Nineteen
Harry: Family and Other Strangers
For the first time in years, he felt his tribulations slide off his back and into the slip stream behind him. Harry’s face broke into a wide grin as he recalled just how much he enjoyed flying. Effortlessly he rode the air currents like a strange hybrid bird, the weight of his previous life having been left on the ground below. After the dreary events of the past year, it was like rediscovering a long lost love, the exhilaration making him feel like a lad of eleven all over again. No wonder he had initially wanted to use this heady sensation to conjure his Patronus.
He hazarded a peek at Ginny’s radiant face as she kept pace then angled upward to indicate he should follow. He was nothing but a leaf, allowing the carefree breeze to buffet him where it wanted. In the distance, the pinnacle of the rugged peninsula jutted like a worn stone finger into the foaming waves below. The endless expanse of blue that met the horizon was breathtaking.
From the edge of the abandoned pasture, the tiny figure of Lexxie waved her arms to lure them back to earth. The wind whipped the words from her mouth, but her avid motions conveyed the message clearly enough: others had seen them take flight and were anxious for an impromptu Quidditch game.
They spiraled in lazy circles to the ground, coming to rest a few yards from the mismatched row of local youths who had answered the siren’s call. Some were barely taller than their brooms, others looked too gangly to not fold in upon themselves like giant spiders; but the smiles of anticipation were unmistakable.
“What do you think?” he addressed Ginny directly. “Think they can muster up a head of steam?”
“Only one way to find out!” she responded merrily. “Shall we divide up into teams?”
Harry raised his voice to be heard over the cheering. “Not just yet. A sample flight, please.” He waved the children into the sky so he could get a better idea of how to balance the teams.
It had been sheer genius for Ginny to bring a pair of brooms from home, Harry concluded as the rag-tag players took to the air. As much as he yearned for his once trusty Firebolt, a high-end racing broom would’ve surely outstripped the locals. And it was so much more fun to play with full teams again.
Without a regulation set of Quidditch balls, it was a simplified game at best, a weathered black and white football serving as the Quaffle. The goalposts were nothing more than the gnarled branches of curiously bent trees which ringed the rocky meadow. It was so much like the avid games that had often accompanied holiday get-togethers at the Burrow that Harry and Ginny felt right at home.
A sharp whistle from the sidelines interrupted the aerial battle at a point where both teams were tied with seven goals each. Fulfilling her previous threats, Lexxie had transfigured her wristwatch into a silver referee whistle that was perched upon her lips. Harry noted that she had been joined by another woman, older and more full-figured but with the same dark, wavy hair.
As he drew up his broom before them, he saw that it was Hestia Jones.
“Sorry I couldn’t have been here sooner,” Hestia apologized as her eyes shifted from Harry to Lexxie and back again.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t spoil your surprise,” Lexxie confided.
The implications were startlingly clear to Harry. “You two know each other,” he stated simply.
“I went to school with Alexandra’s mother, Lyra,” Hestia explained. “We keep in touch.”
“Aunt Hestia taught me how to cast a Patronus Charm,” Lexxie supplied with a hint of nostalgia.
Hestia chortled as she expounded, “Remember it like it was yesterday. What other fifteen year-old would conjure up a tarantula?”
Ginny’s melodic laughter issued from Harry’s right. “Be sure to tell that one to my brother, Ron. His boggart is a spider.”
“Perhaps he and I can do a duet of sorts when he visits,” Lexxie shot back with a mischievous grin. “You don’t mind if I borrow Harry for a short conversation.”
Ginny returned to the air and quickly reshuffled the teams to account for Harry’s absence. In the distance, their happy cries resembled gulls at a picnic as Harry threaded his way back to his villa.
His unease mounted when the two women shared conspiratorial looks as they settled under the breezy awning overlooking the ocean. Unable to stand it any longer, Harry burst, “Please tell me something terrible hasn’t happened to the Dursleys…”
“Nothing that wasn’t of their own making,” Hestia reassured him.
“If anything, Hestia confirms just how unpleasant that lot can be,” Lexxie issued with a wry laugh. “You were considerably more charitable.”
“They are what they are,” Harry dismissed, even as he admitted that he had never been one to hold a grudge.
“Thought it might ease your conscience if you tied up some loose ends, as it were,” Lexxie tendered.
“So Hestia came to give me a progress report,” Harry concluded as the knot in his stomach began to ease.
“Not exactly,” Hestia allowed. “Lexxie’s of a mind that a more personal interaction is needed.”
Lexxie nodded eagerly. “Are you up for a side trip, Harry?”
