FIC: "Finding the Way Home" by lilith's requiem, gen, PG
Title: Finding the Way Home
Author: liliths-requiem
Rating: PG
Pairing: gen Dudley, Hestia Jones friendship
Summary: Dudley tries to figure out where he belongs.
Word Count: 2372
Genre: gen
Warnings: None
Prompt: 73 submitted by sehlat_charmer: All who knew him before agree Dudley came back a better man from the year his family spent in Witness Protection (because terrorists were after them - that’s the official version), but also that he’s acting strange sometimes, now. The real reason for this? Dudley has learned to spot the signs of Magic/Wizard things around him, but he can’t talk about it.
Beta: with_rhythm
Author’s Note: This is more a character study than anything else. I hope you all enjoy it.
Disclaimer: The characters contained herein are not mine. No money is being made from this fiction, which is presented for entertainment purposes only.
Finding the Way Home
For the first week after returning home, Dudley expects the mirrors to talk to him. He spends full minutes staring at himself in the mirror, purposefully not speaking in hopes that the mirror will spark up a conversation. He tries talking to his reflection, hoping that the glass will eventually join in. By the third day, he even tries dressing strangely and messing with his hair in an attempt to get the mirror’s attention. His mother catches him in the hallway mirror and shrieks so loudly she scares the neighbors.
“Diddikins,” she tells him, voice high and eyes wild, “you stop that right now.”
Her denial of the world they lived in for almost a year frustrates Dudley. Maybe he’s a bit afraid of magic-it’s terrifying what people can do to one another with some jumbled Latin and a limp wrist, but it’s not like he can close his eyes and make it all go away. He doesn’t understand how his mother has denied the existence of magic for almost thirty years. Every time he sees an owl in broad daylight, he’s reminded of flying horses and whiskey made by goblins.
Piers Polkiss knocks on the front door nine days after the Dursley’s return to 4 Privet Drive. He greets Dudley with their customary punch to the shoulder. Dudley almost cracks his skull with the responding right hook. He mutters an apology as he hands his old friend an ice pack, unable to explain why he reacted so irrationally to a show of camaraderie. Piers changes the subject and asks about the witness protection program the Dursleys had supposedly been enrolled in for the year.
“Terrorists, though, mate? I thought your father sold nails?” he asks, his eyes dilated and his words slurred.
Dudley explains that it was actually Harry’s fault. Apparently his parents had been mixed up with the wrong sorts once upon a time and the mad men they had pissed off wanted to extract revenge upon Harry and the Dursleys. It’s a good cover story, one he and Hestia had concocted a few days after Diggle’s death. Just in case, just for some extra hope in the darkest of days. He thinks about confirming the cover story with his parents, but he knows neither one of them wants to talk about it. In fact, they’ve picked up their lives exactly where they left them a year ago, completely unwilling to talk about the 357 days in between.
Dudley and Piers go outside to smoke the pack of fags Piers keeps in his back pocket. It’s a little less exciting now that they can both smoke legally. They sit on the swings, languidly moving their bodies back and forth while their feet dangle on the ground. Piers is talking about rugby and Dudley is trying to pay attention, but there’s something not quite right taking place at Mrs. Figg’s house, and he can’t help but stare past his friend’s shoulder. When a dirty looking man walks out the front door and disapparates in broad daylight, Dudley falls off the swing.
“The fuck?” Piers says, looking at Dudley quizzically, “Why’d you fall off the swing, mate?”
After a year with Hestia and Dedalus, Dudley’s not entirely sure how he was best mates with someone as painfully thick as Piers Polkiss. He pushes himself up off the ground and stubs out the cigarette against the seat of the swing.
“I have to go,” he tells Piers. “I er…I promised me mum I’d bring Mrs. Figg a fruit cake. Batty old woman thinks they’re delicious.”
“Your mother’s fruit cake?” Piers asks. “It takes like an old shoe.”
“I know,” Dudley calls over his shoulder, already at the edge of the park, “I’ll catch up with you later.
Piers never mentions that Dudley walked all the way to Mrs. Figg’s house completely empty handed. Whether this is because he didn’t notice or because he didn’t care, Dudley isn’t sure. He has more important things to focus on at the moment.
