Fic and Art: Prompt 35
Title: Remember/Forget
Author: kerplankia
Prompt: 35. It all comes down to the Dementor attack, doesn't it? That's what changes Dudley. I'd like to see an internal monologue, a stream-of-consciousness maybe, about how it felt, what he saw, what he realised and how it changed him, his new perspective and what he intends to do with it.
Pairing, or gen: Gen
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Present Tense
Word count/medium: 1550
Summary/Excerpt: It's eight days after the Dementor attack and Dudley's life is slowly falling apart. Should he forget or try to remember? Drabble in seven parts plus an extra two rough sketches.
Author's or Artist's notes: Thank you so much mods for being so understanding. You guys are amazing! ¾ of this story has been sitting finished on my computer for more than two months and refused to be finished. The artwork was what got me able to finish. I had these two images in my head, but as I am not much of an artist this is what I could do to get them out.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. We are very grateful for permission to play with them.
Remember/Forget
I.
It is cold. Colder than he can ever remember. The night air feels heavy, as if the cold has gathered into a dark solid form in front of him. Sweat breaks out on his brow. A heavy bead slides down his face, and drip-drops onto the pavement.
The pervasive sense of fear swamps him and he is unsure of its source.
Each outward breath pulls a little bit more out of him; what he breathes in cannot make up for what is lost. He gasps in an attempt to pull more oxygen into his lungs yet all that happens is a strange croaking noise.
Black spots twirl into his vision. They multiply until finally all that he can see is one small pin-point of silver light that rushes towards him.
And then Dudley wakes up.
II.
It is still dark when Dudley opens his eyes. His blankets are in a tangled pile at the end of his bed, the off-white sheets glowing in the dark. His thick legs are not much darker than the sheets. He does not know what that means.
He lets out a breath that he did not know that he was holding in. It rushes out of him, making a noise that breaks the harsh silence of his room. He breathes in and it seems to him that air has never tasted sweeter.
Another night, another nightmare. This is the 8th night that he has dreamt this dream that leaves him soaking with sweat and smelling sour.
He does not remember much of the attack, nor does he want to remember. The glimpses that come to him in his dreams are bad enough.
It is the 8th night after the attack.
III.
After he rolls out of bed he trudges to the toilet. As he is washing his hands he glances up at the mirror and he does not recognize the face staring back at him. The grey skin, the bags under his eyes, and the dead look all contribute to the stranger's face.
Dudley heads downstairs where the smell of breakfast is wafting upwards. It should smell good, it should be enticing, but the sour smell of his own fear still hangs in his nose.
He makes his way down the stairs to the table laden with food. His large stomach rebels at the sight of the food in front of him. Breakfast begins as it usually does; the telly is on in front of him and the only other noise is the clink of the cutlery against the plates.
Dudley picks at his food, pushing one bit of egg back and forth across his plate. His bird-like picking of his food does not go unnoticed by either parent. Petunia keeps glancing at Dudley from underneath her sparse eyelashes. The worry is evident in the frown that begins to spread across her face. She says nothing and neither does Vernon, though his moustache twitches as if it is binding his mouth shut, keeping him from speaking aloud.
The silence extends until Dudley cannot stand the sight of food anymore. He drops his knife and fork onto the still full plate. Two sets of questioning eyes look up at him as he pushes himself away from the table and stands.
A quiet “Dudders” is uttered from his mother's mouth, but Dudley ignores it and heads to the couch to watch the telly as the news reporter blabbers about unimportant things. He can still smell the fear.
IV.
It's supper later that same day and like breakfast, food is laid out in large platters that cover the table. The smell of fear that plagued Dudley earlier has dissipated and his hunger has returned. He dives into his food and ignores the sigh of relief from his mum.
His father is not as easily placated. With a wiggle of his moustache, Vernon looks long and hard at Dudley before he begins to speak. Dudley does not really listen, but he does hear words like magic, and that boy, and “Green, I tell you!”. He excuses himself from the table and walks away amid protests from his parents.
