Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Drinking and Dodging Death ❯ Drinking and Dodging Death ( One-Shot )

Vernon’s only foray into drinking was singular for many reasons. In the past, whenever he had thought of partaking at social events or by himself at the pub, flashbacks to his father’s incendiary breath filled his nostrils, along with a myriad of other unpleasant memories. That was usually enough to deter him.

On this evening, however, he was newly single and unemployed, and the factors involved in each situation made him quite thirsty. Thus, he allowed some blokes from his former workplace to take him out.

Countless cups later, he lurched out of the noisy establishment, his head ripe, balance questionable, and heart much lighter. Everything seemed an amusement, and he couldn’t stop the occasional burst of giggles erupting from his throat. Turning the back corner that faced the woods, he saw two people standing near the closest cluster of trees. The yellow glow of the streetlamp allowed him to see that they were dressed (to his way of thinking) like medieval monks. Except that wasn’t quite right because one of the figures was a woman, and both of them waved sparkling sticks around. How curious! He clapped his hand over his mouth to contain the unbidden chuckle. Somehow, he had just enough presence of mind to know that This Was Not Normal.

Keeping to the shadows, he stayed behind the skip and continued watching. To his bleary-eyed astonishment, the sparkling sticks created interesting images. He gawped at the sight; it was too controlled to be accidental, and the actions seemed to follow spoken commands. (Maybe commands? He couldn’t quite suss out the words.) It was almost like watching special effects from a sci-fi movie playing out before him.

And then, everything changed.

The woman muttered words, and a rabbit floated in the air. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was dangling by its hindlegs, as if held by an invisible snare, and frantically twitching and moaning. “Regulus,” the woman said in a cold and carrying voice, “our Lord has grown concerned by your reticence. You claim to be loyal to his cause but haven’t volunteered for missions that would demonstrate your loyalty. That’s why we’re here. You need to overcome your squeamishness.”

“What, by killing this rabbit?” Even though Vernon couldn’t see the young man’s face at this distance, his posture—stiff, with arms crossed—conveyed anger and irritation. “Bells, it’s not the same thing and you know it.”

“That is not my name,” the woman snarled, thrusting her stick under Regulus’ chin.

Vernon saw him jerk away. “I know, Bellatrix, but if you end me for using a nickname, my parents will have a chat with our Lord about your increasingly feckless actions. What will become of you then, coz?”

Audibly huffing, the woman named Bellatrix smoothed her robes. “You little snot,” she commented, poison oozing from the words. “Don’t think you’re getting out of these lessons by riling me. As I was about to say before you interrupted, we’re going to work our way up, starting with this rabbit.” The poor creature was growing tired, its chest heaving. Jabbing at it with her stick, she added, “This is a prey animal, you know. It’s on the verge of heart failure from fear. You’ll be doing it a favor by releasing it from pain.” Her tone was sickly-sweet.

All color drained from the young man’s face. “I suppose just setting it free isn’t an option.”

“You’re correct,” she affirmed, her voice freezing. “Now point your wand at the beast and say the damned spell.” Bellatrix tightened her grip on her own stick, its tip flaring (presumably with her temper).

Regulus seemed to slump. Lifting his arm, he extended his stick—wand, whatever—to the rabbit. His hand trembled as if palsied. “Avada Kedavra,” he articulated carefully, and his stick erupted in violent purplish-green light, striking the animal in its abdomen. The rabbit’s body arced before going limp.

Vernon swallowed around a dry throat as his stomach sank to his knees. The animal was dead. Killed by words? What reality was he living in? And why, oh why, couldn’t he move?

“Not bad, for your first time,” the woman said, though she was clearly unimpressed. She flicked her stick and the rabbit hit the ground with a soft thud.

“What more do you want?” Regulus’ voice cracked.

“What I want is immaterial. You were conflicted, and you can’t protect our Lord’s interests by pussyfooting about on the battlefield. He requires unthinking and unwavering action against his enemies. You are worthless to the cause if you can’t perform on demand, got it?” Without waiting for acknowledgement, Bellatrix captured a second rabbit. “So, do it again, and keep your hand steady. Auntie Walburga and Uncle Orion don’t want another son desecrating the Black family tree.” Running her left hand through her hair, she tacked on, “I think they would rather I bind you up and deliver you as a gift to the Acromantula than allow such a weak example of Pureblood to live.”

This was apparently an effective threat, for the young man’s stick was perfectly still in his grip. Once more, he uttered that loathsome phrase, and delivered the same result.

“Much better,” Bellatrix told her student, a hint of approval in her tone. “Let’s move on to something bigger, shall we?”

In a perversion of the fairytale princess, the woman summoned a whole menagerie of forest animals—badgers, otters, boar, buzzards, foxes, and deer—one after the next to be slaughtered by her cousin. Vernon never considered himself a conservationist, but this wonton destruction of living things made him ill. He’d never known what sort of sounds most of these animals made (if push came to shove, he would have said that foxes barked and howled like wolves), but their death screams were horribly similar.