Mrs. Figg is the most normal and boring woman Dudley’s ever met, his mother excluded. He remembers her from his childhood as the strict old woman who looked after Harry whenever the Dursleys had a dinner party to attend or a family member to criticize. She seemed to enjoy her cats and thick detective novels, neither of which Dudley found particularly fascinating. However, a man of questionable integrity disapparating in front of her house at half past noon on a Thursday? Pretty bloody fascinating.
He knocks on the door before he loses his nerve. His entire life, Dudley had been secure that he was the biggest, toughest bully around. Then Hestia Jones-half his size and wearing court shoes-dropped him on his arse without reaching for her wand. It was a lesson learned.
“Mr. Dursley,” Mrs. Figg says, once she opens the door. Her glasses are tangled in her hair and one of her cats is purring at her feet, but the way she looks at him still makes him feel sick. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Dudley opens his mouth like a gatekeeper who lowers the bridge after the walls have been breached. “A man just disapprated in front of your house.”
Mrs. Figg nods in a way that makes Dudley feel spectacularly stupid. “Yes,” she agrees, shaking a cat from her leg, “Dung claims muggles are too daft to notice him disapparating. I dare say he’s right. You’re the first to notice in seventeen years, but you already know wizards exist.”
“Oh,” Dudley says. “Well, thank you.” He turns to walk away, suddenly very interested in the color of his trainers.
“Mr. Dursley.” This time, Mrs. Figg’s tone is a bit less sharp, “I know what it’s like to have lived in both worlds. You will get used to seeing things no one else can see.”
She closes the door without another word, and Dudley is left silently gaping after her on her front steps. There is no one on the street to see him get rejected by a woman in her seventies. However, the foxhound across the street seems to be a bit too interested in him to be normal.
:::
Mary McGonagall, the Headmistress’ oldest niece, was in fact very interested in Dudley Dursley’s decision to visit Arabella Figg, but not for her own purposes. Sitting down at an empty table in the Leaky Cauldron a few hours later, she coughs on another piece of bird bone, still stuck in her throat from her earlier escapades. She sits back in her chair and waits for the woman she’s meeting to arrive. Their meeting was set for half past five, but Hestia Jones has never been known to be early.
At six o’clock exactly a glass of Firewhiskey appears before Mary’s seat, followed by her oldest friend. Mary starts speaking before Hestia can sit down. “I don’t understand why you’re so interested in this muggle, Hestia.”
“His name is Dudley,” Hestia corrects, taking a sip of her gillywater. Hestia doesn’t enjoy drinking while wearing her Auror uniform. She thinks it’s unprofessional, even if she has already clocked out. “He was my only human communication for four months after Dedalus died, and we both know Dedalus never could hold a conversation. He’s a good kid, now at least, and I want to make sure our world hasn’t driven him crazy.” She puts down her glass, takes a deep breath, and says, “How’s he adjusting?”
“He’s not,” Mary replies, her voice steady, “He’s talking to muggle mirrors and accosting old squibs about Fletcher disapparating in broad daylight. And,” she lowers her voice, because registered or not, being an animagus wasn’t something people talk about, “I swear he was staring right at me this afternoon. Like he bloody knew I wasn’t a real dog.”
Hestia nods with a smile, “I taught him to never trust an animal that stands still too long. Even if you’re wrong and it isn’t human, if you’re right, you don’t want to be caught with your pants down.”
“Moody made you paranoid,” Mary responds. Hestia stops smiling and looks right at her friend. Mary swallows hard and mutters, “Sorry.”
Hestia looks away for a moment, and then downs the rest of her gillywater in one swallow. She stands up and pulls her cloak tightly around her shoulders. “I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow,” she promises, turning to leave, “Right now, I have to take care of something.”
Mary leans back against the seat and takes another taste of her Firewhiskey. She’s gotten much too used to Hestia’s hero-complex over the span of their friendship to try to talk her best mate out of doing something stupid.
:::
Hestia knows better than to apparate inside the Dursleys’ house. Number one, she doesn’t really know what it looks like, and she’s never been inside Dudley’s room, so despite her training in blind apparition, she chooses instead to land on Mrs. Figg’s front steps. Everyone in the Order became well-acquainted with Mrs. Figg’s front steps at one point or another during the last three years. Hestia contemplates stopping in to say hello to the old woman, but dismisses the thought after only a moment. She has more important things to do.
