As if that wasn't enough of an issue, the brat had the nerve to refuse the cupboard under the stairs as his bedroom. When they had first tried to send him to the little room, he had looked at them with utter disbelief. This was followed quickly by anger and a stubborn refusal to move. It hadn't bothered Mr. Dursley much, as he a little twig of a kid, and he threw him in anyway and locked it. The brat had kicked up such a racket! He had screamed and kicked the door, and it had been amusing for the first fifteen minutes, but then he wouldn't stop. All day and into the sleepless night, he kept kicking and screaming. Not even yelling or belting the boy had silenced him. Eventually, a very cranky Dudley had generously offered the smallest bedroom to his cousin if only to shut the other boy up.
That was years ago. Now all the little leech did all day was laze around the house and paint. A foolish past time, but apparently one his clever little wife had found profit from. That there were so many ridiculous people in the world who would call a child's paint smudges art and actually buy it, was infuriating.
And worst of all, was the boy's parents. What a perfectly abnormal lot they had been. Doing their silly wand waving and nonsense muttering and frog spawn cooking. And look at the trouble it had gotten them into? Run out of the bleed'n country (and good riddance too!) by their own foul ilk! Even then, they couldn't settle for being normal! They went off and became a bunch of smelly, hippy artists! Which was only slightly better than... that other thing.
He didn't care what his sister said about the boy not knowing any of their freakishness. If he knew how to paint, then the brat likely knew the other stuff. And this had just proved it. The moment he got his hands on that boy, he was going to beat all that nonsense out of him and use that trust fund of his to send him to the cheapest, most miserable, most far away boarding school he could find.
Mr. Dursley pulled into his driveway, his knuckles alternately popping and turning white as he clenched and unclenched his hands around the steering wheel. If he weren't so furious with the entire situation, he would grin with anticipation. Finally, finally he would be rid of that miscreant, and the Dursley family would once again return to the perfect normalcy they had previously enjoyed.
He mounted the steps to the house, ignoring his neighbor's friendly waving, and reached for the door. Yet, amazingly, before he could touch the knob, the door swung open. A tall man with a hooked nose and dressed in a formal black business suit stood before him. The man's greasy, shoulder length hair, which was enough to earn Mr. Dursley's disapproval already, but then the other had the nerve to be standing in his house.
"What-" he began to bellow.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dursley," the man practically hissed, "You wouldn't happen to know where your nephew is, would you?"
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The next two days passed slowly for 'Heinrich'. He wandered around aimlessly, his only precaution an avoidance of Privet Drive. All of the houses looked the same, all the gardens were unoriginal, and cars in the driveways were generic. Even if the monotony was not so all encompassing, he had nowhere to go anyway.
He slept short, fitful hours in garden sheds, sneaking in after the houses had gone dark, and leaving before dawn. The hunger set in early the morning after the 'incident'. He managed to ignore it until evening, where he finally gave into his body's needs and stole tomatoes from a garden, feeling like a wretch with every bite he took.
His feet started to crack and bleed shortly after.
With every passing hour, the fear of the Dursley's unknown retribution was being smothered by how utterly helpless he was on his own. He had no clothes, shelter, or food. He was filthy, tired, and hungry. He had no friends to stay with and no neighbors he trusted to take pity on him. There was no one he could turn to except...
But bloody hell, he hated the Dursley's.
He hated them, but as evening came on and the air began to smell of rain he realized he needed them. With this miserable understanding, he finally returned to number four, Privet Drive. He was vaguely surprised to see the porch light was on. Had they left it on for him? Did they want him back? He snorted to himself. They probably just didn't want the stigma of having their oh-so-grateful little orphan actually run away.
Steeling himself for the inevitable shouting and perhaps the worst belt thrashing his uncle had ever inflicted, he stepped up to the front door. The sound of voices stilled his hand over the door bell. There were several of them, faint and muffled, but definitely not his uncle's thundering baritone or his aunt's shrill tones. Had the Dursley's actually called the police? Had they been called to find him or arrest him? Was there a charge for assaulting someone with a bed sheet?
With a little less certainty, he pressed the doorbell. The house went suddenly silent. Unease crawled into his gut, and he felt the distinct urge to run away. He turned around to do just that, but the door opened and he was hauled into the house by his collar. Letting out a startled yelp, he fell to the floor, barely avoiding the edge of the stairs. He whirled around on his hands and knees, expecting to see his uncle.
