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Harry Potter and the Junior Year Abroad
Who Are You And What Have You Done With Dudley?
By Ishtar
Chapter One
Who Are You And What Have You Done With Dudley?
Rain pattered across the windows of number four, Privet Drive, and the teenaged boy in the small upstairs bedroom looked out uneasily. He was a slim young man of slightly better than average height, with a shock of unruly black hair and green eyes hidden behind glasses with seriously unfashionable frames. A lock of hair falling across his forehead almost, but not quite, concealed a distinctive lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. He wore a faded T-shirt which had apparently been purchased for someone much larger in frame than he, and a pair of patched jeans far too wide for him, cinched tight with a worn leather belt. His name was Harry Potter, and he was not happy to see the change in the weather. Last year had been one of almost solid drought, and this summer had been little better. There had been just enough rain to green up the yards and gardens a bit, but not enough to fill the streams or replenish the reservoirs, so water restrictions remained in place. Until now, Harry and his cousin, Dudley Dursley, had been able to avoid each other. Harry woke early, to do chores for Aunt Petunia in the morning, and escape for the afternoon, usually about the time Dudley managed to drag his carcass out of bed. Harry had no idea where Dudley was going these days; he'd seen the various members of Dudley's old gang about town, but Dudley was not with them, and his friend Piers Polkiss seemed to have taken over the leadership role. Harry had no idea what (or even whether) Dudley had told them about last year's encounter with the dementor in the alley, but they pointedly ignored Harry, and he stayed away from them in return.
In truth, the Dursleys hadn't been too much of a problem this summer. The warning given to them by Moody at the train station had had a quelling effect for all of about three days, after which the fright wore off and Uncle Vernon, anyway, was back to his usual bluster. During those three days, however, some things changed. Dudley decided he needed his second room back to house a new computer desk, and Harry was moved into the guest room. It wasn't needed during the summer since Aunt Marge had been the only regular guest and she didn't visit when Harry was home any more. This meant that Harry now had a larger, more comfortable bed, an actual closet, and Dudley's old desk on which to do his homework. It also meant that he lost his hidden space under the loose floorboard where he'd kept things, but he was now allowed to keep his trunk in his room to make up for it. He was allowed to do his summer homework, to read his textbooks, and to keep a window open so Hedwig could go out to hunt when she wanted, on the condition that there was "none of that funny stuff" in the house. He still had to put up with the humiliation of the cat flap in the door, since Uncle Vernon made him swap the doors and move the deadbolt between the two rooms, but at least neither the locks nor the flap had been used so far this summer.
Dudley was now on some sort of training diet, which involved moderate portions of lean meats and whole grains, lots of fresh vegetables, and no sugar or white flour. As usual, if Dudley was on a diet, the rest of the family adhered to it as well, which meant, on the whole, that everyone was eating much better than the previous summers. Harry still got the scorched chop, the overripe tomatoes, the wilted lettuce, and the smallest potato, but he was used to that.
Even the housework situation had lightened. Most weekday mornings, he was simply handed a list of chores, and what got done got done and what wasn't done was the start of the next day's list. It was only when Uncle Vernon was home on the weekends that things were unpleasant.
Frankly, Harry didn't mind the work. It kept his mind off other things. It kept his mind off Sirius. Off Dumbledore. Off Voldemort and Bellatrix and a whole laundry list of things he hadn't wanted to think about at the beginning of the summer. Now, a month into the holiday, he'd begun to get some perspective on the events in the Department of Ministries — enough to put the majority of the blame for Sirius' death where it belonged: on Voldemort's skinny shoulders. Harry had started off by taking the lions' share of the blame for himself, since Sirius wouldn't have died if he hadn't fallen for Voldemort's trick and gone haring off to the Ministry on the ill-fated rescue mission. And in the middle of the night, it was still all too easy to think it was all his fault. But he'd started parcelling out some of the responsibility to Snape, some to Dumbledore, a large chunk to Bellatrix Lestrange, some to Sirius himself for doing exactly the same thing in coming to rescue him, and the majority to Voldemort for luring them all to the Ministry in the first place. The share he kept for himself was a bearable pain, and reminded him not to be such an idiot again.