Hestia’s youngest sister once told her that muggle boys throw stones at girls’ windows to get their attention. At the time, she thought Megan was pulling her leg. Hestia decides to employ this tactic in hopes that it will get Dudley out of bed without waking up his parents. Even at the age of twenty-seven, she’s desperately afraid of large muggles with witch-hunting tendencies. It’s only a quarter to seven, so there’s a possibility Dudley’s not in his room. She decides that if he doesn’t answer, she’ll check the park.
By the third stone, she’s pretty sure the window’s going to break before she can get Dudley’s attention. She’s just about to give up and send an owl-she’s sure Vernon would love that-when the window opens. “Are you bloody daft?” Dudley stage whispers, looking around. After a moment of thought he asks, “Are you really here?”
“Have you been imagining me?” she asks, playfully. Flirting with Dudley became one of her favorite past times last October, when she realized he’d blush every shade of red if she tried hard enough. She’s never been interested, as she considers Dudley a friend and she has a rule against taking friends to bed, but it’s amusing to watch him squirm.
“Gimme a minute,” he replies, “I’ll meet you across the street.” He disappears back inside his window.
Hestia crosses the street and waits behind a tree. When the Dursleys left the barn two weeks ago, Petunia had thanked her in a stilted away and Vernon hadn’t even looked her in the eye. She can count on one hand the number of times either of the older Dursleys had said more than two words to her at one time. She’s afraid Dudley isn’t going to say yes to her proposition, and should that happen, she doesn’t want his parents to see them talking.
“You are real,” Dudley says, upon catching up with her. “For a moment, I thought I’d been making you up inside my head.”
Hestia frowns. She’s heard about muggles not being able to handle the existence of magic. She remembers the way her muggle mother always seemed more comfortable surrounded by witches than she ever did in muggle London. “Have you been seeing things that aren’t there?” she asks him, already thinking about owling the Ministry’s psychiatrist to take a look at her friend.
“No,” Dudley replies, shaking his head vehemently, “No. I’ve been seeing things that are there.” He pauses and looks at her, “Hestia, do you know how strange it is? To see things no one else can see? I don’t know how muggleborns and squirts-”
“Squibs,” Hestia automatically corrects.
“Squibs,” Dudley amends, “do it. I don’t know how they know about both worlds and don’t go mad. Maybe because they’ve seen both worlds and they know both worlds. But up until the Dementeds attacked-”
Hestia interjects, “Dementors.”
“Do you see what I mean?” Without skipping a beat, Dudley returns to his original rant. “I don’t understand your world, but I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real in my world anymore, either.”
“I know,” Hestia replies. Dudley looks distraught in a way she’s never seen him look before. This is not the lost, angry little boy who came to live on Dedalus’ farm last summer, set in his ways and his prejudices perfected. For the first time in his life, Dudley looks like someone who doesn’t understand-and wants to learn.
Dudley looks at her. That isn’t what he was expecting. “How?”
Hestia smiles, “Well, I don’t really. But I was expecting you to be a bit…wrong-footed.” She looks at him, and he sort of shrugs but plays it off as a tick. “So I was wondering,” if she’s going to get this out, she’s going to have to go all in, “I was wondering if you’d want to move in with me.”
There is the type of silence that hangs between people like glass. Dudley’s smile shatters it “Yes,” he decides, after a moment. “I don’t know how Harry’s lived with us for all these years. But my parents…” he trails off, and Hestia’s not sure if it’s out of loyalty or respect. “When can I move in?”
“Right after you tell your parents,” Hestia replies. Dudley groans, slightly annoyed, but he accepts the answer. “Come on,” she says, after a moment, “I’ll walk you inside and we can talk to them together.”
“I don’t need you to hold my hand,” Dudley says, in an attempt to regain the dignity he lost by accepting the offer so eagerly. Hestia looks at him again and he looks away sheepishly. “Okay, we’ll go inside and see my parents.”
She smiles at him and starts to walk towards his house. Dudley watches her walk for a moment, very glad that they’re both willing to acknowledge the fact that he’s happy to see her and that there really is a wand in her back pocket.
