Chapter 17
On the 31st of July, early in the morning, Harry Potter walked up from Little Whinging Station, the canvas bag for his tent slung over his shoulder. He was eating a bacon sandwich. One of Mrs Figg's cats came out to greet him, and he slipped it a small piece of bacon. He didn't particularly like being back here, but it wasn't the cat's fault, and he had enough food now that he could afford to share. He hadn't gone hungry since before the Hogwarts letter. He was just about to start getting the tent set up in the back garden, when the kitchen door opened, and Dudley came out. The two boys stared at each other for what felt like a long time, then Dudley spoke.
"Harry. Hello," he said. Harry stared some more. Dudley was being polite. "Look - er," Dudley ground to a halt and tried again. "Mum told me what was happening, and I eavesdropped a bit, too. I - er - I don't like it."
"You don't?" said Harry blankly.
"No, I don't!" said Dudley, more energy coming into his voice. "They're my sisters, aren't they. Only they won't be. Look. It's not right. You weren't here at Easter. Mum went from doting on them like she does on me to treating them like they had the plague. It just felt wrong. They're her daughters."
"I'm her nephew," said Harry wearily. "That doesn't always mean much."
"And Dad was worse," said Dudley. "You should have seen him. He won't even come back here until the girls have gone. He never wants to see them again. Daisy threw him halfway across a restaurant. He threatened divorce and everything."
"Yeah, your mum said," said Harry. "What do you actually want, Dudley? There's people coming at eleven you probably don't want to be here for."
"I know," said Dudley, looking miserable. "I told Mum I came to make sure my stuff was properly packed, but I came to see you, really. She said I had to be gone by half ten. But I've got, like, stuff to say."
"Like what?"
"Like I know you're taking the girls. That you'll be in charge of them now. Which is silly, you're younger than me, but apparently that other place has weird rules that makes it OK. And mum just wants rid of them, so I suppose they're better off with you. But it's not right." Harry looked impatient. "Look, I, er - I don't want to never see them again. Um. Have you got email?"
"No," said Harry. "I don't even know how that works, beyond that it's a computer thing, and I've never used a computer." Dudley looked baffled. "Well, it's not like you'd ever have let me use yours."
"Right." said Dudley. Harry sighed.
"Fine," he said. "Go and get a pen and a couple of bits of paper. Write me out a postal address for Smeltings. My school - Hogwarts - has a normal address, that you can just write to using ordinary post, so people can write there even if they don't know what kind of school their friend or grandchild or whatever goes to. Or about - you know - special abilities." What had Petunia done to him, he thought, that he was actually frightened to use the word 'magic' in this place. What was he doing, offering to become Dudley's penpal.
"I don't like writing letters," said Dudley, grumpily.
"Well, I can't use email," said Harry. "I'm at school most of the year, and we don't even have computers there. If you want to stay in touch, you're going to need to write. I'll let you know how the girls are doing. They can draw you pictures or whatever. If it goes OK, maybe we can arrange to meet in the holidays some time. Maybe you can teach me how to use a computer. I'm not saying I'll never email you. Just I won't be able to for a while."
"Fine, deal," said Dudley, still looking morose. "I still don't like it, you know. This whole situation. It's not right."
"None of it was ever right, Dudley," said Harry. "Not the way they treated me, or the way they treated you. Or the thing with the twins."
"You mean, that they spoiled me and let me get fat?" said Dudley. Harry goggled a little. He still couldn't quite believe this new, improved Dudley. Who, come to think of it, was taller, but not actually any fatter than he had been last year, and Dudley had been getting steadily fatter ever since Harry could remember.
"Yes, exactly, that," said Harry. "And they trained you to be a bully. But you seem different now. And you've lost a bit of weight."
"Thanks," said Dudley. "It's rough, but I'm trying. I don't want - I always thought Mum and Dad were great, you know. That we were a normal family. I was proud every time somebody said I was like Dad, or I would grow up to be like him. But I don't want that any more." Harry almost bit back the reply, normal families don't keep children in cupboards, or starve them, or beat them with belts, or have them doing most of the housework before they hit double figures. Then he figured, what the hell, and said it. It felt terrifying. It felt good.
"I suppose they don't," said Dudley. "I never would have thought of that, you know, before."
"Normal kids, one sibling hits another, the parents tell them off. They don't encourage it." Harry didn't know if he could stop.
"Sorry about that," said Dudley. "I didn't know any better. I wish I had. I mean, you're not my brother. But you could have been like my brother, if Mum and Dad had been different. Behaved more normally." That brought Harry up sharp, trying to imagine a world that might have been so very different.
"I think you've had it for 'brother,'" he said. "I spent my whole childhood being beaten up by you. And having you get me into trouble, just because you could. Going hungry while you ate. Not being allowed to do well at school, because I'd be in trouble if I did better than you, and you-" He stopped himself from saying 'were really thick'. "You weren't very good at schoolwork, and didn't try." Dudley looked crestfallen, and Harry actually felt sorry for him. "But things change. You've changed. And I get to leave your parents behind forever, and you're stuck with them until you turn eighteen. So I suppose even if you're never going to be my brother, you might make a decent penpal. And I won't keep you from your sisters. You can still be their brother."
"Thanks, Harry," said Dudley. "I'll get that pen and paper."
"See if you can find a picture of you and the twins," said Harry. "So they remember what you look like when they next see you."
From behind the garden gate, a large, black dog watched the two boys, aghast at the contents of their conversation. Padfoot whined. He just wanted to make sure his pup was all right, just to catch a glimpse of him, before going to Hogwarts to lurk in wait for the Rat. Make him pay. But his pup was not all right. His pup had been beaten, had gone hungry. There was so much pain and anger in his voice, hidden under so much weariness. His pup should be happy. When the fat boy left in a taxi, Padfoot edged closer, whined. The pup looked wary. Padfoot's pup shouldn't be frightened of him. He whined again, hunched down, submissive. Showed his throat. Sniffed hopefully. Stared up at him. Cautiously, Harry held out a hand, petted him. Padfoot was happy.
"Good boy," said Harry, sounding somewhat more cheerful. "You're a good boy, aren't you, not like Ripper. No, you're more like Fang, my friend Hagrid's dog." Padfoot wagged his tail. He remembered Hagrid. "Fang's a big dog, even bigger than you, and he looks scary, but he's very sweet really." Padfoot wagged his tail some more. He could be sweet. When Harry noticed how thin and dirty Padfoot was, Padfoot dutifully followed Harry into his tent, let Harry feed him and bathe him. It didn't occur to him to wonder what his godson was doing with a magical tent in the back garden of a muggle house.
"I can't keep you, mind," said Harry, firmly. "I already have an owl. But if you want to have a rest in here for a couple of hours, you can." Clean, and with a full stomach, Padfoot turned around three times on the bedroom floor, and fell asleep. It smelled like his pup, just a little bit.