#i've often wondered how the dursley's treatment of harry affected dudley too

[lbibliophile]

Freak Powers

Dudley’s birthday is always a special day, but this year it has just gone from bad to worse. First there was the missing present, then there was the snake. Now there is a strange woman, with a strange letter, and a claim that threatens to turn the life he has known inside out.

on AO3 2262 words

Dudley glares at the TV. This is not how this day was supposed to go. It is supposed to be his day, his birthday, but this year it has just gone from bad to worse. First there was the missing present at breakfast. Then the freak had to join the visit to the zoo, and made that snake almost eat him. Then there was the aftermath of that, first at the zoo then at home. Now his Dad’s stormed off to the pub, his Mum was too shaken to cook his proper birthday dinner, and his whole evening is ruined. His day can’t possibly get any worse.

A knock sounds at the front door.

“Duddikins, can you please get that. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Dudley grumbles, but hauls himself to his feet. It’s not like he was actually watching the TV anyway, and if it’s a salesperson maybe he can yell at them.

As it turns out, it’s not a salesperson, or if it is, she’s not like any he’s seen before. The first thing he notes is her odd tartan suit, then the grey hair pulled into a tight bun – she’s old, but not old-old. He catches her stern gaze, shining from behind rectangular-framed glasses.

“Dudley Dursley, I presume?”

He gapes at her for a moment. She knows his name?

“Um, yes? Wait, are you here for my birthday?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Or at least, on a related topic. Are your parents about?” He shrugs.

“Dad’s out, but Mum’s here. Muum!”

Finally his mother comes bustling over, drying her hands on a tea towel.

“Yes? And what do you want?”

“Ah, Mrs Dursley, Petunia. Professor McGonagall.”

She peers at the older woman.

“Do I… know you?”

“We met only briefly, many years ago, however we had a mutual acquaintance. But tonight, I am here on business. If I might come inside to talk to you and your son?”

His mother pauses for a moment, then agrees, settling them in the sitting room before returning to the kitchen to make tea.

Dudley stares at the woman, awkward silence growing.

“You said you were here for my birthday?”

“Indeed. I work at a school, and offers of admittance are traditionally delivered to prospective students on their eleventh birthday. Your mother might have mentioned it; Hogwarts?”

“That’s a funny name for a school, never heard of it. Besides,” he puffs up proudly, “I’m going to Smeltings. Just like Dad.”

Professor McGonagall smiles thinly.

“While I’m sure… Smeltings… would be lovely, Hogwarts caters to students with certain special skills. Tell me, has anything strange ever happened around you, particularly when you are upset or angry? Something you can’t explain?”

Startled by the question, Dudley pauses to think, memories trickling into his mind. Getting frustrated trying to reach a packet of biscuits on the shelf and having the box slide forward into his hand – but surely he just stretched a little bit further. Throwing a tantrum, and having things fall off a shelf on the other side of the room – but it must have been just his feet making the floor shake. Playing Harry Hunting and knowing exactly where his cousin is hiding – but the freak is just predictable like that.

Before he realises it, his thoughts are led into a new set of memories. Harry Hunting again, but his quarry vanishes, only to reappear on the school rooftop. A dropped glass shattering on the kitchen floor, then the shards flying back together and reforming in Harry’s hand. His cousin making a strange hissing sound as a snake slithers through a window that moments ago was filled with glass.

“No, never. That was always Harry.”

Even as he speaks the memories continue to unroll, the scenes detailing the consequences that inevitably followed such incidents. He remembers his father, face purple with anger, throwing his cousin into his cupboard and locking the door. He remembers his mother, shouting about the boy’s freakishness and ‘not in this house, don’t you dare’. He remembers just a few hours ago, and the sound of leather hitting flesh, punctuated by his cousin’s cries of pain.

The blood drains from his face. The freak deserved it, of course, after all he is just that; a freak. But this woman is trying to say that he is a freak too. He backs away from her and her life-destroying letter, shaking his head in denial.

“No. No, it can’t be. I’m not a freak, I’m not. That’s Harry, not me. He’s the one who does the freaky stuff, I’m normal. Mum, please, you have to believe me! I don’t do that stuff. It’s a trick, all that freak’s fault. You have to tell dad that it’s not me, I’m not a freak. I’m not! Never! Not a freak!”

Minerva watches in shock as the boy before her launches into full blown hysterics. She has seen a variety of reactions when muggleborns discover magic, but never something like this. And this was supposed to be an easy visit. A brief thought niggles at her mind and she wonders how Harry Potter fits into this view of magic. The pitch and volume rises and she winces, the light above flickering as the boy’s magic swirls through the room. The letter in her hand starts to vibrate and her eyes widen as she sees the name, one moment reading Mr Dudley Dursley, the next, Mr Harry Potter, and back again. She is drawing her wand, trying to think of the best way to calm the situation when it suddenly stops, the eye of the storm. Then the magic is moving again. Draining from the room, not back towards the blond boy collapsing on the ground, but away, leaving him an empty void to her senses.

Appearing in the doorway, Petunia stares at her son for a moment, lying on the floor, then spins to face her.

“You! What have you done to my Dudders? How dare you! You freaks are all the same, using your freaky powers to push around us normal people. What did you do to my son? Tell me! Undo it!”

Realising her wand is still raised, Minerva waves it at the woman, sending her to lie unconscious beside her son. It is not strictly ethical for her to use magic in such a way, but something is not right, and the woman’s screeching is not helping her to think.