Author: liliths-requiem
Rating: PG
Pairing: gen Dudley, Hestia Jones friendship
Summary: Dudley tries to figure out where he belongs.
Word Count: 2372
Genre: gen
Warnings: None
Prompt: 73 submitted by sehlat_charmer: All who knew him before agree Dudley came back a better man from the year his family spent in Witness Protection (because terrorists were after them - that’s the official version), but also that he’s acting strange sometimes, now. The real reason for this? Dudley has learned to spot the signs of Magic/Wizard things around him, but he can’t talk about it.
Beta: with_rhythm
Author’s Note: This is more a character study than anything else. I hope you all enjoy it.
Disclaimer: The characters contained herein are not mine. No money is being made from this fiction, which is presented for entertainment purposes only.
Finding the Way Home
For the first week after returning home, Dudley expects the mirrors to talk to him. He spends full minutes staring at himself in the mirror, purposefully not speaking in hopes that the mirror will spark up a conversation. He tries talking to his reflection, hoping that the glass will eventually join in. By the third day, he even tries dressing strangely and messing with his hair in an attempt to get the mirror’s attention. His mother catches him in the hallway mirror and shrieks so loudly she scares the neighbors.
“Diddikins,” she tells him, voice high and eyes wild, “you stop that right now.”
Her denial of the world they lived in for almost a year frustrates Dudley. Maybe he’s a bit afraid of magic-it’s terrifying what people can do to one another with some jumbled Latin and a limp wrist, but it’s not like he can close his eyes and make it all go away. He doesn’t understand how his mother has denied the existence of magic for almost thirty years. Every time he sees an owl in broad daylight, he’s reminded of flying horses and whiskey made by goblins.
Piers Polkiss knocks on the front door nine days after the Dursley’s return to 4 Privet Drive. He greets Dudley with their customary punch to the shoulder. Dudley almost cracks his skull with the responding right hook. He mutters an apology as he hands his old friend an ice pack, unable to explain why he reacted so irrationally to a show of camaraderie. Piers changes the subject and asks about the witness protection program the Dursleys had supposedly been enrolled in for the year.
“Terrorists, though, mate? I thought your father sold nails?” he asks, his eyes dilated and his words slurred.
Dudley explains that it was actually Harry’s fault. Apparently his parents had been mixed up with the wrong sorts once upon a time and the mad men they had pissed off wanted to extract revenge upon Harry and the Dursleys. It’s a good cover story, one he and Hestia had concocted a few days after Diggle’s death. Just in case, just for some extra hope in the darkest of days. He thinks about confirming the cover story with his parents, but he knows neither one of them wants to talk about it. In fact, they’ve picked up their lives exactly where they left them a year ago, completely unwilling to talk about the 357 days in between.
Dudley and Piers go outside to smoke the pack of fags Piers keeps in his back pocket. It’s a little less exciting now that they can both smoke legally. They sit on the swings, languidly moving their bodies back and forth while their feet dangle on the ground. Piers is talking about rugby and Dudley is trying to pay attention, but there’s something not quite right taking place at Mrs. Figg’s house, and he can’t help but stare past his friend’s shoulder. When a dirty looking man walks out the front door and disapparates in broad daylight, Dudley falls off the swing.
“The fuck?” Piers says, looking at Dudley quizzically, “Why’d you fall off the swing, mate?”
After a year with Hestia and Dedalus, Dudley’s not entirely sure how he was best mates with someone as painfully thick as Piers Polkiss. He pushes himself up off the ground and stubs out the cigarette against the seat of the swing.
“I have to go,” he tells Piers. “I er…I promised me mum I’d bring Mrs. Figg a fruit cake. Batty old woman thinks they’re delicious.”
“Your mother’s fruit cake?” Piers asks. “It takes like an old shoe.”
“I know,” Dudley calls over his shoulder, already at the edge of the park, “I’ll catch up with you later.
Piers never mentions that Dudley walked all the way to Mrs. Figg’s house completely empty handed. Whether this is because he didn’t notice or because he didn’t care, Dudley isn’t sure. He has more important things to focus on at the moment.
