement. That was definitely Heather. If it didn't play with her, take her for treats, or listen to her stories, then it was boring by definition. Ron and Hermione didn't seem to know what to make of the 5-year-old's comment, but Ginny barked out a sharp laugh.
"I like her," Ginny said with amusement. "My kind of girl."
"Right," Harry said, bringing his hands together, "let's get to why we're here. We need to set up some proper magical protections for your family, Dudley."
"What exactly does that entail?" Dudley asked, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty crossing his face.
"It's a two-fold approach," Harry explained. "First, we'll strengthen the wards around your house. These will create a magical barrier that'll keep out anyone meaning you harm. Second, we'll create some portable protections for when you're out and about."
"What?" Young Harry's excitement grew. "You mean we'll have magic following us everywhere?"
"In a manner of speaking," Hermione chimed in. "It's more like an invisible shield that moves with you."
"Will we be able to see it? Or feel it?" Azari asked, bouncing on her toes.
"Not exactly," Ron said with a grin, "but you might notice little things. Like how umbrellas seem to work better, or how you always find a good parking spot."
"That…" Jinani raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound very magical."
"The best magic often doesn't," Ginny replied with a smile. As the group moved towards the backyard, young Harry sidled up to his namesake.
"Dad told us about when your tall friend gave him a pig's tail," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Can you show us that spell?"
Dudley's face flushed red, caught between embarrassment and a strange urge to laugh. The memory, once a source of anger and humiliation, now seemed almost comical, and Harry Potter chuckled, shaking his head.
"I think we've all moved past pig tails, haven't we, Big D?" he said, using Dudley's old nickname. It was said with a tone that let Dudley know it wasn't meant unkindly though.
"I should hope so," Dudley replied, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Though I wouldn't mind if you could magic up a solution for losing the remote to the telly."
The adults laughed, and they all stepped into the backyard, Harry pulling out his wand with a flourish.
"How about I show you some really useful magic instead?" he suggested to the wide-eyed Dursley children, giving them a conspiratorial look. "Like how to make your vegetables taste like ice cream without losing any of the nutrition."
Azari and young Harry exchanged excited glances, while Heather perked up for the first time since the wizards and witches arrival.
"Ice cream vetables?" she asked.
Harry raised his wand, a slight smile playing on his lips. With a flick and a whispered incantation, a stream of multicolored sparks erupted from the tip, dancing through the air like a swarm of fireflies. Young Harry and Azari gasped in unison.
"Wicked," Azari breathed, reaching out as if to touch the sparks before they faded away. Heather abandoned her coloring book to watch the colorful sparkles as well, the magic having finally captured her attention.
Dudley felt his nerves calm as he watched the children's reactions. Glancing at Jinani, he caught her eye. Her expression mirrored his own—a blend of wonder, apprehension, and hope for what lay ahead, their future tinged with magic and possibility.
He hadn't been worried about magic becoming part of their lives. Truthfully, he had been somewhat looking forward to it once he had suspected what was happening with his son. But there had been a lingering doubt about whether it would disrupt the rest of his family; how well they would handle it. Now, standing here and seeing the fascination on the older children's faces, and the curiosity on his wife's, he knew they would be fine.
Harry continued, his wand movements growing more elaborate. A nearby flower pot lifted into the air, spinning gently as it hovered. With another wave, the pot multiplied, creating a small army of identical containers that arranged themselves neatly along the garden path.
"How does it work?" young Harry asked, his voice filled with awe. "Is it like electricity?"
Heather, not interested now that there weren't pretty sparkles to look at any more, turned back to her coloring book.
"Not quite." Hermione smiled, her eyes lighting up at the question. "Magic is more like... a force of nature that we can channel and direct. It's all around us, but only some people can tap into it."
As Ron and Ginny started the process of setting up the new wards, Azari watched intently, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"Can you make anything happen? Like, could you turn our house into a castle?"
"Theoretically, yes," Harry said with a chuckle, "but there are laws about using magic around non-magical people. We have to be careful not to draw too much attention."