“Me?” Harry sputtered in surprise. “I thought I was restricted to the grounds.”
Lexxie gave him an indulgent, put-upon look. “I’m changing the rules. Especially since Hestia agreed to be your escort.”
“Here’s your opportunity to see more of the country,” Hestia urged.
“Since you phrase it like that,” Harry conceded. “When are you planning this excursion?”
“Tonight at dusk,” Hestia supplied handily.
“You and Ginny can have a light supper beforehand,” Lexxie added as she scribbled quick notes on her clipboard.
Unable to claim a prior engagement on the spur of the moment, Harry agreed to the recommendations of his smiling guardians.
He couldn’t help thinking he was atop an oversized boulder with the scintillating expanse of the Aegean Sea spread in all directions. Harry shaded his eyes as the blood red sun laid a golden path along the glassy surface. Even in the dim light, the waters maintained a hint of dark cerulean blue as they gently lapped against the small rocky cove below.
He had Apparated in the dark lee of an ancient stone church, his nostrils full of sea air even as he opened his eyes. For a split second, it was as if he were back at Shell Cottage once more, Dobby’s dying body clutched against his chest. Was it the memory or the cooling evening breeze that sent an involuntary shiver down Harry’s spine? Neat rows of white crosses in the small church cemetery attested that death was a frequent visitor the world over.
“You won’t have any trouble finding him,” Hestia whispered in his ear. “Follow the sounds of laughter once you reach the docks.”
“Aren’t you going to “” Harry started to inquire only to find her warning finger pasted across his lips.
“Sound travels clearly in the still night near water,” she barely mouthed in his ear. “I will meet up with you later.”
Like a wraith, Hestia disappeared into the shadows as the susurrus of mingled conversations spilled from the golden squares of open windows all around. Harry allowed himself a few more moments to become acclimated to the gloom before turning towards the steps leading in the opposite direction. The white stucco structures were a jumbled house of cards as he negotiated his way down narrow lanes until the weathered docks stood before him.
Beyond the gnarl of fishing nets, the open doorway of the rustic taverna was a welcoming beacon. Amid a sea of dark tousled heads not unlike Harry’s own, his cousin’s streaky blonde hair was unmistakable. Dudley broke off in mid-conversation as he noticed Harry standing in the doorway. A lop-sided grin suffused his features as he ushered his cousin over into a small booth near the window.
By force of habit, Harry cast a wordless Muffliato Charm although the lively conversations would surely mask their words, even those spoken in a foreign language. The owner returned with their orders: another Mythos for Dudley and a tumbler of Greek brandy for Harry who had requested something sweeter.
“Sip slowly,” the owner warned in accented English. “Not as lethal as ouzo, but we don’t want to be fishing you out of the ocean.” He laughed heartily at his own joke as he returned to his post behind the bar.
“Do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon live nearby?” Harry began hesitantly.
“Other side of the island,” Dudley replied brightly as the bronzed muscles of his arm hoisted the beer to his lips. “Nice little inlet there. Not much of a beach, but the lapping of the waves is soothing at night.” With a wry grin, he added, “Dad hates it.”
Harry fairly sputtered as he rejoined, “Don’t tell me he misses the fumes and noises from the motorway?”
Dudley nodded. “Can’t get used to the slower pace of life here. Complains that he’s been put out to pasture before his time even though he has a cushy post translating documents for the local magistrate.”
“And your mum?” Harry prompted as expected.
“She likes it better, but she doesn’t dare contradict Dad. Has all the surfaces of the house shining like a bright diamond. I’m surprised it doesn’t draw attention to passing aircraft!”
“Didn’t anyone tell her you were supposed to be in hiding?” Harry pointed out as he warmed up to the conversation. For the first time in hours, he stopped fingering the worn edges of the chocolate frog card he carried in his pocket.
Dudley nodded vigorously as he took a long pull of beer, his eyes crinkling up with laughter. “Too ingrained, I suppose. She’s taken to the local diet readily enough; managed to slim Dad down with a steady supply of fresh fish. In turn, he complains that he can’t get a decent pork pie anywhere.”
“What about you? Sorry, you missed out on your final year at Smeltings, by the way.”
Dudley shrugged as a shadow fell over his features. “That wasn’t your doing.”
“Sure it was!” Harry insisted as he motioned for another beer. “You wouldn’t have left Privet Drive if it hadn’t been for me.”
“Doesn’t mean I would’ve graduated from Smeltings,” Dudley grumbled. After a deep swallow, he raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. “Dad forbade me to say anything, but it seems so pointless now…. I managed to get myself expelled. Had to finish most of my sixth year at the local comprehensive.”
