Ch. 4 - Free Falling
Grayson knew that if he was on the loose for long, the Dursley house would be staked out. An Auror who decided to take the law into his or her own hands, generally referred to as a rogue Auror, was no laughing matter. For a time, however, they would probably assume that he had just resisted being obliviated. This was entirely within the law; Aurors were not required to submit to obliviation unless their superiors demanded they do so. Grayson could have terminated the situation by reporting to Moody. Had he questioned him, calmly and diplomatically, he might have escaped the situation with both his memory and his erstwhile perfect service record intact. Not that the latter really mattered; Moody’s record had more black marks on it than a roomful of dalmatians, and he was still a hero.
However, he knew that he would not be able to change the man’s mind. In a matter of hours, a defenseless little kid would be returned to his abusive relatives, and the next temper tantrum might well send him to the morgue. Ulysses Grayson was an Auror, a sworn guardian of the innocent and helpless, and he would die before allowing such an atrocity. He also knew that Moody felt as he did; that meant that the grizzled old Auror had received orders from even higher up. Obviously, those bunglers in the Ministry wanted Harry to stay hidden in the Muggle world, despite the risk. Ulysses Grayson simply did not have the power to prevent that. But maybe, just maybe, he could convince the boy’s jailers (nothing would convince Grayson to regard that hateful scum as his family) to treat him a little more decently.
Unfortunately, diplomacy would not work against such as them. Some of the wizarding world’s most intelligent and silver-tongued people had already talked to the Dursleys, or at least tried to. Vernon and Petunia had refused to even speak with them, and had demanded that they leave at once. Clearly, more persuasive methods were indicated. But that was fine with Grayson: He was a poor diplomat, but he was very good at alternate methods of persuasion.
He rematerialized in Mrs. Figg’s house, but did not remain there long. He was only there long enough to march to the door and leave through it, without explaining anything to her. He caught sight of himself in the mirror in the entryway and gagged. It was unfortunate that the hair color he had been born with was so similar to the color of a freshly laid cow patty. “Pili puniceus,” he said, restoring it to its proper hue with a wave of the wand. Then he was out the door and advancing across the street, locked on #4 Privet Drive like an incoming cruise missile.
It was a quiet Saturday morning in that peaceful if rather dull muggle neighborhood. A light rain was falling. A few people were outside, but most were either having lie-ins or relaxing indoors. The person nearest #4 stared in amazement at the fuschia-haired young man with what looked like a teacher’s pointer clutched in his paw. The redness of his face and the fire in his eyes screamed to the neighbor to keep his distance.
Grayson turned to the man in question. He spoke with a deadly softness. “Go inside. Close your curtains. And if you call the bobbies, I will be very unhappy with you.”
The man fled in terror. He didn’t particularly like Vernon, or his obnoxious wife, so he was more than happy to do as instructed.
The door to the Dursley residence was closed and locked. A simple spell would have opened it. Grayson didn’t bother. His foot was cruder, but equally effective, and more pleasurable in his enraged state. When he was angry, he had found that his magical nature enhanced his speed and striking power, and that effect was vastly intensified here: He was not merely angry, he was utterly furious. The door didn’t merely open, it was wrenched from its hinges, hurtling into the entry amid splintered pieces of doorframe. Grayson strode into the house, drawing his wand and conjuring up a whirlwind as he went. Pictures were torn from the walls, toys raised from the floor, dishes and papers swept from the table. He set all of it whipping around at 150 miles an hour, and it continued to swirl madly about him as he strode into the family area. “DURSLEY!!” he roared, face still red, eyes ablaze, fists clenched.
Vernon had been watching television in the living room. Because he was badly hung over, the volume was turned low. Hearing the sudden commotion, he stood, and then stared in utter disbelief as his unexpected guest strode into the room. Grayson let the whirlwind carry on a little longer, then cut loose with an omnidirectional shockwave, far weaker than the unidirectional one he would have used in a duel but strong enough nonetheless. It pulverized everything he had swept up previously and decorated the room with a mixture of splintered wood, fragmented plastic, paper confetti, and powdered glass. Then, with two snarled spells, he loosed two sizzling blue-hot fireballs, targeting the Dursleys’ most valued possessions. The expensive color TV and the fully stocked refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen were instantly reduced to pools of flaming slag.
Having made his initial point, Grayson addressed Petunia, levelling his wand at the tip of her nose. “Get your fat brat and both of you clear out of here. Your husband and I are going to have a conversation, one that you don’t want to watch.”
White as a sheet, Petunia Dursley scooped up Dudley and raced out. Grayson didn’t bother to watch her flight. He advanced on Vernon, bringing his wand to bear on him. The latter shrank back into his armchair. “Get out!” he shrilled. “Get out of my house, you freak!”
“Nothing will make me happier to do so, you filthy child-beating puke sack,” Grayson snarled. “But I’m not going anywhere until we’ve made one thing quite clear. You will not hurt your nephew again. Not because he’s your wife’s flesh and blood. Not because it’s wrong. And not because of what the other ‘freaks’ might do to you. But because of me.”
He stepped forward and seized Vernon by the throat and lifted him, one-handed. He was exceptionally strong. Without tapping into his powers, he could have lifted an average-sized man thus. But he had to resort to them to maneuver Vernon’s 240-pound bulk, especially with his weak arm. But that was fine with him: He had the talent; no reason not to use it. He went on, in a deadly whisper: “Because if you hurt that boy again, I’m going to come back and have some more fun. And I won’t limit myself to property destruction, either. Get it?”
“You can’t hurt me!” Vernon Dursley gasped out. “There are laws! Even among your kind!”
Grayson grinned horribly as he lowered his adversary to the floor, none too gently. “I know. I enforce those laws. But even so, I’ll do it. I really don’t like people who attack small children.”
“He’s a little freak!” Vernon snarled. “And if your people care so much about him, why stick him with us? Take him off with your kind. He doesn’t belong among decent people.” A deadly snarling noise in Grayson’s throat. Vernon presumed it to be helpless rage. He got even braver. “I know your rules, freak. You don’t dare hurt me. If you did, you already would have tried to. By tomorrow, you’ll be locked up. And without your silly magic toothpick. And I will continue treating that disgusting little brat exactly as I see fi... ”
“Crucio!” Ulysses Grayson hissed.
Vernon Dursley fell to the floor shrieking as the unimaginable pain roared through him, every nerve in his body burning like fire, every cell in his anatomy slashed by a razor. Petunia had never mentioned the Cruciatus curse to him, but even if she had, he would not have been able to imagine just how horrible it was.
Dimly, he heard screaming behind him, and wails, and realized that Petunia had disobeyed his order to clear out; she and Dudley were there and watching the horror show, but he was beyond caring at that point. As horrified as he was about what he had just done, he could not stop himself. The memory of little Harry Potter’s brutally battered face was just too vivid.
He was still doing it when Kingsley Shacklebolt apparated behind him. The older Auror did not hesitate, he knew his duty. He knew also that his friend, in his rage, might turn on him before he realized what he was doing. He raised his wand. “Stupefy!” he shouted, and the blast of fire-red energy threw Grayson down and forward to land in a limp heap on Vernon Dursley’s still-writhing body.