Harry spent many of the afternoons visiting with Mrs. Arabella Figg, who lived on Wisteria Walk, not far away. When he was a child, visiting with Mrs. Figg (and her multiple cats) was pretty close to the bottom of his list of things he'd like to do, but since finding out that the old woman was not only a Squib but a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and had been watching out for him all those years, his feelings had changed and he now stopped by regularly to check in with her. Not only did this fulfil the conditions Professor Moody had set down, that he report in to them periodically or else Privet Drive would be the scene of a major Wizard incursion, but it got him out of the Dursley house, where things had been getting increasingly tense. Mrs. Figg was getting on in years, and Harry found himself doing many little things around the house for her. Somehow doing the basic housekeeping and gardening was not as onerous when he was doing it for someone he liked. Mrs. Figg, for her part, kept her pantry filled with all sorts of treats, both Wizardly and Muggle, to tempt Harry's appetite — she thought he was far too thin for a boy his age. He was not quite as thin as she thought, for hidden under Dudley's old T-shirt was the frame of a young athlete. Despite his ban on playing Quidditch at school last year, Harry had kept up with his training exercises, just in case he might be able to play again, and at the age of almost sixteen, he was beginning to develop his adult musculature. But such growth needed to be fed, and so he was not about to turn down Mrs. Figg's plentiful offers of sandwiches, cakes and biscuits.
But with the rain coming down this afternoon, welcome though it was for the garden, Aunt Petunia wouldn't be letting either Harry or Dudley out of the house, for fear they'd track mud all over her pristine floors when they returned. She had always been house-proud, but apparently had become even more fixated on cleanliness and tidiness than ever before during the last year. The lounge was spotless, the dining room gleamed, and the kitchen would have done a surgery theatre proud. No, this afternoon would be spent helping her, as the mornings were, and then probably this evening too, scrubbing and rescrubbing any surface that dared to have a speck of dust on it. Dudley, he was sure, would wind up sitting around making messes that Harry would have to clean up. At least Uncle Vernon would not be burdening them with his presence. He had been working late every night for the past few weeks, and Harry had thankfully seen even less of him than he had of Dudley.
Harry was on his hands and knees in the downstairs bath scrubbing its already pristine fixtures when he heard Dudley come kerthump kerthump kerthump down the stairs. Aunt Petunia was humming to herself in the kitchen, as she often did when she was fixing lunch for her poor starving Duddikins. Harry expected to hear Dudley slam his way into the kitchen and turn the television on, but instead Dudley's heavy steps turned toward the bathroom and his wide shadow fell across Harry, who was extremely displeased to be caught in such a demeaning (and vulnerable) position. "Erm. Harry?" Dudley's voice had a hesitant tone, something Harry wasn't at all used to hearing.
"Dudley." He kept his own tone cool and neutral, while continuing to scrub the pipes under the sink.
"Can I talk to you later, Harry? When you're done, I mean … I don't want my Mum to get annoyed at you."
Even from his awkward position, Harry managed to turn and gape at Dudley. This was the first time Dudley had ever said anything that showed any concern for Harry or the way Aunt Petunia treated him. Dudley was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, the tension in his face belying his casual pose. There was no trace of his usual viciousness. Harry realized it was the first time he had made eye contact with Dudley, indeed the first time he had really looked at him, all summer. Dudley was truly huge now, but not with the massive rolls of fat that had characterized him as a child. Between his working out for the boxing team, and a late growth spurt, he now stood well over six feet tall and was as solid as a brick wall. He massed easily twice what Harry did. But since last summer, he seemed to have started taking more care of his appearance; he was dressed in a neat style that didn't scream "thug" at the top of its lungs, and his blond curls were shorter and neatly trimmed. Almost with a start, Harry realized that Dudley was waiting for an answer. "Yeah, sure, after you've had lunch and I'm done here. Is that all right?"