"Like superheroes?" Young Harry's eyes widened.
"Something like that," Ginny replied, stopping in her spellwork for a moment, "though we don't wear capes or fight crime." She paused. "Usually."
As the adults continued their work, the children peppered them with questions. With each answer, the wizards seemed to relax more, the initial awkwardness melting away.
"Can you fly?" Azari asked eagerly.
"On broomsticks, yeah," Ron enthused. "It's brilliant!"
"What about turning invisible?" young Harry chimed in.
"There are invisibility cloaks," Hermione explained. "Your dad's cousin here had a particularly good one at school."
Dudley watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and nostalgia. He remembered how it had once seemed so alien and threatening when he was young. As the demonstration continued, Jinani stepped closer to Dudley, intertwining her fingers with his.
"It's incredible," she whispered. "I never imagined..."
Dudley squeezed her hand, feeling a surge of gratitude for her strength and adaptability.
"I know Angel," he whispered back. "I wish I had tried to enjoy being around it more when I was a child."
As the group moved inside to continue their work, Ginny and Hermione took charge, their wands tracing complex patterns in the air. Shimmering lines of magic began to entwine themselves into the walls, floors, and ceilings of the Dursley home.
"These protections," Hermione explained, her voice steady despite her concentration, "will help prevent anyone from using magic to find out who is inside the house, or track the people that live here."
"We're also setting up alerts," Ginny added. "If anyone with ill intent tries to enter, you'll know immediately, and so will we."
The final line of that particular ward set in and the witches moved into the next room to begin preparing for another. The pause in the spellwork left Harry standing near the Dursley family, and he found himself considering them once again. The large, intimidating boy he once knew had transformed into a patient, attentive father. And his children were frighteningly observant.
"Dad?" young Harry asked. "You said…" He paused, looking uncomfortable. "You said this magic stuff was like wearing a helmet. But it's more, right?"
Dudley seemed to be uncertain of how to respond for a moment, before he got a serious expression. Harry glanced around, realizing that Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were all too far away to overhear this.
"There's always more," Dudley said honestly, "that's why there's adults to deal with all of it." Dudley waved his hand out towards where the wards were still being worked on. "See? Even when the problem is magic, your mum and I will make sure everything is alright."
"Is Lyra's mum a bad magical person?" Azari asked hesitantly.
While Dudley seemed to consider how to respond, Harry found himself frowning. Lyra's mother was a bad person, he reckoned, based on the memories he'd seen. But that was a little blunt to say to an 8-year-old.
"Magic doesn't make a person good or bad, Azari," Dudley told her firmly. "It's our choices that make us who we are. Helping Lyra is the right choice, and making that choice is part of what helps make us good people."
Harry was floored. The words were so familiar, and had been so difficult for him to understand when Dumbledore had explained the same thing. It was a type of wisdom and kindness that he didn't expect from Dudley; even from the Dudley he had seen these last few days.
"So… we'll be okay?" young Harry asked.
"Of course," Dudley said with a smile. "We're still a family, and we still have each other. As long as that's true, we'll always be okay."
"That's right," Azari chimed in, her earlier nervousness giving way to determination. "We're Dursleys. We can handle anything."
Dudley smiled, pulling both children into a hug. Harry watched the family from the side. He had learned so much about this family in very few words from that interaction. Dudley was not at all the person he remembered. He didn't even know how to properly describe the difference, it was so vast.
Harry turned and walked away to help the others, a frown on his face and the overheard conversation still playing in his mind. It was honestly quite unfair that he'd basically forced Dudley's family to take in Lyra without warning, and he was beginning to feel rather guilty about it.
But the memories he'd seen had been so visceral, and he had just reacted. It had been pure nerve and instinct, he would just figure it out later like he always did. Except he wasn't the one who had ended up needing to 'figure it out'. Dudley and his family were.
He was going to leave Dudley a charm to contact him in an emergency. Just so that there was something. Just in case.
"Everything okay?" Ron asked quietly, bringing him out of his thoughts.
