Unfortunate Circumstances

Chapter Four

Vernon slid down the wall, gulping and coughing. With a thud, he sat down on the floor. Gingerly patting his neck, he was amazed to find that the skin wasn't even broken. He opened his mouth like a bird, breathing deep, shaky breaths. He closed his eyes. The whole encounter had lasted less than five minutes, but seemed much longer. He felt lucky to be alive.

He sat there, gasping, not thinking, just happy his neck hadn't been twisted off like that of a chicken. Then, all at once, in shock, his eyes snapped open.

Harry had told!

He couldn't believe it. Harry had told! How else would Hagrid know? Harry had broken their agreement. Now he'd done it!

Shaking, Vernon quickly scrambled to his feet. Now he had really gone and done it! What would happen now?

And what had the boy said to the staff at the hospital?

What to do? What could he do? What could they do? Petunia would be furious. He began to pace. Calm down and think. His head pounded as he rubbed it. Contrary to his own popular opinion, he was not known as the intellect in the family. There had to be an answer, a way out. Think.

A memory came, unbidden. Once, in the last year or two, he and Petunia had talked, late one night, after one of those evenings when Harry had gotten out of line. For Harry, that had become increasingly common now that he had gotten older. They had talked about how nice - how normal - it would be without Harry around. Without Harry, or, indeed, any of them around.

Like the Weasleys... The Dursleys had been forced to put up with them, too. They despised their tromping through the house, coming to their windows, even going down their fireplace. How they made trouble with their strange clothes, their chatter, and their abnormal ways.

And how, every time they came, one or two of the family would try to tell them, before the boy could stop them, about Harry's adventures. About how great he was in that warped, upside-down world of his. As though any of that mattered. None of it mattered in the least.

******

Just then, still before dawn, back at the emergency room, the Weasley named Ron and his friend Harry were making plans for the day. As they got ready to leave, they agreed that first, Ron would drop Harry off at his house, to finish up with the garage and pack. Then Ron would meet Hagrid from where he was staying at the Leaky Cauldron, pick up the rest of his family there, and come back.

"It's a good thing we were still able to expand this old car," Ron said, laughing. "We'll certainly need the extra room today."

All Ron himself knew how to do with a car was to drive it. Once Harry had asked him how he had gotten his license so young. "License? What license?" he had answered then, indignantly. "I've been driving since I was twelve!"

He was in a much better mood. Harry was okay, even though he had needed stitches, which would have been fascinating to Ron had the procedure not been so primitive. Additionally, Ron had spoken privately to Hagrid again. He had to admit to himself that those things called telephones could prove to be quite useful - once one got the, er, hang of them.

"I can't wait to get back," Ron said in a rush. "We certainly have a lot going on this year." "Especially Quidditch," Harry agreed. "We have to help get the team ready. I wish I was there right now."

Ron looked out the window. "It's still dark out," he mused. "Still early. If you're lucky, your uncle will be at home asleep. Maybe you won't even see him." Maybe he won't bother you any more, Ron thought.

******

Standing in the living room, Harry's Uncle Vernon was remembering.

The other evening, he and Petunia had discussed, of course laughingly, of course not seriously, how easy it would be. How they could, hypothetically, pretend the "wizard boy" had gone crazy. Everyone knew they were all unstable, especially this one. If only half the things they had heard from the Weasleys had really happened, it would even make sense. It had just been a matter of time.

He thought about it, about what he might be able to say. The orphan boy had attacked him. Vernon could tell them he had been forced to protect himself. That the evil brat had tried to bewitch the hospital workers. He could say he'd been afraid for his whole family. He could even tell the authorities about all the other times the boy had terrorized them. His sister, poor Dudley, the explosion, and the others.

He looked over at the cupboard, warming to the idea. It would be easy, really. He could arrange the potions and spells, the herbs and the broom, just right, and even plant that accursed wand. He could leave the blood on the wall, too - in fact, it would be better for it to be there, to show self-defense. He might even get what was left of the lamp and knock it back down. Maybe in one of those awful books, he'd find a curse.

Walking back and forth, towel forgotten in his pocket, Vernon considered further. It seemed that his better judgment had left town with the rest of his family.

Things at home might be a little confusing for a bit, he acknowledged, but then they would calm back down. He would have Hagrid arrested for threatening. He'd do the same if anyone else from their world showed up. They wouldn't be able to perform their magic here; he'd see to that. He might even be called a hero, for saving the neighborhood and all.

It could work, Vernon told himself. Without another story - without another voice to contradict his - he thought he could convince them. After all, he thought, without Harry around, whom else would they believe?

The house was almost eerily silent. Later on, those close to Vernon would realize that, on that day, something in him had snapped. No one knew how close he had come before, and no one was there to stop him now, or to talk sense into the eldest Dursley. Occasionally the cuckoo clock on the wall would chime. Even it was hitting an off note, as if in fear.

A part of Vernon did wish that Harry hadn't gone and told. Things would have been much simpler the way they were. But now, head spinning, he felt that he had little choice. He couldn't have nurses and doctors and such rattling around, questioning him about all those years. And the family would finally have some peace.

Vernon was amazed, he thought, at how easy it would be. It was the only way. He made his decision.

******

Harry nodded, then frowned. "My head hurts," the past victor over Voldemort said slowly. Suddenly he laughed, relieved. "At least it's just my head. It's not the scar."

If Ron had been a seventh son, a member of that magical lineup in nature predisposed and prophesized toward becoming clairvoyant, right about then his inner psychic would have been screaming at him about their next destination. However, he wasn't, so it didn't.

******

Headache forgotten, Vernon ran upstairs. He didn't have much time. To find his gun cabinet, and to wait.