Dudley smiled widely, a smile with no deceit or cruelty in it, which looked totally out of place on his face. "Great! Come on upstairs to my second room when you're free." He heaved his bulk off the doorframe and vanished in the general direction of the kitchen; Harry heard him greet his mother with his customary greeting of "What's for lunch?" before the television clicked on to mask any further conversation. Harry shook his head in puzzlement and returned his attention to the pipes.
Harry finished off the downstairs bath and took his time with the upstairs one, deliberately delaying until he heard Dudley coming back up. He had carefully calculated the time span he should wait before joining Dudley. Too soon, and he would seem anxious and Dudley might feel rushed; too late, and Dudley would be angry for being kept waiting. Figuring out Dudley-times was a skill Harry had honed to razor sharpness over the years. Cautiously, he rapped on the closed door to Dudley's second room, the one he used to store all his extra "stuff." Dudley opened it rapidly and practically pulled Harry in, sticking his head out into the hall to check that they hadn't been seen before closing the door again silently. Harry stood warily in the centre of the room. Dudley was acting very strange, and while he'd never actually tried to beat Harry up in the house, there was always a first time for everything. Harry didn't like being trapped in such close confines with his cousin.
"Here, here, sit!" said Dudley, pulling a chair away from the wall. He plopped himself down on the bed, the mattress sagging under his bulk.
Harry sat as directed, not at all sure what was going on, and seriously wishing he carried his wand with him in the house, regardless of the strictures on Underage Use of Magic. Dudley shifted nervously. "Harry, I, um … I'm not very good at talking about stuff so I don't know how this is going to sound, but … well, first of all, I want to thank you for saving me last summer when those things, you know …"
"The dementors?"
Dudley shuddered at the mention. "Yeah, them. Mum told me, later, when you were gone and I started to feel better again, what they were and what you had done. I know they were after you and I know you didn't have to save me and you got in a lot of trouble for what you did … even if I don't know the details, I just wanted to thank you."
"You're welcome." Harry was still unsure where this unprecedented soul-baring was going, so kept his reply as short and non-committal as possible.
"It took a while … a long while … before I started to feel better again. For a while I didn't think I'd ever be happy again. And then when I did start to get better, I realized that I'd never been really happy in the first place. I mean, if you look at it, I've got all this …" Dudley waved at the stacks of his possessions on the shelves. "But it's all just stuff. It didn't make me happy. And food didn't make me happy. And pushing people around never made me happy. So I've been working on it … with some people … and I've finally been learning how to be happy." Harry quirked an eyebrow. Dudley in therapy, who would have thought it?
"One of the things that I've learned is that in order to be happy, you have to try to help other people be happy." Dudley leaned forward seriously. "I've really, really been trying to make this work. It's hard. I really have to think about it sometimes … it's so easy to go back to just banging things up. Mum and Dad don't understand it, they just pretend like nothing ever happened, and go on the old way. I'll have to work on them, I suppose. And then there's you."
"Me?"
"Well, I know I've spent most of my life making you unhappy. And Mum and Dad … I can't apologize for them, but I can apologize for myself. I'm sorry."
"You'll pardon me if I say that doesn't exactly make up for the last fifteen years."