“Sorry to hear it, Big D. Couldn’t you have appealed the decision?”
Dudley snorted derisively. “Dad was fairly bristling; you know how he set store by his alma mater. As for Mum, she was certain there had been some mistake. After all, an inter-school boxing champ like her son had to stay in practice “ even if he was a bit overzealous in the hallways.”
“What about you?” Harry emphasized.
“One school’s very like the next,” he shrugged. “Bunch of prigs at Smeltings, anyway.”
“You could’ve told me, you know,” Harry commiserated. “It’s not like I haven’t been threatened with expulsion myself.”
“It wasn’t that at all. The Smeltings board made it quite clear they would reinstate me if Dad just made a small donation. Only their definition of small was about a year’s salary to Dad.”
Of course, Vernon would have been humiliated to admit such financial short-falls. Better to bluster about in his quintessential superior manner than to appear fallible before his odious nephew.
“Besides, I like it here,” Dudley continued. “Don’t have to punch an infernal time-clock and fishing boats are always ready to take on extra help.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I suppose I owe you my thanks more than anything. Word was you had a much rougher time of it yourself.”
Harry shrugged in return. “Couldn’t find a way to side-step it, to tell you the truth.”
“Antia says you’re a right hero,” Dudley pressed, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.
“Antia?” Harry hedged.
“Sorry. Hestia Jones. She asked us to call her Aunt Tia so our conversations wouldn’t seem so out of the ordinary and it got shortened to Antia. She’s kept us abreast of things.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, Dudley amended, “Make that me. Mum and Dad made it abundantly clear they didn’t want to hear anything about the goings on of ‘your kind.’ Made a big stink about it, too. Dad’s face turned the color of stewed prunes and he demanded that we be allowed to return to Privet Drive once your departure made our family irrelevant --”
With soft determination, Harry cut across, “But the house was destroyed within an hour of my leaving. Mrs. Figg saw it with her own eyes.”
“Regular Guy Fawkes Day, Hestia explained. Had to show Dad pictures of the site “ or rather, crater “ that was left to convince him.”
“I’m just glad everyone got away without incident.”
“Hardly! Dad was determined to create an incident of his own.” In a lower voice. Dudley confided, “It didn’t help when Mr. Diggle suggested that he was being an ungrateful prat. That just set him off that you had been an ungrateful bleeder all these years -- that is until Antia reminded him that if you truly took them for granted, you would’ve let the ruddy house explode and good riddance.”
Harry winced at the imagery. “Diggle’s house was burned, you know. Retribution for his actions.”
“So I heard. But by then, Mum and Dad had already established that they didn’t bloody care about anyone who wasn’t a … What’s that word for non-magical folk?”
“Muggles,” Harry supplied with amusement.
“Mum and Dad only cared about the Muggle world. And if you asked me, they only cared about the Dursley side of the family.”
“I didn’t think there were any relatives from the Evans side,” Harry ventured.
“Who knows?” Dudley threw up his hands for emphasis. “So Mum says, but you’ve seen how she’s always looking for Dad’s approval. Makes her shifty-eyed once you notice it. She hasn’t exactly been completely honest about her side of the family, has she?”
Harry thought back to the memories Snape had shared of Lily and concurred silently with his cousin.
“Antia says you were a regular hero,” Dudley commented. At Harry’s obvious embarrassment, he amended, “Your side won and all.”
Harry nodded silently. “Victory comes at too high a price,” he muttered towards the tabletop before downing the rest of the brandy in one long, burning gulp.
“Antia said you lost a lot of close friends. One of those ginger chaps who gave me the joke candy…”
Harry nodded silently.
“I’ve long since forgiven them, you know. Always has to be a victim when it comes to practical jokes.”
“Mighty big of you.”
Dudley smirked in response. “On the other hand, Dad is still up in arms about the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. Had me research it on my computer and threatened to march over to their offices in person. To which they reminded him to watch out for the undertow…. Bet you didn’t know such a group existed “ only it’s on the Isle of Wight!” Dudley stopped as he noticed the tightness around Harry’s eyes. “Surely not…?”
Harry returned a haunted look as his throat tightened. The memory of Tonks giggling proudly at her subterfuge seemed vivid enough to touch.
Much to his surprise, Dudley proposed, “We should drink a toast to them. I think it took Aunt Marge for me to really understand.”
Harry looked up in shock. Hestia hadn’t said anything about Marge. But then she hadn’t said much more than, “You’ll have to take the good with the bad, I’m afraid.” He’d been the one to assume that she was referring his relatives’ general obstinacy.