"Yeah," Harry said, his frown deepening, "I just feel bad about dumping the girl on his family like this. They didn't need some magical danger disrupting their lives."
"I don't understand why you won't tell us her name," Hermione interjected with annoyance. "It's not as if we'd involve anyone else without talking to you first."
"It's just… not my place," Harry offered with a shrug, knowing that it wasn't a satisfying answer for them.
"Well it would make it a lot easier to design the enchantment scheme if we knew who it was for," Hermione pointed out. But even as she retorted, her face softened.
"I know," Harry said. "Were you able to tie in the extra ward I wanted?"
"That's the one we just finished," Ron said, giving Harry a curious look. "Harry, you know we have your back, but that ward… the only reason I can think of to use it is to prevent the Ministry of Magic from being able to monitor or find them."
"Well we put in our own monitoring charms," Harry pointed out. "We'll know if something is going on."
"Yeah," Hermione agreed hesitantly, "but Harry… we don't understand why it would be necessary. The Ministry isn't the cesspool of corruption it was when we were kids."
"It doesn't take corruption to do something awful because of indifference," Harry responded hotly. "I've told you, she's a squib. What do you think would happen if her mum went to the ministry complaining that her defenseless squib daughter was kidnapped by Muggles?"
"Hey, whoa," Ron said, holding up his hands. "Okay, that makes sense. But you aren't telling us any of this Harry. We want to help, but it feels like you're shutting us out."
"Yeah, Harry," Hermione voiced with concern. "We're on your side. You know that… right?"
"I know…" Harry deflated slightly. "Sorry. The memories I pulled from her have been difficult to deal with." Harry paused and looked between his friends. "She's had it worse than I did."
"You three are awfully suspicious looking," Ginny said lowly as she walked up. She shifted her eyes meaningfully and the three of them looked over to see the Dursley family watching them. "Let's finish the last one. We can all explain Harry's stupidity to him once we get home."
"Right," Ron agreed, lifting his wand and walking over to Hermione. The two of them began the initial lines for the final ward, while Ginny and Harry stepped over to opposite sides and began carefully tying the dozens of contact points together.
Their wands moved in perfect synchronization, weaving complex patterns of light that shimmered and pulsed with raw magical energy. Azari and young Harry stood transfixed, their eyes full of amazement at the final and most impressive display of complex magic in front of them.
"Wow," Azari whispered, her voice barely audible. "It's like... like they're painting with starlight."
Dudley nodded, a newfound respect evident in his expression. The magic he was seeing now seemed beautiful to him, almost poetic in its complexity.
"The wards we used today are some of the most advanced protective charms we know," Hermione explained, her voice steady despite the concentration etched on her face. "They are some of the only enchantments that can actually put a portion of the magic into a non-magical person."
"Yeah," Ron said, continuing the explanation where his wife left off. "This is what will protect you when you leave the house. So long as you sleep in this house every night, the protection will be with you throughout the day, no matter where you go."
As the final strands of magic settled into place, the air hummed with residual energy, proof of how powerful the protections now woven into the very fabric of the Dursley home were.
"It works with these," Ginny said, stepping forward and holding a set of plain looking pendants. "Even if you don't wear them, you'll still have some of the magic with you. But these will make it work better."
Ginny handed the pendants to Jinani who accepted them gratefully, inspecting them closely to see if she could detect anything magical about them with her eyes. They seemed… just like plain pendants.
"That's it," Harry said, lowering his wand. "You're as safe as we can make you."
"I..." Dudley nodded, his eyes a little misty. "Thank you. All of you."
"What you've done for us—it's beyond words." Jinani stepped forward and wrapped Ginny in a hug. The red-haired woman startled, but quickly smiled and returned the hug awkwardly. She could understand the emotions that Jinani must be feeling as a mother. And the red-haired witch supposed that they were technically cousins by marriage now.
"That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen," Azari breathed.
"Will we be able to do that someday?" young Harry asked, hope coloring his voice.
"Magic has a way of surprising us," Hermione said with a smile. She glanced up at Dudley, and he understood. She knew about his son. He shook his head slightly and she focused back on the kids. "Who knows what the future holds?"