He doesn't need reminders of that night. Though, it's not like he remembers much of it anyway.
As he heads back upstairs he passes the entry way and is hit with the memory of stumbling in, the nausea suffocating him (each breath is just a pause before he vomits), and his parents shrieking with fear. But no, he does not remember. Does not want to remember. And so he doesn't.
V.
It's time for his late-night snack. He sneaks out of his room, the squeaking door silenced as quickly and quietly as possible. Noise from downstairs filters its way upstairs; the high pitch of his mum's voice twining with the low bumbling boom of his father's.
Dudley leans back against his bedroom door, unsure whether he should go and get his snack. Individual words begin to float upwards and Dudley struggles to understand what his parents are saying.
“It is just not right Petunia! We cannot allow that boy to live here anymore. He is a danger to us! Look what he did to our son. Our Dudley was almost killed by that freak.” Vernon's voice contains the pain of a parent faced with their child's mortality. Vernon's big fists, his reputation and money cannot protect his son from the unknown qualities of magic.
Dudley listens as his father continues to voice his concerns with his mum. Petunia stays mostly quiet but her silence on the matter conveys agreement. Vernon loudly states that he believes Harry, the freak, to be the source of all their troubles and most assuredly the cause of this last Incident with Dudley.
Finally their voices wind down and all that can be heard are goodnights. Dudley sneaks back into his room before his parents come upstairs to their beds.
He goes to lie down on his bed, stomach growling softly. He is not sure what to think. He cannot (does not, will not) remember what happened yet he cannot fully agree with his parents that Harry was the cause of the Incident.
So as he lays himself down to sleep, he thinks. And thinks. And then he dreams.
VI.
And that night in bed he finally remembers what he has tried to forget. The night of the Incident.
First he remembers this: the damp, the pain as his elbow scrapes the tarmac, and the cold that dives deep into him.
Then he remembers: the old fear that has never really left (not when he beats the other boys, not when he is large, not when he steals, not when he wins).
Maybe someday his parents will treat him like they did Harry. Maybe if he is not stronger, not bigger, not better they will force him, Dudley into a cupboard. All this bursts from his chest as the other happy moments flee from him.
His fear of the cupboard, the air of unnaturalness that always hangs around Harry; all of this emotion gathers and builds and Dudley cannot escape.
Then-relief.
He remembers the look on Harry's face as he pulls out his stick and yells something strange and incomprehensible. He remembers the unexpected release, of finally being free from the terrible cold as if spring had come to rescue him from winter.
Dudley remembers wanting to say thank you, struggling to say thank you, but the words never appear and he only groans. Then he is being pulled upright by Harry and he can feel in his stomach the terrible rolling that means that he is about to vomit.
He does not remember the stumble to the house, but he does remember being fussed over (though it did not make much of a difference). And he is ashamed to admit, he remembers letting his parents think that it was all Harry's fault.
Harry's fault. When Harry saved him. When Harry lived a life in a cupboard so that Dudley did not have to. But his stomach is rolling and he knows that his face has gone green so all he can do is clutch the bucket a bit harder and heave. He remembers thinking that he will just handle it tomorrow.
VII.
That tomorrow is here. It is the first morning that Dudley has woken to untwisted, dry sheets. His room smells like it always does; a bit unwashed and a little heavy on the cologne. The sour smell is nowhere to be found.
He heads to breakfast with his step a little lighter. He eats, watches the telly and goes about his normal routine. And he thinks and thinks. Finally, he decides.
This is what he is going to do. The next time Harry comes home, he will find some way to say thank you. He is not quite sure how he will do it, nor is he positive that Harry will accept it from him. He is not even sure what he is saying thank you for. The rescue? Or for keeping Dudley from Harry's fate?
As he walks outside into the slow, pattering rain for first time since That Night he thinks that maybe tea will do the job. Yes, nobody can turn down a cup of tea.