“What happened to Aunt Marge?” Harry asked through wooden lips.
“An accident,” Dudley mollified. “Tragic, but nothing of direct consequence. Her car got caught in a malfunctioning train crossing. Something to do with a last minute re-routing that got relayed wrong. Didn’t feel a thing, so we were told.”
Harry felt his extremities go cold. The Death Eaters had targeted Muggles for fun. It could have been a coincidence, but somehow he didn’t think so.
“Where did it happen?” Harry whispered with urgency.
“It was more where she was headed,” Dudley admitted. “To a meeting with Hestia. At Dad’s insistence.” With a deep breath, he added, “But I’m telling it all wrong. Won’t make any sense unless I start at the beginning. You don’t mind, do you, Harry?”
“Not at all.”
Vernon was in the midst of his daily snit, demanding that just because they were in hiding didn’t mean they had to loose track of the world around them.
“Is it too ruddy much to ask for a proper newspaper to read over my breakfast eggs?” he demanded, ignoring that the food before him was surely getting cold in the process.
“I saw a newsstand on the corner,” Dudley volunteered, having already finished his own breakfast and wishing for any excuse to stretch his legs.
“We’re in Greece, Duddykins,” Petunia reminded him. “Those papers are in a foreign language.”
“Has everyone gone daft?” Vernon roared. “We’re in the stinking capital of this god-forsaken country! Surely somewhere in Athens a proper paper can be found.”
“Perhaps near the British Consulate,” Petunia suggested as she stared daggers at the impassive faces of Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones.
With a weary sigh, Diggle rose to his feet and proffered, “I’ll just pop over to that modern bookstore we passed in the center of town.”
“Just one minute!” Vernon protested. “Nobody’s going popping anywhere…”
“He’s right,” Hestia interceded before Vernon could shift into high gear. “No sense appearing like anything other than a bunch of British tourists on holiday. I’m certain I saw a newsstand adjoining the bank we visited yesterday. I wouldn’t mind a breath of fresh air myself.”
“Certainly before the day gets any warmer,” Diggle agreed.
“Might I come, too?” Dudley implored directly to Hestia then turned expectant eyes towards his parents.
“But there’s so much smoke and pollution from all those roaring vehicles,” Petunia cautioned. “Wouldn’t you rather just watch something on the telly, dear?”
“It’s all Greek, Mum. Besides, I’m used to a morning workout.”
“Can I trust you not to put any of your nonsense into his head?” Vernon harrumphed as he dug into his breakfast.
“Absolutely,” Hestia agreed as she ushered Dudley out the door before Vernon changed his mind.
They returned a half hour later to find that Vernon was fuming about the inadequacies of the fan.
“….expect to survive in this infernal stewing pot?” his voice bellowed the moment the door opened. “No wonder those ruins are nothing but desiccated stone!”
Diggle gazed out the open window at the majestic columns of the Parthenon which looked down upon the modern, bustling city. He flashed a strained look in Hestia’s direction.
“Somehow I always fancied a hotel overlooking the Aegean Sea,” Petunia sighed wistfully as she fanned herself steadily. “Is that totally beyond our means?”
“I thought you wanted to be among the British tour groups,” Diggle reminded them as he surreptitiously cast a cooling charm over himself. He would’ve kindly done the same for the others, but Vernon had forbidden it from the start.
“I have no desire to toil anywhere in this heat!” Vernon growled. “Small wonder the Greek civilization died out eons ago.”
Hestia curbed her tongue despite the overwhelming desire to inject some civility into this overblown oaf before her. No point in escalating matters before lunchtime, she reminded herself.
“Here, Dad.” Dudley slid the thick folds of the London Times across the table to his father. “Today’s edition, even.”
That seemed to appease Vernon for the time being as he wrestled the pages before the straining blades of the fan. Dudley escaped into his comic book while Petunia leafed through a tourist brochure she had grabbed in the lobby, every once in a while sighing in regret over the sites she would only see from a speeding taxicab.
The explosion caught them unawares as they were just getting drowsy in the midday heat. Hestia’s head jerked awake from the chair as she muttered, “Probably just a firecracker.”
“It was a car backfiring,” Vernon corrected her dryly. “Hard to believe your lot lives right alongside the rest of us. Welcome to the twentieth century, I say.”
“There’s no need to get shirty,” Diggle protested.
“Oh, no?” Vernon growled. “Then tell me, sir, WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF THIS?”