"I know it doesn't. I don't expect you to forgive me, or to trust me. I haven't given you a reason to do either. I just want you to know that I'm trying to change, and why." Dudley got up and crossed to one of the shelves. "Anyway, I wanted to give you something. It's little enough, but … I remember last year you kept trying to listen to the news on the telly, and my Dad kept shouting at you … I still don't know why you'd want to watch the news, of all things, but …" Dudley shrugged and pulled down a small television set from one of the shelves. "Here. This is small enough you can hide it in your room so my Dad doesn't find out. He's paid the license fees for it, and he'll keep on paying them as long as he thinks I'm using it." He thrust the television at Harry, who took it automatically. "Oh, and here …" Dudley fished a brown paper bag out of a desk drawer. "This is a little earphone thingy for it … so Dad won't hear it when it's on." He tucked the bag on top of the television. "It's early, but … Happy Birthday, Harry." As if embarrassed by his unwonted display of generosity, he mumbled something about being late, and rushed out of the room, leaving Harry, still holding the television set, gaping in his wake.
Harry was not at all sure what to do about the unusual "gift." Was it really a gift? Perhaps a joke? Or a trap? Would Dudley come storming into his room later in the day, accusing him of theft and ready to give him a good whomping? Perhaps he should just put it back on the shelf … and that's exactly what he did. He did take a good long look at the contents of the room, which had been rearranged in the past few weeks. The spare bed was made, the new computer desk was actually visible instead of buried under the documentation for a zillion computer games, and there were no half-consumed soft drinks balanced precariously over the computer keyboard. Outdated toys were organized on the shelves that covered one wall, and there seemed to be far fewer of them nowadays than there used to be. Aunt Petunia must have been busy in here, as well as in the rest of the house. Harry left the bag with the earphones on the shelf next to the TV, and hurried out, lest his thought of her conjure up her presence.
From downstairs there came a slamming sound as the front door shut. Dudley had gone, rain or no rain, and Harry didn't see him for the rest of the day.
0o0o0o0o0o0
The next day's duty was weeding the flowerbeds in both the front and back gardens. The rain had left the soil thoroughly moist, and the little weed sprouts came out easily. Harry actually didn't mind weeding much. Some of the little sprouts were plants he'd learned about in Herbology, and not a few were good basic potion components. Anyplace else, they'd be valued herbs; here they were weeds. Poor little plants. He kind of sympathized with them. He wondered if herbs grown in a Dursley yard would make potions good for anything other than giving one a stomach ache. The downside to weeding was that the knees of his jeans were soaked through from kneeling on the wet lawn, and the sun was beating harshly down on the back of his neck.
The other downside was the likelihood of Dudley catching him on his knees again. He was working on the bed of impatiens (red and white, spaced alternately and pinch-pruned to within an inch of their lives into a neat checkerboard pattern) in the back garden when Dudley came out of the kitchen door. Harry kept his head down as he worked, deliberately not looking up at his cousin, but keeping Dudley's feet in his peripheral vision. He didn't want to be "accidentally" kicked - again. Dudley's ham fists came into view … one carrying a glass of lemonade and the other a paper plate with a ham sandwich. Dudley put the food down next to Harry, went back into the kitchen, and came out with another glass and plate. He had a huge grin on his face, and Harry thought his eyes glittered a little oddly. He sat down on the grass nearby and tucked in to his own sandwich. "Go on, eat!" he urged Harry.
"Thank you, but I'm not hungry."
"Don't worry, I haven't done anything to it."
"Not like blowing bogies in the sandwich or spitting in the lemonade?"
"We were six! And I only did it the once!"
"That's because I never accepted anything you gave me after that."
Dudley finished his sandwich in silence. Harry kept on weeding. Finally, Dudley got to his feet and went back in the house with his empty glass and plate. Harry kept weeding, and after a while his stomach decided to make sure that he noticed the sandwich. Cautiously, he picked up the plate, and took the sandwich apart. There didn't seem to be anything suspicious in it. Everything looked fresh — no bogies or doubtful substances pretending to be mayonnaise. Suddenly ravenous, he put the sandwich back together and ate it, washing it down with the lemonade. He tore up the paper plate afterwards and tucked it in the bottom of the compost bin, then went in to rinse the glass.