Author: kerplankia
Prompt: 35. It all comes down to the Dementor attack, doesn't it? That's what changes Dudley. I'd like to see an internal monologue, a stream-of-consciousness maybe, about how it felt, what he saw, what he realised and how it changed him, his new perspective and what he intends to do with it.
Pairing, or gen: Gen
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Present Tense
Word count/medium: 1550
Summary/Excerpt: It's eight days after the Dementor attack and Dudley's life is slowly falling apart. Should he forget or try to remember? Drabble in seven parts plus an extra two rough sketches.
Author's or Artist's notes: Thank you so much mods for being so understanding. You guys are amazing! ¾ of this story has been sitting finished on my computer for more than two months and refused to be finished. The artwork was what got me able to finish. I had these two images in my head, but as I am not much of an artist this is what I could do to get them out.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. We are very grateful for permission to play with them.
Remember/Forget
I.
It is cold. Colder than he can ever remember. The night air feels heavy, as if the cold has gathered into a dark solid form in front of him. Sweat breaks out on his brow. A heavy bead slides down his face, and drip-drops onto the pavement.
The pervasive sense of fear swamps him and he is unsure of its source.
Each outward breath pulls a little bit more out of him; what he breathes in cannot make up for what is lost. He gasps in an attempt to pull more oxygen into his lungs yet all that happens is a strange croaking noise.
Black spots twirl into his vision. They multiply until finally all that he can see is one small pin-point of silver light that rushes towards him.
And then Dudley wakes up.
II.
It is still dark when Dudley opens his eyes. His blankets are in a tangled pile at the end of his bed, the off-white sheets glowing in the dark. His thick legs are not much darker than the sheets. He does not know what that means.
He lets out a breath that he did not know that he was holding in. It rushes out of him, making a noise that breaks the harsh silence of his room. He breathes in and it seems to him that air has never tasted sweeter.
Another night, another nightmare. This is the 8th night that he has dreamt this dream that leaves him soaking with sweat and smelling sour.
He does not remember much of the attack, nor does he want to remember. The glimpses that come to him in his dreams are bad enough.
It is the 8th night after the attack.
III.
After he rolls out of bed he trudges to the toilet. As he is washing his hands he glances up at the mirror and he does not recognize the face staring back at him. The grey skin, the bags under his eyes, and the dead look all contribute to the stranger's face.
Dudley heads downstairs where the smell of breakfast is wafting upwards. It should smell good, it should be enticing, but the sour smell of his own fear still hangs in his nose.
He makes his way down the stairs to the table laden with food. His large stomach rebels at the sight of the food in front of him. Breakfast begins as it usually does; the telly is on in front of him and the only other noise is the clink of the cutlery against the plates.
Dudley picks at his food, pushing one bit of egg back and forth across his plate. His bird-like picking of his food does not go unnoticed by either parent. Petunia keeps glancing at Dudley from underneath her sparse eyelashes. The worry is evident in the frown that begins to spread across her face. She says nothing and neither does Vernon, though his moustache twitches as if it is binding his mouth shut, keeping him from speaking aloud.
The silence extends until Dudley cannot stand the sight of food anymore. He drops his knife and fork onto the still full plate. Two sets of questioning eyes look up at him as he pushes himself away from the table and stands.
A quiet “Dudders” is uttered from his mother's mouth, but Dudley ignores it and heads to the couch to watch the telly as the news reporter blabbers about unimportant things. He can still smell the fear.
IV.
It's supper later that same day and like breakfast, food is laid out in large platters that cover the table. The smell of fear that plagued Dudley earlier has dissipated and his hunger has returned. He dives into his food and ignores the sigh of relief from his mum.
His father is not as easily placated. With a wiggle of his moustache, Vernon looks long and hard at Dudley before he begins to speak. Dudley does not really listen, but he does hear words like magic, and that boy, and “Green, I tell you!”. He excuses himself from the table and walks away amid protests from his parents.