With a loud rapport that sounded suspiciously like another car, Vernon tossed a folded section of the Times before his startled hosts.
Little Whinging, Surrey “ In a freak accident that has officials scratching their heads, a main gas line exploded in a surburban neighborhood just after midnight on 28 July. The residents of number 4, Privet Drive, Vernon Dursley, his wife, Pansy, and their seventeen-year old son, Dudley, are missing and believed to have perished in the blast.
Neighbors report hearing nothing out of the ordinary that night, although a pile-up on the adjacent M25 motorway kept traffic snarled most of the early evening, causing nearby homes to shut their windows tightly to drown out the insistent blaring of horns.
No one remembers seeing the Dursleys since the day before the incident when they were watering their lawn as usual. Investigative reports into the disappearance of the family reveal that the couple’s bank account had been systematically emptied of all funds. Bank officials were unable to specify dates or amounts of withdrawals due to ….
“IS THIS HOW YOU COVER YOUR TRACKS?” Vernon bellowed as the color rose to his face at an alarming rate.
“That would be the Muggle-Ready Excuse Office,” Diggle explained.
Ignoring the fact that her name had been mangled by the press, Petunia cried, “Why would they want to obliterate our house?” Her hands massaged her husband’s shoulders as she urged him to calm himself. “What did we ever do to them?”
With a forbearing look, Hestia elaborated, “The attack on your home was likely perpetrated by Death Eaters, the evil group who is intent on taking over our “ my -- world. The Muggle-Ready Excuse Office is an official part of the rightful government that helps to maintain secrecy surrounding the wizarding world.”
“Forgive me for speaking plainly,” Petunia hissed. “But it sounds like one faction is only too willing to make excuses for the other.”
Before Hestia could protest, Diggle concurred, “Seemingly so these days. The rightful government is riddled with evil collaborators. No one is safe. That’s why it was so imperative your family be relocated.”
“But everyone’s going to think we’re dead,” Dudley wailed.
“I’m afraid so, son,” Diggle soothed. “But you’ll make headlines again when you miraculously resurface unscathed. Maybe even see your faces in that moving picture box of yours.”
“Bollocks!” Vernon denounced as he waved off his wife’s protests. “The bank will know I withdrew the last of my funds today “ a good week after the date of the explosion.”
“Actually, they won’t,” Hestia affirmed. “One of our group works in the banking industry. Just as he facilitated the transfer across international borders, he will also obscure the trail.”
Vernon’s beady eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. “Say, if you’re really magical, how about seeing that your banking chum forwards the insurance settlement?”
“A dead man can’t collect on his life insurance policy,” Diggle returned pragmatically. “Please, be sensible about this!”
To Vernon’s intractable look, Hestia objected, “I’m not going to assist you to commit fraud.”
“What about the homeowner’s policy?” Petunia postulated. “Aren’t we still entitled to that?”
“Unless you want to paint a bull’s eye on your backs, that cheque will have to go to your next of kin,” Hestia emphasized.
The color seemed to drain from Vernon’s florid face. “Marge will be devastated. I’m her only brother.”
“It’s not fair that she should endure such anguish when we’re sitting pretty in the shade of the Acropolis!” Petunia protested.
“It’s too big a risk,” Hestia maintained. “Any one of us could be a target!”
“I’m sorry,” Diggle mumbled. “It’s most unfortunate, but my house was similarly attacked as well. Those bastards will stop at nothing.”
“Perhaps we should consider relocating to a seaside location,” Hestia suggested diplomatically.
Petunia’s eyes sparkled at the prospect.
“Others may likely read the same article in the Times,” Diggle agreed. “Wouldn’t do to be recognized from an old grainy photograph, now would it?”
But as much as Hestia involved them all in their relocation to rustic surroundings where the news of the outside world was kept to a minimum, Vernon refused to back down when it came to his sister, Marge. Not long after they had settled on the pleasant island, Hestia finally gave in to Vernon’s constant demands.
“Fine, you obstinate old goat!” she capitulated. “If I make contact with Marge will you give it an effing rest? All of it! No more complaints, no more comparisons about how the world you left behind was far superior to this stagnant little rock. Nothing!”
Vernon gulped in the face of her anger. “There’s no need to be put out, now…”
“There bloody well is!” Hestia decried. “You won’t be content until one of us puts our lives in danger once again. Right into the proverbial kettle!”
“Vernon, please,” Petunia pleaded. “Hestia’s right. Marge is a survivor, she won’t --”
“She’ll never forgive me,” Vernon cut across harshly. “Cut me off as if … as if I were one of their kind.”
