A/N: This is written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's: The Scenery Competition Round 1. Admittedly the timing was bad (apparently I read the date wrong; thought the first round was in July, not smack in my exam period in June). Hope it still works anyway. Maybe I can work the other scenes into it. No harm in working with the scenes even if I don't make it to the second round, right? Or however this round system works.

Anyway, enjoy. And wish me luck. Who invented the torture called exams anyway?

The Vigilant Night

Scene 1

Rain pounded against the windows, coming down in relentless sheets of water from the blackened sky. Just barely heard over the rain was the terrible howling of the wind and the cold glass trembled in response. The hand holding the curtains away from the frosted surface trembled too, prompting the heavy material to sway back into his previous position. Tassels hung on either side by the bottom frame: they were red ironically, laced with gold, but Dudley simply left them be. It was far more cheery with the curtains drawn over the storm progressing outside. Far more cheery when no-one was wondering whether the weather was simply nature's will or an omen for something worse. Whether it was normal or part of the Wizarding War which should not have concerned them in the least.

Their new lives had taken a little adapting to, particularly with his father stubbornly insisting they'd be back home in a matter of days. That first morning, the beefy man had been counting the seconds by his wrist-watch. And then the minutes. Then the hours. His mother had wrung her handkerchief till the corners began to fray and the dark haired woman, Hestia Jones, explained house-keeping rules to them. That took all morning, considering the Witch wasn't used to explaining the ways of magic to Muggles, they weren't particularly used to hearing about the topic without blowing a rather short fuse, and…well, everyone was anxious for varying reasons. Indeed, Hestia's explanations made little sense at all until a barn owl swooped down the chimney, clutching a letter. It was the relief of knowing that Harry was safe and sound at the Burrow that made her words understandable…to his ears at least.

His mother still looked a little ill at ease, although she had somewhat relaxed since her arrival. Whatever she said, he was sure know that Petunia had really loved her sister. It was just years of bitterness against magic he supposed. But he didn't really understand it. From a young age he'd been raised to never say that word and scorn it's very thought, but over the past few years he'd begun to doubt that. After all, while magic had dumped his cousin on their doorstep, the boy had proved to be – as disgusting as it was becoming to admit of late – useful.

Dudley had, admittedly, been rather spoiled throughout his journey of youth. He technically had another year of adolescence to go; he wouldn't be eighteen and a legal adult until the following June. But whatever changes could be made, his relationship with his cousin would likely never be rekindled – not that they had much of one to begin with. Their parting had perhaps been the highlight of their bond, a simple cordial handshake of farewell as cool and fleeting as the raindrops pattering upon the veiled windowpane. Before that was the dance through a rocky terrain; the only cup of tea he'd managed to get through the door wound up in little bits of porcelain in the rubbish bin. It may have been an accident; Harry had barely exited his room for the summer. It was remarkable, Dudley reflected, that the boy hadn't felt the need to visit the bathroom more than one or twice in a single a day (he didn't, after all, shadow the boy during every minute of his existence of Number 4 Privet Drive so he couldn't be entirely sure there weren't any additional ventures throughout the night). Knowing the nightmares and how horrible they could be (the Dementors had left their mark), the slightly older boy had decided after a long period of thought that the segregation was more likely due to Harry's own problems, both in his own world and in a place he could never really call home than any lasting ill-will towards him. After all, Harry had saved his life.

No…he reflected. That wasn't quite right. Their worlds weren't so separate anymore. After all, he was in a "safe-house" that was about as big as the haunted house a bunch of classmates had set up in junior high and about as shocking…until one got used to the dishes scrubbing themselves and the crochet needle weaving patterns of green in front of a chilly fire.

He wondered if there was a way to make it go warm. It was starting to get a little chilly.

On instinct, he flicked the curtains back again, before letting the material slide through his fingers to cover the frost-bitten window once more. Robert Frost would have a field-day with that.

No…that wasn't right. Robert Frost was a poet, wasn't he?

In any case, Frosty – or whoever was the guy who supposedly went around drawing on icy panes, was about the only person who would have a field day with the window. Even behind the thick curtain, the chill seeping whirling outside reminded him horribly of those Dementors.

'Oh dear.' He jumped a little at the voice, then a little further when he felt something warm steal through his fingertips. He turned to find the funny man in the bowling hat (whose name he still struggled to remember) holding out his stick (his wand). He immediately backed away from the window with apprehension growing, before the other male gave a cheesy grin and lowered it.

'Jumping at shadows, eh?' he asked, tucking the stick behind his ear, before rubbing his cheeks. 'It's hard to tell what's natural nowadays or them Dem-'

'Oh, don't say their name.' That was Hestia, who'd brought some odd looking treats in. That was another thing that needed adapting to. The weird delicacies of the Wizarding World.

In any other circumstance, it would have been amusing, watching Vernon Dudley lose weight. But everyone was apprehensive.

'The name is harmless,' the man in the bowler-head mumbled, but stepped away from the window.

'Well,' the woman sighed, brushing away black hair from her forehead. 'We're not all Dumbledore.'

They all recognised that name. Mrs Dursley lifted her head from its rested position; she was listening too.

Hence why all four of them jumped when there was a sharp tap on the window. It took a moment of hammering hearts and drawn wands before the window was raised to admit the water-logged owl.

The man in the bowler-hat (one of these days, he would learn the other's name) took the thick envelope and withdrew the parchment, drying it with a flick of his right wrist before skimming over its contents.

'Oh good. Good.' A grin spread over his face.

Hestia looked at him. 'Is that-?'

'He's safe.' There was a series of nods following. 'Harry's safe, bless my soul…'

Dudley wasn't too sure he knew the scope of his cousin's troubles but it certainly was a relief to know Harry was safe. Although, to his knowledge, the other was still with his friends…

'Oh, those fools,' the black-haired woman grumbled, taking the letter before shaking her head. 'Really, they ought to be a little more wary about what they put onto paper.'

Her tone suggested otherwise of course. After all, good news was what kindled the fire to burn a little warmer when the windows froze and the rain pattered insistently on the walls.

End of Scene 1

Word Count: 1225