Mrs. Figg is the most normal and boring woman Dudley’s ever met, his mother excluded. He remembers her from his childhood as the strict old woman who looked after Harry whenever the Dursleys had a dinner party to attend or a family member to criticize. She seemed to enjoy her cats and thick detective novels, neither of which Dudley found particularly fascinating. However, a man of questionable integrity disapparating in front of her house at half past noon on a Thursday? Pretty bloody fascinating.
He knocks on the door before he loses his nerve. His entire life, Dudley had been secure that he was the biggest, toughest bully around. Then Hestia Jones-half his size and wearing court shoes-dropped him on his arse without reaching for her wand. It was a lesson learned.
“Mr. Dursley,” Mrs. Figg says, once she opens the door. Her glasses are tangled in her hair and one of her cats is purring at her feet, but the way she looks at him still makes him feel sick. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Dudley opens his mouth like a gatekeeper who lowers the bridge after the walls have been breached. “A man just disapprated in front of your house.”
Mrs. Figg nods in a way that makes Dudley feel spectacularly stupid. “Yes,” she agrees, shaking a cat from her leg, “Dung claims muggles are too daft to notice him disapparating. I dare say he’s right. You’re the first to notice in seventeen years, but you already know wizards exist.”
“Oh,” Dudley says. “Well, thank you.” He turns to walk away, suddenly very interested in the color of his trainers.
“Mr. Dursley.” This time, Mrs. Figg’s tone is a bit less sharp, “I know what it’s like to have lived in both worlds. You will get used to seeing things no one else can see.”
She closes the door without another word, and Dudley is left silently gaping after her on her front steps. There is no one on the street to see him get rejected by a woman in her seventies. However, the foxhound across the street seems to be a bit too interested in him to be normal.
:::
Mary McGonagall, the Headmistress’ oldest niece, was in fact very interested in Dudley Dursley’s decision to visit Arabella Figg, but not for her own purposes. Sitting down at an empty table in the Leaky Cauldron a few hours later, she coughs on another piece of bird bone, still stuck in her throat from her earlier escapades. She sits back in her chair and waits for the woman she’s meeting to arrive. Their meeting was set for half past five, but Hestia Jones has never been known to be early.
At six o’clock exactly a glass of Firewhiskey appears before Mary’s seat, followed by her oldest friend. Mary starts speaking before Hestia can sit down. “I don’t understand why you’re so interested in this muggle, Hestia.”
“His name is Dudley,” Hestia corrects, taking a sip of her gillywater. Hestia doesn’t enjoy drinking while wearing her Auror uniform. She thinks it’s unprofessional, even if she has already clocked out. “He was my only human communication for four months after Dedalus died, and we both know Dedalus never could hold a conversation. He’s a good kid, now at least, and I want to make sure our world hasn’t driven him crazy.” She puts down her glass, takes a deep breath, and says, “How’s he adjusting?”
“He’s not,” Mary replies, her voice steady, “He’s talking to muggle mirrors and accosting old squibs about Fletcher disapparating in broad daylight. And,” she lowers her voice, because registered or not, being an animagus wasn’t something people talk about, “I swear he was staring right at me this afternoon. Like he bloody knew I wasn’t a real dog.”
Hestia nods with a smile, “I taught him to never trust an animal that stands still too long. Even if you’re wrong and it isn’t human, if you’re right, you don’t want to be caught with your pants down.”
“Moody made you paranoid,” Mary responds. Hestia stops smiling and looks right at her friend. Mary swallows hard and mutters, “Sorry.”
Hestia looks away for a moment, and then downs the rest of her gillywater in one swallow. She stands up and pulls her cloak tightly around her shoulders. “I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow,” she promises, turning to leave, “Right now, I have to take care of something.”
Mary leans back against the seat and takes another taste of her Firewhiskey. She’s gotten much too used to Hestia’s hero-complex over the span of their friendship to try to talk her best mate out of doing something stupid.
:::
Hestia knows better than to apparate inside the Dursleys’ house. Number one, she doesn’t really know what it looks like, and she’s never been inside Dudley’s room, so despite her training in blind apparition, she chooses instead to land on Mrs. Figg’s front steps. Everyone in the Order became well-acquainted with Mrs. Figg’s front steps at one point or another during the last three years. Hestia contemplates stopping in to say hello to the old woman, but dismisses the thought after only a moment. She has more important things to do.