“I suggest you quit while you’re ahead, my good man,” Diggle issued lowly as he gave Vernon a meaningful look. “Perhaps this situation calls for some of that Polyjuice Potion we’ve stashed away for emergencies. Wouldn’t you say, Hestia?”
Hestia did not elaborate on how she was able to make contact with Marge, only that they had agreed to meet for tea at a country inn situated a good hundred miles from Marge’s home. Marge had an errand of her own to run in the immediate area, so it proved ideal timing.
“What sort of an errand?” Harry posed, breaking into his cousin’s narrative for the first time.
“Something to do with her bulldog,” Dudley supplied. “You remember Ripper, don’t you?”
“How could I forget?”
“Marge thought he’d been stolen, was right heart-broken about it. Then on top of that, the news about the explosion on Privet Drive was almost more than she could bear. She assuaged her grief by plastering the entire countryside with posters of Ripper. Hoping against hope --”
“Miraculously, Ripper turned up,” Harry supplied as a chunk of ice settled in his stomach.
Dudley nodded guilelessly. “A couple in East Anglia found him tussling with their dog, a female. Needless to say, Marge was beside herself and promised she would reimburse them for any unseemly, er, complications.”
“Was the dog in the car with her? When it happened?”
“Probably squirming with uncontrolled joy and distracting Aunt Marge, Hestia seemed to think.”
Likely Hestia was just being kind, Harry thought to himself. Ripper had traveled in a kennel when he’d arrived at Privet Drive. There was no reason to suppose Marge would’ve done things any differently this time.
“I’m sorry, Dudley,” Harry offered as he swallowed the lump in his throat. “These things are never easy.”
“Who was Cedric?” Dudley asked out of the blue. “Was he the first to die?”
Harry was caught short by his self-centered cousin’s sudden intuitiveness. It took him a few extra seconds to find his voice before answering, “At least he was of age. There were others, recently, who died in battle… Some were still children, Dudley. Snuck out to help their older schoolmates in battle and paid the ultimate price.”
“Is that why you felt a need to seek solace in the peaceful Greek seaside?” At Harry’s flummoxed expression, Dudley added, “Hestia made it seem like you were on extended holiday, but that just didn’t sit right with me. You strike me more as the type who would want to be involved in the rebuilding.”
Harry nodded as the taverna owner refilled his brandy glass. “Lost comrades?” he inquired with compassion. “Forgive my boldness, but the look is universal.”
“My cousin here just returned from a tour of duty, Niko,” Dudley supplied as Harry quickly released the privacy charm.
Once again, Harry marveled at the change the past year had wrought. “A bit shell-shocked, I’m afraid,” he issued.
“Come join the others,” Niko offered as he waved them towards the bar. “Our little rocky peninsula has seen enough conflicts for us all to commiserate.”
Harry found himself surrounded by other survivors as the obligatory glass of ouzo was pressed into his hand. The war stories of the Fascist occupation were not all that different from those during the oppression imposed by Voldemort. Before long, Harry’s vague answers allowed the others to assume he’d flown covert missions for the RAF during the recent Iraqi War. They sympathized with his loss of his favorite teacher. His godfather. The undercover mole who fell deep within enemy territory. The grizzled veteran who everyone had always assumed was invincible. As the owner had said: the intertwining themes of warfare and loss were recognized the world over.
“You met more of them than you realize, Big D,” Harry whispered into Dudley’s ear during a brief lull in the conversation. “Moody was wearing the purple bowler hat at the train station when you came to retrieve me once.”
“I remember Dad being completely bent out of shape over than one,” Dudley sniggered as they toasted Mad-Eye.
“Lupin and Tonks were there, too, although I had no idea they were seeing one another and would end up married within a year’s time.”
“She was the one who came up with the All-Lawn Suburban Contest?” Dudley pressed.
Harry wasn’t sure they’d gotten the title right, but what did it matter anyway? “Yeah, she always had a good head for pranks.”
They downed toasts to Remus and Tonks as Dudley fondly recalled how his mother had criticized Tonks’ fashion sense during the car ride home. “What about that white-haired chap who came to retrieve you once? Tried to act like a right friendly fellow while we sat like graceless statues in the parlor.”
“That was Dumbledore,” Harry supplied. “He was cut down while I was ten feet away. I couldn’t lift a finger to save him.”
Many understanding nods followed that admission as the entire bar drank a toast to the great man they had never known.
The silvery moon was long past its zenith when Harry bid his goodbyes amid many vigorous handshakes. He was none too steady on his feet as he leaned against the doorframe to wait for his cousin to catch up.