Instead, he met the coal black eyes of a complete stranger. The man was tall with a large hooked nose, and was dressed as if ready to attend a funeral. Bloody hell! They called the government. They're going to dissect my brain!
"Young man," the stranger said, his voice silky even in disdain, "Considering how tiny your brain is, I doubt anyone would be able to find it, let alone dissect it."
He read my mind. That is so ...awesome... or would be if he weren't such a twat about it.
"Language, Heinrich. You've caused quite enough trouble to vex a great many people... you do not want to add me to that list. Get up and go to the living room. There are matters that need to be addressed."
Reluctantly, he climbed to his feet and skirted his way around the stranger and made his way to the living room. There were two more strangers there. A woman and a man. Unlike the dark man, however, they looked considerably less dour. One was a middle-aged woman, attired in a rather nice blue dress with a matching ribbon tying back her blond hair. She reminded him of one of his school teachers back in Germany, who talked softly and always reminded everyone to play nice. The man was older, with thick white hair and a neat mustache, dressed in brown tweed and red tie. They both gave him a comforting smile when he entered, and he felt his lips twitch to return it. However, the sight of the Dursley's kept his expression completely blank.
Dudley was, fortunately?, still breathing, although he was looking white enough he might have been mistaken for the dead. He was staring ahead at nothing, saying nothing. His aunt had a protective arm around him, rubbing his arm and shoulder as if he might be cold, cooing softly and telling him everything was alright. Vernon Dursley, however... well 'Heinrich' was glad he wasn't alone with the man. The man glared mutinously at the benign pair, and turned even darker as gaze landed on Harry. When the Dark Man strode into the room though, his beady eyes quickly settled on the floor.
Harry quickly moved out of his way and took a seat on the ledge of the fireplace, next to 'Mr. Tweed'. 'Miss Blue' smiled knowingly at him, and took a seat in his uncle's sitting chair. The Dark Man planted himself directly behind the Dursley's couch, his hands coming to rest on either side of the family patriarch. He couldn't help admire the sheer dignity the tall man maintained while still exuded the highest level of malevolent intent. His uncle always came off as a raging walrus and Petunia merely looked like she had bitten into a lemon.
"Ah, good, we're all here," began the woman, her voice well suited to children and perhaps overly timid adults. "We were rather worried something had happened to you, Mr. Makowksi."
'Heinrich' threw her a baffled look. I'm Makowski now? That's not even a German name. The Dark Man gave an impatient sigh.
"Yes, yes. Burned at the stake and fed to Catholics, or some other horrible fate, but since the worse you seemed to have suffered is a brief stint to a third word country, perhaps we might move on to relevant matters."
"Really, Mr. Snape-" his aunt began.
"Professor Snape."
"Professor Snape, it's pointless to ask him anything. He barely knows any English. He can't string a sentence together to save his life."
"Really? After three years under your tutelage and still so little progress? I suppose that's why your not Professor Dursley then," Snape sneered.
Petunia turned pink. Vernon, already red, turned purple and moved to stand. Snape's hands were suddenly resting on the larger man's shoulders. The effect was immediate. Mr. Dursley sat back down, his face looking as haunted as his son's.
"Professor…" 'Mr. Tweed' admonished, although his expression was clearly amused.
"Why don't we just try some questions first, and see how it goes. Will you answer some questions for us, Mr. Makowski?" 'Ms. Blue' asked. 'Heinrich' merely nodded, unused to a complete stranger looking at him with such affection. If she started cooing at him, he resolved to take the first opportunity to run away and stay away this time.
"Of course," Professor Snape agreed, "Perhaps, we will luck out and someone here will actually tell the truth. It's a novel idea, but one most conducive to one's health, yes?"
"Now see here, are calling my family-"
"Shut up."
Mr. Dursley's mouth snapped shut. 'Heinrich' could barely suppress a laugh, but managed it rather quickly when those dark eyes suddenly fell on him.
"The truth, if you please, young man. What is your name."
"We told you his name. It's-"
"Madam, if you do not hold your tongue, I will make you swallow it. Am I perfectly clear?"
Somehow she managed to turn even pinker.