Harry Potter stood back, still trying to take in everything he could about the Dursleys. Strictly speaking he would only need to return to the house in order to continue working the magical side of the Lyra situation, but he found himself genuinely curious about getting to know his cousin more personally.
And they were… family. They were the only people on his mother's side that he knew of that he might think of as family, and that is what made him think about returning. Who was this version of Dudley? Harry was interested in finding out.
As the wizards prepared to leave, Harry pulled Dudley aside. Their eyes met, their history hanging between them, but for the first time not pushing them apart.
"Dudley, I..." Harry began, then paused. "You've built something good here."
"Thanks, Harry." Dudley nodded, understanding the unspoken words. "For everything."
"Fancy tomorrow for that pint at the pub you promised?"
"Sure."
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a glass vial filled with a blue liquid.
"Here, hold on to this," Harry said, offering the vial to Dudley. "If there's an emergency of some kind, if you need me to come to where you are immediately… break the vial, and I'll be there in seconds."
Dudley looked at the glass item with surprise, then up at his cousin.
"I…" He didn't know what to say.
"Consider it…" Harry frowned. "Consider it my apology for forcing you into this situation."
"You didn't force me into anything, Harry," Dudley said with a wry grin. "Remember? This is what I do."
"Yeah," Harry said, sporting a matching grin of his own, "and you'll have to tell me the story behind that over the pint."
The cousins shared a brief, awkward silence before rejoining the others over by the fireplace. With a final wave, Harry and his friends stepped into the emerald flames, vanishing in a whirl of magic.
The Dursleys stood still for several moments, the lingering scent of the magic powder in the air. Jinani squeezed Dudley's hand, a child-like grin on her face. For all the trepidation and danger their current circumstances brought, there was something undeniably invigorating about seeing real magic. Harry and Azari exchanged excited glances, their imaginations running wild at everything they had seen and learned.
"Daddy," Heather's voice called out from her now messily scribbled coloring book, "can I have ice cream vetables now?"
Lyra's eyes fluttered open, her mind struggling to make sense of the unfamiliar patterns of light and shadow dancing across the ceiling. For a moment, panic gripped her chest—where was she? The events of the previous day came rushing back, a torrent of memories that left her breathless. Right. The Dursleys'.
She tried to sit up, but her muscles protested after hours of fitful sleep. The bed was so comfortable that for a moment, Lyra just stayed there, appreciating it. Lyra's fingers traced the smooth cotton sheets, marveling at their crisp cleanliness. No threadbare patches, no mysterious stains. Just... normal.
Forcing herself to get up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Lyra's bare feet met cool hardwood. She paused, listening. The house was mostly quiet. Distant sounds of life filtered in from somewhere—muffled voices.
Last night seemed so far away, but she'd gone to sleep, and she hadn't woken up. She was still in the dream. At least that seemed to clarify what manner of shit she was in. A prisoner.
Lyra glanced over at the window, her mind only just realizing once more that she was sleeping on the pull-out bed of Mrs. Dursley's home office. Judging from the sky it must be fairly late in the day.
She rubbed her forehead and tried to think. What should she do? The unimaginable fucking mess she would be in now if she went home, after disappearing for an entire night without warning, wasn't worth escaping the Dursleys.
Lyra looked around for her backpack, and spotted it leaning against the wall. She reached in and fished around, half expecting to find her 'contraband' confiscated, but it felt like nothing had been touched.
She pulled her pack of smokes out and put it in her pocket next to the lighter she always kept there.
A louder sound caused her attention to snap back to the door… maybe a laugh? Well, she might be a prisoner, but that didn't mean she needed to stay in here.
Opening the door as quietly as she could, the sound of voices became much more clear. Children's voices. Lyra hesitated, her anxiety spiking at the prospect of having to deal with kids.
Taking a deep breath, she rounded the corner into what appeared to be a living room and the chatter stopped abruptly. Three pairs of eyes locked onto her, wide with fascination and a hint of wariness. Lyra froze, feeling exposed under their intense scrutiny.