“Will you be all right, Xenos?” one of their drinking companions issued as he caught Dudley from staggering over the uneven path.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dudley replied with a crooked smile. “I’ve leaned on my cousin before.”
Harry made to protest as he recalled practically having to drag Dudley’s body in the wake of the dementor attack, but Hestia rose up like a dark shadow at their side.
“I’m going that way myself,” she affirmed. “Thanks anyway, Constantine.”
With a few exchanged words in Greek, Constantine broke off in the opposite direction.
“Antia!” Dudley gushed as he caught her in a clumsy one-armed hug. “You should’ve joined us. We toasted all your fallen comrades.”
Hestia favored Dudley with an affectionate smile. “That was thoughtful of you, Duds, but you know that women aren’t seen as warriors in these parts. It would’ve just made them doubt the truth of Harry’s words.”
“Doesn’t seem fair, though,” Dudley mumbled.
“It’s enough for me that you think so,” Hestia affirmed. “How are you holding up, Harry? That ouzo can sneak up on you, no?”
“I’m still vertical,” Harry quipped. “I am, aren’t I?”
Dudley doubled over to get his breath as they both broke out in laughter.
“Glad to see you lads had a good time,” Hestia commented as she gently guided them down the sinuous path that hugged the rocky coastline.
The sea air was mixed with the heady perfume of local plants as it washed over the tiny island. A few deep breaths cleared a bit of the fog inside Harry’s head.
“Say, Hestia, you haven’t been waiting in the shadows all this time, have you?” Harry uttered as it occurred to him that they had been unintentionally rude -- despite the all too traditional attitudes of the other island residents.
“My cousin lives nearby. We could see your silhouettes from her window.”
This was news to Harry. “Really?” he asked, barely remembering to close his mouth so he wouldn’t look like a guppy.
“A major factor in why I relocated the Dursleys to this location,” Hestia breathed in Harry’s ear.
“Antia knows everybody,” Dudley proclaimed.
“Well, considering there were probably more students in your school than on this island, that’s not saying much,” Hestia rejoined.
As they rounded a small headland, Hestia urged them to keep silent. Up ahead, a single hanging lantern illuminated the cobalt blue door of a two-story cottage. The remaining windows were dark, but all the shutters had been opened to admit the cooling night air.
Pressing his mouth to Harry’s ear, Dudley confessed, “Dad’s such a fusspot over everyday things that Mum doesn’t always have the energy to wait up for me like she used to. Finally decided I can’t get up to much trouble until the ferry docks in the morning.”
“Sounds liberating,” Harry whispered back.
Dudley nodded happily. “Do you want to say hello anyway? Dad often surfs long into the night on my computer.”
Harry looked down at his hanging shirttails that were sure to enrage his aunt. He ran a rueful hand through the salty residue making his hair spike even worse than usual. “Perhaps when I’m more presentable,” he demurred only to set them both off to sniggering like errant schoolboys once again.
Dudley nodded wordlessly then slipped a piece of paper into Harry’s pocket. “That’s my address,” he breathed. “Just don’t use an owl, all right?”
“What about a sea gull?” Harry suggested with a wicked smirk.
“Fine by me,” Dudley chuckled. “Ruddy birds always have Mum scrubbing the walkways, anyway.”
“Too bad she won’t let me use a simple cleaning spell,” Hestia interjected.
“Go figure,” Dudley allowed as he issued a final wave.
Harry turned for one last look before the bend in the path. His cousin’s silhouette was just blowing out the lantern in the uppermost floor.
“Come,” Hestia urged with an insistent tug on his arm. “It won’t do to Disapparate in the open like this. The locals can be superstitious in the best of times.”
Harry followed more deeply into the shadows as she climbed along a path leading towards the summit of the island once more. Determined to engage her in conversation, he lengthened his strides until he was abreast and made certain she watched him cast a wordless Muffliato Charm.
“You never told me you had relatives on this same island,” he began with an earnest expression.
“Not much of a secret,” Hestia allowed with a small shrug. “A few aunts from the non-magical side of the family; cousins mostly. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Harry replied only to have her stop short.
“Right. Sorry about being so blasé. Greek families have a tendency to grow more tentacles that a giant squid. Imagine the Weasley brood in each generation.”
Harry gaped. “That could be everyone on the island!”
“Not really. Many have sought their livelihoods elsewhere. Those who attend the secondary school on the mainland often go on to university there. Then they only return to hire a cottage for the holidays.”
Changing tacks, Harry posed, “What did Constantine call Dudley outside the pub?”