Hestia’s youngest sister once told her that muggle boys throw stones at girls’ windows to get their attention. At the time, she thought Megan was pulling her leg. Hestia decides to employ this tactic in hopes that it will get Dudley out of bed without waking up his parents. Even at the age of twenty-seven, she’s desperately afraid of large muggles with witch-hunting tendencies. It’s only a quarter to seven, so there’s a possibility Dudley’s not in his room. She decides that if he doesn’t answer, she’ll check the park.
By the third stone, she’s pretty sure the window’s going to break before she can get Dudley’s attention. She’s just about to give up and send an owl-she’s sure Vernon would love that-when the window opens. “Are you bloody daft?” Dudley stage whispers, looking around. After a moment of thought he asks, “Are you really here?”
“Have you been imagining me?” she asks, playfully. Flirting with Dudley became one of her favorite past times last October, when she realized he’d blush every shade of red if she tried hard enough. She’s never been interested, as she considers Dudley a friend and she has a rule against taking friends to bed, but it’s amusing to watch him squirm.
“Gimme a minute,” he replies, “I’ll meet you across the street.” He disappears back inside his window.
Hestia crosses the street and waits behind a tree. When the Dursleys left the barn two weeks ago, Petunia had thanked her in a stilted away and Vernon hadn’t even looked her in the eye. She can count on one hand the number of times either of the older Dursleys had said more than two words to her at one time. She’s afraid Dudley isn’t going to say yes to her proposition, and should that happen, she doesn’t want his parents to see them talking.
“You are real,” Dudley says, upon catching up with her. “For a moment, I thought I’d been making you up inside my head.”
Hestia frowns. She’s heard about muggles not being able to handle the existence of magic. She remembers the way her muggle mother always seemed more comfortable surrounded by witches than she ever did in muggle London. “Have you been seeing things that aren’t there?” she asks him, already thinking about owling the Ministry’s psychiatrist to take a look at her friend.
“No,” Dudley replies, shaking his head vehemently, “No. I’ve been seeing things that are there.” He pauses and looks at her, “Hestia, do you know how strange it is? To see things no one else can see? I don’t know how muggleborns and squirts-”
“Squibs,” Hestia automatically corrects.
“Squibs,” Dudley amends, “do it. I don’t know how they know about both worlds and don’t go mad. Maybe because they’ve seen both worlds and they know both worlds. But up until the Dementeds attacked-”
Hestia interjects, “Dementors.”
“Do you see what I mean?” Without skipping a beat, Dudley returns to his original rant. “I don’t understand your world, but I don’t know what’s real and what’s not real in my world anymore, either.”
“I know,” Hestia replies. Dudley looks distraught in a way she’s never seen him look before. This is not the lost, angry little boy who came to live on Dedalus’ farm last summer, set in his ways and his prejudices perfected. For the first time in his life, Dudley looks like someone who doesn’t understand-and wants to learn.
Dudley looks at her. That isn’t what he was expecting. “How?”
Hestia smiles, “Well, I don’t really. But I was expecting you to be a bit…wrong-footed.” She looks at him, and he sort of shrugs but plays it off as a tick. “So I was wondering,” if she’s going to get this out, she’s going to have to go all in, “I was wondering if you’d want to move in with me.”
There is the type of silence that hangs between people like glass. Dudley’s smile shatters it “Yes,” he decides, after a moment. “I don’t know how Harry’s lived with us for all these years. But my parents…” he trails off, and Hestia’s not sure if it’s out of loyalty or respect. “When can I move in?”
“Right after you tell your parents,” Hestia replies. Dudley groans, slightly annoyed, but he accepts the answer. “Come on,” she says, after a moment, “I’ll walk you inside and we can talk to them together.”
“I don’t need you to hold my hand,” Dudley says, in an attempt to regain the dignity he lost by accepting the offer so eagerly. Hestia looks at him again and he looks away sheepishly. “Okay, we’ll go inside and see my parents.”
She smiles at him and starts to walk towards his house. Dudley watches her walk for a moment, very glad that they’re both willing to acknowledge the fact that he’s happy to see her and that there really is a wand in her back pocket.