What were their names? Mr. Dursley had told her last night before she'd been sent to that room…
The oldest boy—Harry, she recalled now—sat on the floor, a colorful board game spread out before him. The girl… Art? That didn't seem right… well, the older girl perched on the edge of the sofa, a forgotten book in her lap. The youngest, whose name Lyra couldn't even pretend to remember, clutched a stuffed animal to her chest.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Lyra shifted her weight, feeling the urge to bolt from the room, but frozen at the eyes that seemed to pierce her. The children continued to stare, and she opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
What am I supposed to say? Lyra thought, her chest tightening. What do they want from me?
Lyra's irritation grew, her skin prickling at the uncomfortable sensation of being closely and quietly observed.
Why aren't they saying anything?! She clenched her fists. Why are they just staring?!
"What?" she finally snapped, her voice sharper than intended. "Never seen a girl before?"
The spell broke. Harry's eyes widened, and the older girl sat up straighter.
"Are you a witch?" Harry blurted out, leaning forward eagerly.
Lyra blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.
"I—what?"
"Can you do magic?" the older girl chimed in, her book sliding forgotten to the floor. "Like, real magic?"
"We saw Harry Potter and his friends doing some magic earlier," Harry pressed on, scrambling to his feet. "Do you have a wand? Or can you just think things and make them happen? They all seemed to need wands."
Lyra took a step back, overwhelmed by the rapid-fire questions. Her irritation melted away, replaced by a bewildering mix of confusion and discomfort.
"I... I'm not..." she stammered, struggling to form a coherent thought.
"Can you make ice cream vetables?" the youngest girl piped up, her round eyes pleading.
"No, I—"
"Can you fly?" the older girl interrupted, practically vibrating on the sofa now. "The tall man this morning said he could fly with a broom, and I want to see."
"That's not—"
"What about potions?" Harry asked. "Can you brew love potions or luck potions or—"
"Stop!" Lyra shouted, her voice cracking. The children fell silent, but their eager expressions remained unchanged. Lyra took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "I'm not... I can't do any of that. I'm a squib."
"Are you bothering Lyra?" Mrs. Dursley's voice called out from the hallway towards the kitchen, no doubt drawn by Lyra's shout. She stepped in and surveyed the room quickly, then looked at Lyra. "Are they bothering you?"
"No," Lyra said immediately. "Sorry, I didn't mean to shout Mrs. Dursley."
"Well…" Mrs. Dursley looked past her to the kids. "Did you all forget what your father said?"
"But we didn't say a word until she talked to us!" Harry protested. "Even Heather kept quiet!"
"He also taught you not to stare, didn't he?" Mrs. Dursley asked, her eyes squinting.
"I talked to them," Lyra said. It was technically true.
"Okay…" Mrs. Dursley gave her kids a suspicious look. "If Lyra wants to be alone, you all have to let her go in peace. Don't pester."
And then the tall woman turned and left the room. Lyra turned back to the kids, trying to remember where their questions had been left off. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Harry and the older girl seemed to know.
"What's a squib?" they asked in unison. Lyra blinked. How did they do that?
"It means..." Lyra sighed, running a hand through her short, tangled hair. "It means I come from a magical family, but I can't do magic myself."
The children exchanged glances, seemingly unsure what to make out of this idea.
"But you still know about magic, right?" the older girl pressed, leaning forward. "You've seen it?"
Lyra nodded hesitantly, unsure how to handle their persistent curiosity. She'd expected fear, disgust, or at least wariness. But this... this enthusiasm was something she hadn't been prepared for.
"What's it like?" Harry asked, his voice softer now, tinged with something like awe. "Living in a world with magic?"
Lyra opened her mouth, then closed it again. How could she possibly explain? How could she convey the wonder and the terror, the beauty and the danger?
Lyra hesitated, her fingers absently tracing the worn hem of her sleeve. She looked at their earnest faces, so open and eager to learn, and felt herself relax slightly.
"It's complicated," she began, her voice soft. "Magic isn't always what you see in storybooks."