It took Hestia a moment to catch on. “Xenos. That’s with an ‘x’. It’s Greek for stranger, a nickname of sorts. Has a romantic sound to it, don’t you think?”
“Romantic and Dudley are two words I would sooner poke my eyes out than use in the same sentence!” Harry chortled. “You can’t be serious?”
“You just have to see it through our eyes.” Hestia’s voice was that of a muse weaving a compelling tale. “Not many golden haired lads in these parts. With his muscles bronzed from his work on the open water, your cousin stands out. A hero from an ancient book of myths.”
At Harry’s skeptical expression, Hestia ruffled his hair affectionately and added, “He’s got a good heart once you separate him from his parents, you know.”
“Yeah, surprised me to discover as much on the night we went our separate ways,” Harry noted ruefully.
“Not forever.”
“He gave me his address,” Harry marveled as he felt the scrap against his skin.
“Won’t do you much good,” Hestia affirmed with mirth dancing in her eyes.
“Muggle mail must come here, however infrequently,” Harry countered.
“It does…. Here, let me see the paper he gave you.”
Ducking behind a wide column, Hestia cupped her hand around the glowing tip of her wand. Sure enough, the name: Dudley Dursley, Cove Cottage was clear, but the rest was a mix of incoherent symbols.
“Is that ancient Greek?” Harry proposed.
“ ‘Course not. Greeks have been using modern letters for longer than England’s been civilized.”
“Then wha --” The words died on his lips as the answer rose from the depths of his anise soaked brain. “The Fidelius Charm. You hid the entire island?”
Hestia’s smile glowed in the starlight even as she extinguished her wandtip. “Just an oversized rock, really. Dedalus was only too happy to help after his own cottage was incinerated in yet another ‘freak’ accident. Didn’t want the same to happen to me, so we gathered everyone that needed to be protected in one spot.”
“But how do they get to the mainland?” Harry posited as his mind reeled with the implications. “The Muggles can’t Apparate like we do.”
“As Secret-Keeper, I made a couple of journeys back and forth with both ferry captains. And Dudley's sailed with all the fishermen at one time or another.”
“What about the mail delivery?”
“Third cousin works in the mainland post office. He has a real knack for redirecting letters that would otherwise end up in the dead letter bin.”
“Doesn’t anybody wonder why they can’t see the island from the shore?”
“Never could before. It was just over the horizon,” Hestia scoffed. “Really, Harry, you worry things to death. These people have braved the fickle seas in these parts for generations. They long ago learned to sail by the stars. A tiny island rising up out of the mist is hardly remarkable, not with all the tales of mermaids and savage sea creatures that still permeate the salt air.”
Harry shook his head at the enormity of it all. “Kingsley should’ve given you and Diggle medals.”
“Only for having endured Vernon without resorting to any Unforgivables,” she noted with a laugh. “I often daydreamed of sending the buffoon on a mission to infiltrate Voldemort’s camp. Seen how long it took for that red-eyed monster to implode from sheer aggravation!”
“What if Dudley wants to venture to other parts? Will he be able to find his way back?”
“Probably.” Hestia waved off his concerns. “Won’t need to, though. He’s got everything he needs at hand.”
Sensing there was more to this story, Harry prompted, “Such as?”
“I introduced him to one of my nieces, Raffia. She’s quite taken with her flaxen-haired xenos and Dudley loves her exotic home cooking.”
“Does he know she’s from a magical family?”
“Not yet. The witches and wizards that pop up in our line are so few and far between, we’d be hard-pressed to think of ourselves as anything other than Muggleborn. But Raffia’s heard enough tales about her English aunt that it won’t take her long to put it all together. That is, when Dudley finally breaks his silence. He was so shocked about the explosion at Privet Drive that I haven’t had to remind him to keep his past to himself.”
Harry couldn’t stop himself from succumbing to a wild thought. “Tell me, Hestia. I know the chances of bearing magical off-spring increase when both parents are wizards, but what happens if the magical gene skips generations?”
Hestia gave him a smile tinged with irony. “It’s just like the Muggle theories about genetics. Traits that occur on both sides of the family, even those which may otherwise be recessive, often bear fruit when combined in such a way.”
“You’re saying Dudley’s offspring aren’t necessarily going to be Muggles, then?”
“Not if he gets serious ideas about my niece.”
How much had Dudley really seen of the dementor ambush? Harry wondered why he hadn’t thought to ask his cousin directly. Likely, it was more than he’d confided to his stricken parents.
Harry snorted with amusement. “Hestia, you may just have your revenge on Vernon after all!”