0o0o0o0o0o0
Weekends were the worst. Uncle Vernon was home on the weekends, instead of going in to the office. He tended to alternate between periods when he behaved relatively normally — "normally" meaning sitting morosely in the lounge, his moustache twitching as he watched endless sports shows on the telly — and periods of extended shouting at Harry, blaming him for everything from the state of the economy to the weather. It was "BOY!" this and "BOY!" that, and even Dudley stayed out of his way at those times.
On Saturday morning, Harry discovered that something had been pushed through the cat-flap in his bedroom door. It was that television set again, along with the headphones, and a note attached. "I really mean it — this is yours." Harry sighed, and hid it in the back of the closet. If he could keep it hidden for the next two days, he could put it back in Dudley's room on Monday. Then his birthday was on Wednesday — surely he could count on getting notes, at least, from his friends — that was something to look forward to — and then there would only be one more long, endless month before heading back to school.
As usual, Harry cooked breakfast — after this many years he was practically a specialist in eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast. Aunt Petunia cleaned up after him, practically jerking the pans out of his hands the instant he'd finished serving the food out onto the plates. She sat down long enough to gulp her eggs, but when Uncle Vernon started in about how Harry had burned the toast ("You lot just don't understand about rye bread!"), she leaped to her feet and started wiping up the counter. Harry was watching her idly while listening to Uncle Vernon with half an ear, when suddenly the salt and pepper shakers, instead of waiting on the countertop to be put into their proper places, slid into their spots and aligned themselves precisely with the S and P facing exactly front. An instant later, Aunt Petunia's dishrag swept across the place where they had been. Harry blinked. He couldn't have just seen that. He looked again. The shakers remained properly motionless, but he could swear the ketchup had just positioned itself so as to show its label at best advantage. Who knew ketchup was female? he thought, rather inanely, before catching himself. "BOY! Are you listening to me?" bellowed Uncle Vernon in his ear.
"Actually, Uncle … no." Uncle Vernon turned a nasty shade of puce as Harry stood up and started scooping dirty dishes off the table. "Here, Aunt Petunia, let me finish that." Gently, he took the rag away from her.
She looked at him almost blankly for a second, then turned briskly to another task. Uncle Vernon hollered about how the lawn wanted mowing. Dudley sat in his chair and grinned that manic grin while lavishly smearing butter over his last piece of toast. Harry set to washing and rinsing the dishes, his body working automatically while his mind turned the mystery over and over. If he'd been at Hogwarts, he would have thought nothing of the condiments putting themselves away. But he wasn't at Hogwarts; he was in Little Whinging, the very epicentre of thundering mundanity. Somehow he found the behaviour of the ketchup bottle more threatening than he had the arrival of the dementors the year before, and he wondered what interest either Voldemort or the Ministry for Magic would have in the pepper shaker. Or was there another answer? He wished he knew.
Harry spent the rest of Saturday (when he wasn't employed on Uncle Vernon's makework jobs, like cleaning out the garage) keeping an eye on Aunt Petunia. It wasn't until the mid-afternoon, when she returned from doing the marketing, that he saw something else strange, in this case the groceries neatening themselves up on the shelves as Petunia packed them away. He was reminded, abruptly, of Tonks' comment when she and the other members of the Order of the Phoenix came to get him last year: "Funny place. It's a bit too clean, d'you know what I mean? Bit unnatural." Harry had attributed a lot of the home's hypercleanliness to his own efforts, but he now realized that it was like this even when he was not here. Aunt Petunia by herself would not be able to maintain this level of precision, no, and Dudley and Vernon were not exactly the types to help out … but Aunt Petunia — and magic? Just a little? Harry didn't get to sleep until the wee hours that night, and when he did sleep, his dreams were haunted by little bottles of cleanser following him and scrubbing up his footprints.