He doesn't need reminders of that night. Though, it's not like he remembers much of it anyway.
As he heads back upstairs he passes the entry way and is hit with the memory of stumbling in, the nausea suffocating him (each breath is just a pause before he vomits), and his parents shrieking with fear. But no, he does not remember. Does not want to remember. And so he doesn't.
V.
It's time for his late-night snack. He sneaks out of his room, the squeaking door silenced as quickly and quietly as possible. Noise from downstairs filters its way upstairs; the high pitch of his mum's voice twining with the low bumbling boom of his father's.
Dudley leans back against his bedroom door, unsure whether he should go and get his snack. Individual words begin to float upwards and Dudley struggles to understand what his parents are saying.
“It is just not right Petunia! We cannot allow that boy to live here anymore. He is a danger to us! Look what he did to our son. Our Dudley was almost killed by that freak.” Vernon's voice contains the pain of a parent faced with their child's mortality. Vernon's big fists, his reputation and money cannot protect his son from the unknown qualities of magic.
Dudley listens as his father continues to voice his concerns with his mum. Petunia stays mostly quiet but her silence on the matter conveys agreement. Vernon loudly states that he believes Harry, the freak, to be the source of all their troubles and most assuredly the cause of this last Incident with Dudley.
Finally their voices wind down and all that can be heard are goodnights. Dudley sneaks back into his room before his parents come upstairs to their beds.
He goes to lie down on his bed, stomach growling softly. He is not sure what to think. He cannot (does not, will not) remember what happened yet he cannot fully agree with his parents that Harry was the cause of the Incident.
So as he lays himself down to sleep, he thinks. And thinks. And then he dreams.
VI.
And that night in bed he finally remembers what he has tried to forget. The night of the Incident.
First he remembers this: the damp, the pain as his elbow scrapes the tarmac, and the cold that dives deep into him.
Then he remembers: the old fear that has never really left (not when he beats the other boys, not when he is large, not when he steals, not when he wins).
Maybe someday his parents will treat him like they did Harry. Maybe if he is not stronger, not bigger, not better they will force him, Dudley into a cupboard. All this bursts from his chest as the other happy moments flee from him.
His fear of the cupboard, the air of unnaturalness that always hangs around Harry; all of this emotion gathers and builds and Dudley cannot escape.
Then-relief.
He remembers the look on Harry's face as he pulls out his stick and yells something strange and incomprehensible. He remembers the unexpected release, of finally being free from the terrible cold as if spring had come to rescue him from winter.
Dudley remembers wanting to say thank you, struggling to say thank you, but the words never appear and he only groans. Then he is being pulled upright by Harry and he can feel in his stomach the terrible rolling that means that he is about to vomit.
He does not remember the stumble to the house, but he does remember being fussed over (though it did not make much of a difference). And he is ashamed to admit, he remembers letting his parents think that it was all Harry's fault.
Harry's fault. When Harry saved him. When Harry lived a life in a cupboard so that Dudley did not have to. But his stomach is rolling and he knows that his face has gone green so all he can do is clutch the bucket a bit harder and heave. He remembers thinking that he will just handle it tomorrow.
VII.
That tomorrow is here. It is the first morning that Dudley has woken to untwisted, dry sheets. His room smells like it always does; a bit unwashed and a little heavy on the cologne. The sour smell is nowhere to be found.
He heads to breakfast with his step a little lighter. He eats, watches the telly and goes about his normal routine. And he thinks and thinks. Finally, he decides.
This is what he is going to do. The next time Harry comes home, he will find some way to say thank you. He is not quite sure how he will do it, nor is he positive that Harry will accept it from him. He is not even sure what he is saying thank you for. The rescue? Or for keeping Dudley from Harry's fate?
As he walks outside into the slow, pattering rain for first time since That Night he thinks that maybe tea will do the job. Yes, nobody can turn down a cup of tea.