First things first. She casts a diagnostic spell on the boy to make sure he was not harmed by his outburst. Elevated heartbeat, now slowing back to normal, slight bruise where an elbow hit the floor, magic levels… She reads it again. Zero. After a display like that she expected some magical exhaustion, but not to such an extent. Even muggles have some latent power, absorbed from their surroundings, but this boy seems to be actively rejecting it, forcing it away.

She looks down at the letter, somehow still held in her hand. The house address is the same as before, but the first two lines have changed.

Mr Harry Potter The Cupboard Under the Stairs

Only two lines, but the implications… The fact that Potter’s name has replaced Dursley’s. That he apparently spent the previous night sleeping in a cupboard, of all places. That, despite the commotion, he has not yet revealed his presence in the house, although the wards indicate he should be here. Something is not right here; she is missing something.

But there are more urgent matters to attend to before she can focus on finding Potter. She can still feel the last of the Dursley boy’s magic draining from the room, clearly being drawn towards something. And she had better find out what it is. Because with such a strong concentration of magic being uncontrolled like this, it would be far too easy to overload even a previously magical object. And trying to clean up the mess of the aftereffects of that is more hassle than she really wants to deal with. Particularly if she has the opportunity to help stabilise the power and nip any problems in the bud. Of course, if it is a human drawing the magic – either deliberately or unconsciously – it all depends on who and why.

These thoughts in mind, she focuses on her magic sense, following the fading trail back into the front hallway and towards the stairs. Starting to climb, she pauses. The magic is not going up the stairs, but into them. Or rather – she peers over the banister, seeing the expected door just below her – under them.

Walking around to face it, she frowns at the padlock securing the bolt. Depending on what is stored under there (cleaning supplies seems like the most obvious answer, or spare linens), perhaps it is simply to keep out inquisitive ten-year-olds. Merlin knows she understands the challenges inherent in that, but it obviously can’t be that effective if Harry was able to sneak in there last night. However, regardless of its effectiveness on small children, a simple padlock is no barrier to a fully-trained witch on a mission. A quick alohomora, and the padlock snaps open. It is the work of a moment to unbolt the door and swing it open.

Oh.

She sees at last what her mind had been picking at. The source behind all the little hints of not-right.

Yes, there are cleaning supplies on shelves against the back wall, but there are also battered trainers lying on the floor. And the worn blanket is not folded away, but spread over a mat on the floor. And on the ‘bed’… Well. Apparently the lock is not to keep a pair of children out, but to keep one particular child in.

She must make some sort of noise, because the figure curled on the blanket tenses, messy dark-haired head rising from where it was buried in thin arms. Her breath catches as green eyes (so familiar, but not) meet her own. They are red-rimmed from recent crying, the evidence dried on his cheeks. A movement causes his ratty and overlarge t-shirt to slip and she sees the reason for his tears; a swollen red welt curling forward over his shoulder. From the grimace as he moves, it is one of several.

“Harry?”

It is no more than a whisper, but the child takes it as a question, nodding and ducking his head.

“Yes, ma’am. Who- ?”

He cuts himself off, but the half-spoken question is enough to start to drive her brain back into gear. Shocked and worried, she retreats into her familiar Professor persona.

“I am Professor McGonagall, deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” She sighs mentally at his blank look. Given what happened earlier, she doesn’t know why she should be surprised, but it appears that he will need the full Muggleborn introduction in addition to an overview of his specific circumstances. “Hogwarts is a school for learning magic.”

“You can’t say that word! And besides, m- that stuff isn’t real anyway.”

“Let me put this another way. Have strange things ever happened around you, particularly when you are angry or upset?”

“Of course, but that is just my freakishness. I try not to, honest! But it just happens.” Suddenly he gasps. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, a moment ago. Really! But the air got all buzzy, then it sort of filled me up, and I didn’t mean it to, I swear!”

Minerva grimaces slightly. Well, that answers several questions - including where the Dursley boy’s magic went - but it opens the door to a whole slew of new ones.

“That ‘buzzing’ feeling is magic. Hogwarts will teach you how to control and direct it, so you know exactly when and how it is working.” She pauses for a moment, then nods decisively. “Normally, school starts on the first of September, however given the range of circumstances, I believe it would be best for you to gain a head start before the beginning of term. Gather any personal items you wish to keep; you will be returning to Hogwarts with me for the rest of the summer. There is much work to be done, familiarising yourself with your new world before your classmates arrive.”

Leaving the confused – but smiling – boy to his packing, she returns to the sitting room. Looking at the woman still collapsed on the floor she takes a deep breath, struggling to control her emotions, then waves her wand once more. Perhaps she should have just left her there until the official Obliviators arrive, but she feels unable to leave without some comment, and better it comes in the form of words than a curse.

Petunia’s eyes flutter, then open fully, fixing on the witch’s glowing wand-tip.

“Mrs Dursley,” Minerva’s voice is pleasant, but does not quite cover the steel and icy anger beneath, “I apologise, for the intrusion. It appears that you do not in fact have a magical child residing with you at the present moment. My condolences to you and your son. I and Mr Potter shall take our leave.”

A final twitch of her wand, and Petunia falls unconscious again, Minerva already turning away. She collects Harry from the hallway, small and battered bag clutched in his arms, and they walk out the front door.

Some hours later, a pair of strange robed figures appear, the missing family member in tow. They wave around sticks of wood, then depart; leaving memories muffled in their wake.

Dudley’s final gift on his eleventh birthday, is forgetting.