Sunday Harry spent with Mrs. Figg. Uncle Vernon had awakened in an even more angry frame of mind than usual, and had progressed from blaming Harry for the late delivery of the Sunday paper to the deplorable way his favourite football team was playing. Mrs. Figg's place, even with its redolent odour of cats, was vastly preferable to the Dursley home, so he escaped as soon as possible after doing the breakfast dishes. He helped her clean the kitty boxes, which helped tremendously with the odour problem, and then mowed her lawn, after which she made a luncheon of overstuffed sandwiches, snack chips, and a variety of little pastries for dessert, all washed down with glasses of cold milk. She fed her cats little plates of the leftover cold cuts after lunch was done. Harry watched her talking to the cats, and watched how they reacted to her.
"Here now, Mr. Tibbles, here's some nice turkey for you, and some ham for Tufty, and …"
"Meow," said Mr. Tibbles.
"What? Oh, quite right, we can't forget what terrible gas the ham gave Tufty last time, thanks for reminding me … Here, Tufty, you get the turkey, then, and some mayonnaise on it, you like that."
Tufty mewed as if in assent, nudged her plate delicately under the table, and consumed it at her leisure there.
Snowy, standing next to Mr. Tibbles, meowed impatiently. "Of course, here, Snowy, you have the ham. There, and where's Mr. Paws?"
Mr. Tibbles meowed again. "Taking a nap in the front window, is he? Well, we'll just save this last bit of ham for him, then." Mrs. Figg wrapped the last plate and put it in the refrigerator.
"Could I ask you something Mrs. Figg? About … about the cats?"
"Of course, dear, ask anything you like."
"Well, last summer, the night the dementors got into the alley …you said you'd 'stationed' Mr. Tibbles under the car, and when Mr. Fletcher left, he came to get you, and that's why you were there to see the dementors."
"Yes, and it was a very good thing I did so, don't you think?"
"I'm not questioning that. It was a very, very good thing, and I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough for that ... and for testifying for me at that awful hearing later."
"Pshaw, that was nothing."
"It was not nothing, and I'll always remember it. It must have taken some nerve for you to go to the Ministry. But what I would like to know is … is there a difference between your cats and, well, normal cats? Are they wizard cats?"
"My cats are the best that the RSPCA shelter had to offer. And I've been keeping my eye on that little tabby kitten that's been nosing around the rubbish bins in the alley, there's some fine potential there, since Mr. Paws will be retiring soon. He's been with me seventeen years now, and deserves his rest." Her voice was soft and sad, and Mr. Tibbles jumped into her lap to rub his face against her, purring. "Some of the best familiar material in the country is being wasted, if you ask me, wasted in the alleys and the shelters, while the finest pedigree lines aren't putting out half the talented kittens they used to. Not unlike the wizarding families themselves," she said, with a haunted tone, and Harry knew she was talking about her own status as a Squib, the daughter of wizard parents, who had no magic of her own.
"So they are wizard cats?"
"Heavens, no, just familiars. Like your Hedwig. They're capable of understanding instructions, and simple conversation, and they're very, very sensitive to the emotions of their people. Animals understand emotions better than people do, Mr. Potter, but they're not very good at logic. They're probably the better off for it."
Tufty, finished with her treat, jumped up into Harry's lap and shoved her head under his hand, uttering a cry that sounded like an insistent "Now!" He petted her absently, and she settled down to purr a deep, rumbling purr.
"Then how do you understand them? All I ever get from Hedwig is hoots, and I can mostly figure out what she's on about, but you seem to have, well, conversations with your cats."
"That I do, that I do." She cuddled Mr. Tibbles in her arms. "It's the only gift I have, the only touch of magic that was granted to me. I speak to the cats, and they speak to me. It's been such a comfort to me over the years, you can't imagine."
"Do … do other Squibs … sometimes have a spot of magic like that? Or is this a subject that bothers you to talk about? Should I just shut up now?"