"What do you mean?" Harry's brow furrowed.
Lyra's thoughts felt scattered, memories floating up. A healing spell that only promised future pain. Burn marks forming on her back beneath her clothes. Glass shattering and—
She shook her head. She couldn't let her mind wander into that right now. They were just kids.
"It can be beautiful," she said slowly, choosing her words with caution. "But it can also be scary."
"Scary how?" The youngest girl—Heather, Lyra suddenly remembered—clutched her stuffed animal tighter.
"Sometimes," she began, then paused, swallowing hard. "Sometimes magic can be dangerous, and hurt you."
The children exchanged glances. A moment of silence stretched between them. Why did she just say that? Wasn't Heather like… 5 or 6? They weren't old enough for this. Great. Now I've scared them.
"Is that..." the older girl spoke up, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Is that what happened to you?"
Lyra's head snapped up, meeting the girl's gaze.
"Azari!" Harry exclaimed in embarrassment. "You can't just ask that!"
There was no judgment in her face, no pity—just a simple, honest curiosity. But Lyra wasn't really interested in talking about that no matter how curious Azari was. At least her bother had helped Lyra with the name.
"There's good magic too," she said, trying to refocus them. "I've seen... I've seen flowers bloom in winter, and teacups dance across tables."
"Dancing tea cups!" Heather said with clear amazement. She giggled, hugging her stuffed animal.
"What?" Harry said in confusion, looking at his youngest sister. "People coming out of the fireplace was boring but dancing tea cups is fun?"
"Yeah," Lyra answered for the young girl. She found herself smiling, just a little. "It can be."
"What else?" Harry leaned forward, a dubious look on his face. "What other good magic have you seen?"
As Lyra began to speak, describing the gentler magics she'd witnessed, the tension in her chest began to unravel. Talking about magic was something she usually hated doing, but this didn't feel that bad.
"Can you tell us about Hogwarts?" Harry asked, leaning forward with rapt attention. "Dad said that's where Uncle Harry went to school."
"Uncle Harry?" Azari teased. "Since when do you call him that?"
The boy flushed, his awkwardness strangely endearing to Lyra.
"Well what do you think we should call him?" Harry challenged.
"Harry Potter," Azari answered simply.
"His whole name?" Harry gawked. "That's so weird."
"Not as weird as calling a man you met this morning 'Uncle'," Azari shot back.
"You were asking about Hogwarts, right?" Lyra interjected, trying to stop them from bickering. But when they turned their attention back to her, Lyra hesitated, a familiar pang of envy twisting in her gut. "I... I've never been there myself," she admitted, "but I've heard stories."
She began to recount tales she'd overheard—moving staircases, enchanted ceilings, ghosts that taught classes. With each word, the children's faces lit up, and Lyra found herself swept along by their enthusiasm.
"That sounds amazing," Azari breathed, her eyes shining.
"Yeah, I guess it does." A small smile tugged at Lyra's lips.
"Do you want to play?" Heather asked, seemingly without context. Lyra watched as the small girl sat down in front of the forgotten board game on the floor.
"I... what?" Lyra blinked, caught off guard by the simple offer.
"Yeah!" Harry chimed in, grinning. "We can teach you the rules. It's fun, I promise."
For a moment, Lyra was paralyzed with indecision. Part of her wanted to retreat. The offer felt achingly, sickeningly fake. Or at least, it felt like Lyra would be faking it if she joined. But their faces promised her that they'd be disappointed by her refusal, and for some reason, at this very moment, that was something she found persuasive.
"Okay," she heard herself say.
"Finally, we'll have four players," Azari said with a grin as she scooted uncomfortably close. "I'm glad you're here, Lyra."
The words hit Lyra almost physically. She swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden sting of tears. I'm glad you're here. When was the last time anyone had said that to her? In any context?
"Thanks," she managed, her voice a touch scratchy.
As Harry began explaining the game, his words punctuated by Heather's giggles and Azari's playful interjections, Lyra felt an unfamiliar sensation settle over her. This was… nice.