At some point, Vernon realized that the rumbling he heard was unrelated to the macabre tableau playing out near the edge of the woods. This was underscored by the pattering of drops on the pub’s rooftop and the metal lid of the skip. He was so numb that he barely felt the rain dampening his clothes.

“Are we done yet?” Regulus asked wearily. He was swaying on his feet.

“Not quite,” Bellatrix informed the young man. “Evanesco,” she commanded, sweeping her stick over the pile of carcasses. To Vernon’s shock, the bodies dissolved into the ground. That’s it, he was hallucinating. Decomposition didn’t work this way; bones didn’t melt like snowflakes into concrete!

“What are we waiting for, then?” A whine crept into Regulus’ inquiry as the woman remained stationary.

“Are you daft? You must be, for you know how much I hate repeating myself,” she said silkily. “You’re working your way up, remember? One more prey left.”

Vernon shivered. His father had used that tone before delivering his worst beatings. This Bellatrix had no qualms about sacrificing animals, so the next logical step was… Was… A chill that had nothing to do with the weather spread through his veins. He knew. He knew what was coming, and why in bloody hell couldn’t he fecking move?!

His senses were in overdrive. Above the cascading rain, he heard the creak of the door he’d exited earlier (was it thirty minutes or three hours ago? Time had lost all meaning). Two voices caught his ear, and he twisted ‘round to see the middle-aged couple who’d been dancing by the jukebox. ‘Run, run the other way!’ he shrieked inside his head, but couldn’t make a sound.

“So much for the six o’clock forecast, eh, Dickie? ‘Clear skies and mild evening,’ my arse!”

Dickie laughed. “Louisa, luv, you can’t predict Mother Nature. Just like any other woman, she does as she pleases, and sod the poor man trying to predict her ways.”

Louisa giggled in turn. “I’d be offended if you weren’t right!”

Those were the last words the cheerful couple exchanged. So normal and innocuous, yet the conversation was burned into Vernon’s brain, along with the phrase Bellatrix uttered with the boom of thunder: “Imperio.”

The couple instantly stopped speaking. Then the horrible woman said, “Come to me, Muggles.”

Dickie and Louisa approached Regulus and Bellatrix. Their steps were awkward and pinched, as if they wanted to resist the order but were unable to follow through.

Vernon’s heart hammered in his mouth. He was a coward. Wasn’t this the moment in books and movies where the underdog came out of the darkness, weapons aloft, sacrificing himself for the sake of others? ‘You’re excluding something crucial from this equation, mate.’ Even if he had more than his rotund body and the bits of gravel at his feet, what good were such things against words that killed? He was a coward, but he wasn’t (that) stupid.

“See, cousin, I can be generous,” Bellatrix purred, as she stepped behind the young man and laid her hands on his shoulders. “I’ve brought your quarry to you. Easier to kill immobile targets, and you won’t even be subjected to the usual ‘please spare us’ caterwauling. Once you do this, we can get away from the stench of mediocrity that permeates this place.” Was she wrinkling her nose in distaste?

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” Regulus said—at least, Vernon thought that was correct. The young man’s voice was barely audible over the storm.

The horrible woman was unconcerned. “If you don’t kill them here, I’ll just take them home and torture them to death there.” Conversationally, she asked, “Do you know, you can flay the skin off humans and they’ll live for several days before succumbing to blood loss and infection? It’s delightful.” Bellatrix sounded downright ecstatic as she declared, “You’ll be watching as I do it, of course, and I’ll remove the Imperious Curse so you hear them scream and cry and beg—beg for their lives, and then for their deaths—but I will keep them in agony until they simply stop.” She popped the P and squeezed Regulus’ shoulders, then slid away, moving toward the couple.

The horrible woman pointed her stick at Dickie. “Levicorpus,” she stated, and the gangly man was hung upside-down in the air, like the animals who preceded him. “Would you like me to show you a sampling of what I’ll do, or will you get on with it and end their suffering, coz? I’m fine either way, but the Muggles might disagree.”

“I—”

“Sectumsempra!”

Vernon bit down on his hand to keep from shouting as Dickie’s skin ripped open. He looked like he’d been cut by a thousand invisible knives. His blood coated Regulus and Bellatrix’s pale faces.

“Bella—”

“Crucio!”

Orange-blue bolts of light burst from the horrible woman’s stick, and Dickie rippled and twisted in the air, his face contorting in a rictus of pain.

“STOP!” Regulus wailed.

“NO!” Bellatrix shrieked, and even from his hiding place Vernon could see the madness in her eyes. “KILL THE MUGGLE NOW OR I RIP HIM IN TWO.” Vernon believed her, believed she would cleave this man in half with her words, and he thought he might faint.

Thankfully—and what a strange thing to think, thankful for death—the young man thrust his stick toward Dickie and roared, “AVADA KEDAVRA!” The blast struck Dickie square in the chest. Vernon hoped it worked instantaneously. Then Regulus turned, aimed his stick at Louisa, and repeated the spell. She collapsed to the ground in a graceless heap.