"No, no. Oh, sometimes it hurts, and I see my cousins doing their little spells and enchantments and I wonder what it would be like … but I've made a place for myself here, between the Muggle and wizarding worlds. There are those of the great ones who can respect those with lesser gifts and don't hold it against us — Professor Dumbledore is one, such a good man he is, always kind to us. Even to those of us who don't appreciate it, who have let themselves get bitter and envious."
A little light went on in Harry's head. "Filch! The caretaker at Hogwarts. He's a Squib, but the way he talks to Mrs. Norris …"
Mrs. Figg nodded. "Yes, yes, Argus Filch has the same talents as I do, and for good reason. He's my brother."
Harry's eyes widened. "Your brother?"
"Yes, poor thing. He was never able to come to terms with being a Squib. He thought magic was his right, and that he'd been cheated of it somehow. The little bit that he does have, his contact with cats, just reminds him of what he could have had — should have had, as he sees it. But where I learned how to live in the Muggle world, Argus never could adapt — so Professor Dumbledore graciously allows him to live at Hogwarts, even though a less pleasant person I've never seen. He's my brother and I love him, but I don't like him very much."
"I've been wondering — a little — about how magic happens, and how it runs in families. My Dad was from a family where they were all wizards, but my Mum … well, you know she was the first in her family ever."
"That's true. Not a trace of talent in the other sister."
Harry looked down at Tufty in his lap. "I'm beginning to think that may not be the case. That there may be … just a little … magic there." Mrs. Figg's eyebrows shot up. "Aunt Petunia has always been very … focused, I guess is the best way to say it, on house and home. She's the best housekeeper, the best cook, the best gardener on the block, and it's not just because she's had me as slave labour. Nowadays, I'm only here for a month or two at most each year, and sometimes less than that. But the house is spic and span all the time, and recently I saw … it sounds weird, but …" and he found himself spilling out the story about the condiments and the shopping. Mrs. Figg dropped her pose as a dotty old woman and leaned forward, listening intently.
"Hmm. Yes, it is possible. I suppose she could be tested, and possibly enrolled on the list as a Squib. But given how violently she has turned against magic all her life, it might possibly damage her to know that she is what she has always hated. And I hate to think about what her husband might do if he found out. And Dudley. Have you noticed anything odd about Dudley?"
"Well, Dudley's always been best at hitting people."
"And he won a boxing trophy in his very first year of competition? Possibly that's his outlet. If so, however, he'll have to be watched for the rest of his life. Magic, even a little magic, expressing itself as violence, could be dangerous. Very dangerous indeed." She sighed. "He could wind up as a world championship boxer. Or in jail. Or both. Like that fellow in America."
"Dudley's been changing since last year. Or he says he's changing, anyway. He's been trying to be nice to me, and to be honest, it's kind of frightening."
"Any change of that sort has to be for the better, don't you think? But I can see that it might be disturbing for you. Dudley's anger at you has been one of the constants of your life. You knew where you stood with him. Now things are changing, and you're not quite sure how to react, am I right?"
"That's it, that's it exactly!" exclaimed Harry, relieved that Mrs. Figg had been able to put into words what he could not.
"Change, fortunately or unfortunately, is part of life. Nothing stays the same, whether for good or for ill. And really, we wouldn't want it to. You're at a time in your life when things change very rapidly, perhaps more rapidly than you think you can bear. If you try to resist the change, it will, indeed, tear you apart. Or leave you stranded in a dark place, unable to move or to go back. But if you accept the change and embrace it, you'll find you have different options, and new ways to go." She petted Mr. Tibbles gently. "I know this because I've been through it, as has any youngster standing on the edge of adulthood. But every teenager thinks they're the first person ever to face that choice. I don't pretend that my challenges were anything like yours, but they were frightening enough. Perhaps I'll tell you about what life was like during the War sometime. But I think you have enough to think about for now."
Harry put Tufty back on the floor. "I think I should use your fireplace to check in with Professor Moody, and then go on home. You're right, I do have a lot to think about."