Vernon tasted salt and snot on his lips. He wasn’t sure when he started crying; his tears felt as cold as the raindrops. That happy couple went from present to past tense in a matter of minutes, and their only crime was turning the wrong corner. He blanked out for a bit, for the next thing he knew, Regulus was sicking up on the pavement.

“You’re pathetic,” Bellatrix told her cousin scornfully.

“I didn’t think it would be this way,” the young man groaned between heaves.

“Imbecile,” she growled, “what did you think it meant to be a Death Eater? It’s in our name. We feast on the deaths of others so that we may live. We’re doing our Lord’s work!” Bellatrix spoke with feverish conviction.

Whatever she was part of, she felt righteous for it, and a thrill of fear coursed down Vernon’s spine. How many so-called “Muggles” had already perished in this manner? How many more were to meet this fate? His hand involuntarily smacked against the side of the skip, making just enough noise to bring unwelcome attention.

Bellatrix’s head jerked in his direction. “What was that?” she hissed, before howling, “Who’s there?”

“Would you calm down?” her cousin snapped, wiping his mouth as he rose from his knees. “If you keep yelling that way, you’ll draw a crowd! Unless it’s your plan to demolish half the town’s populace and bring the entire wizarding world under scrutiny.” Regulus looked over his way, and Vernon hastily retreated.

“I won’t have loose ends, Regulus! If there’s a Muggle behind that contraption, you needs must eliminate him. Go on, do your duty. Practice makes perfect.” Vernon didn’t need to see her to know she sneered that line.

Panic flooded his body. No alleyway, no cardboard box, nowhere to run, save for ‘round the corner, but would he endanger the patrons if he ducked inside the pub? He dragged his hand through his sopping hair. He was a coward, but he couldn’t risk dozens of lives. The clipped rhythm of footfalls against pavement caught Vernon’s ear. He leaned back into the wall of the pub, held his breath.

It was in vain.

Regulus stood in front of him, the glowing tip of his stick that he held at hip-level lending eerie shadows to his face, but they did nothing to disguise the fact that he was a child. Perhaps sixteen at most? Dickie’s blood spatters mixed with rainwater, resulting in pink tracks coursing down the young man’s high cheekbones and the thin bridge of his nose. It was absurd and nauseating.  

Vernon shook all over. He hadn’t been this terrified since he was a small boy at the mercy of his father’s temper, but even his father’s strap couldn’t burst a heart. ‘Marge,’ he thought faintly, regretting his choices of late and the frown lines he’d put on his sister’s face. She was going to frown a lot more very soon, he was certain. She wouldn’t know he was murdered by magic. Instead, it would look like he’d fallen victim to the family vice and perhaps died whilst fending off a mugger. If they left behind anything of him at all.

The steady downpour of rain graciously disguised the fact that he’d pissed himself. Dying with urine visibly staining his trousers was one indignity too many for his taste. Vernon stared at his killer with resignation, wondering if this was all he was ever meant to be: a cockwomble who kept botching up his life, and now with no way to redeem himself. He had never placed much stock in praying, but in his head he begged God anyway, ‘Please, if You let me live, I will get myself sorted. No more skiving or acting dodgy. No more booze, ever. I will be dependable verging on dullness…’

That evening, Vernon Humperdinck Dursley, Jr. became a believer in the Almighty.

Though the young man’s stony expression never changed, his head tilted just a fraction, and he twitched his sparkling stick. Out of nowhere, a large wet rat appeared, squeaking outrage and scurrying toward the lamppost. Turning away from him, Regulus drawled, “Oh, look, Bells, here is your filthy Muggle espying our practice session.”

Vernon was sure Bellatrix reprised her ugliness regarding that nickname, but he stopped listening. Sliding down the wall, he sat on his haunches, staring at the angles of the skip without really seeing them. He stayed that way for endless inhalations, lulled into a stupor by the rain and relief from surviving the horror he’d witnessed.

When he finally stood up, stiff, cold, and pruney from wet, he shuffled to the side of the skip and peeked at the cluster of trees. The two Death Eaters were long gone, as were the bodies of Dickie and Louisa. Their corpses were probably disposed of the same way the animals’ were, and that knowledge gutted him. So many questions crowded his head. Were Dickie and Louisa married? Did they have children? How long would it take before someone missed them? And why, oh why did this happen? Why was he spared and they weren’t? No answers were forthcoming.

One thing he knew for certain: magic was not magical. It was vicious and cruel, and he’d never look at a card-trick magician in his cheap velour cape the same way again. All he wanted was to keep as far from hocus-pocus as he could get.

With careful steps, Vernon made his way back to the flat that he’d shared, until recently, with his ex-girlfriend, Tinsley. Stripping out of his sodden clothes and shoes, he staggered into bed. He was never more grateful to be alone. No having to lie about his whereabouts—or worse, attempting to tell the truth. 

Tomorrow, he was keeping his promise to God.