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Rating: K for all ages. Mild language. There will be nothing here you didn't find in Sorcerer's Stone. I understand "bloody" is more offensive to the British. Advice on incorporating that correctly into my rating is welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Privet Drive had seen better days. There was nothing particularly run-down about the little street—in fact, all of the homes had remodeled, resold, or rebuilt in the newest architectural fashions of the millennium, albeit in a sort of slapdash scraping-the-barrel fashion. The street that had once been a pinnacle of suburban respectability and elegant stagnation was no longer elegant or respectable, just stagnant. There remained only a single reminder of the street's heyday: the missing house between Number Two and Number Six Privet Drive. A bureaucratic blip, the streets' inhabitants would say. There had never been a Number Four Privet Drive.

This fact had always troubled Mrs. Number Seven greatly. She was a pedantic old hen who had moved into the neighborhood because her check had been reduced and Number Seven was cheap, neat and quiet. She would not have moved into the neighborhood if she had known that there was a missing number on the street. It was an inexcusable oversight. Almost as atrocious as the number of strangers who found their way onto the isolated suburban lane.

Most of the time Mrs. Number Seven would attempt to ignore the missing house, but the strangers caught her fascination. She spent hours at her window, tracking every pedestrian who walked by with utmost suspicion. It was her favorite occupation, but a fruitless one.

If Mrs. Number Seven had been looking out her window one night late in August, she would have been rewarded stupendously for her patience. At just about midnight, a black sedan purred past the stop sign at the end of the street and parked illegally just behind a flashy new notice board installed for community benefit by the Neighborhood Enlightenment Committee. Mrs. Number Seven, had she been awake and not dozing over a pink romance novel, would have commented on what an eyesore the useless contraption was. The large sign obscured most of the car and all of the man who got out of it.

In a moment, however, the man came walking down Privet Drive, with that peculiar, uncomfortable walk of someone who can't decide whether he wants to sneak or strut and is a little embarrassed to do either. Mrs. Number Seven would have remarked that it was a politician's walk. He had a slim briefcase in his hand, and looked very out of place on the darkened street. He walked along the sidewalk to Number Two Privet Drive and—just before he reached the edge of Number Four's lawn—he stopped, looking around furtively. His face was briefly visible in the moonlight street, and even from her window Mrs. Number Seven would have been able to recognize his face. She had seen him alternately reviled and praised on the telly for the past eight years. What the prime minister could possibly be doing on this street was impossible to guess—and would likely remain impossible, for a moment later he completely vanished.

Dudley Dursley furtively pulled a key out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock. There was a hissing sound and he swore softly. As he returned the key to whence it came, grimacing at its magically melted surface, he grumbled inaudibly: "Blast it—wizards—the whole lot of them—dragging me out here—midnight—locked out of my own home—if anyone from the Times heard…"

Dudley swiveled his head sharply, looking out for eavesdroppers. The wizards had assured him that no one could see him once he crossed the lawn, but he still felt exposed. It was strange coming back here after so many years, strange finding out his childhood home had been turned into some sort of wizarding safe house, strange being summoned to this clandestine meeting when the liaison wizards had no problem barging into his office through the blasted fireplace any time they wanted.

Shrugging off his nervousness, Dudley thumbed the doorbell with a grimace of distaste. After a moment the door opened a crack—the chain was still drawn—and a voice issued from the blackness within.

"Why should you never eat strange candy?" asked the unseen person inside.

Dudley threw up his hands. This was ridiculous. "Honestly, you know it's me already, don't you? All that mumbo-jumbo mind reading business…"

When a reply was not forthcoming, Dudley sighed, thrust his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky. It may be true that no one could hear him, but the question was still exceedingly embarrassing one. Finally, he answered: "Fine. I shouldn't eat candy because your stupid in-laws will inevitably have poisoned it. Can I come in now? It's blasted awkward standing out here like some sort of burglar."

The door closed, the scraping of the chain was heard, and it opened to reveal a handsome man in his late thirties, with rather untidy hair. His green eyes twinkled in the darkness with something close to a light of their own. The man grinned.

"Worried about the Times again, cousin? I've read some of that Montevo woman's articles; she's worse than Rita Skeeta."

Dudley glared at his cousin. He did not want to hear anything at all about Mariafe Montevo and he certainly didn't care who Rita Skeeta was. He was also not in the mood for Harry's effusive greetings. Just because they were family, just because Dudley had allowed his son to meet his freakish uncle, did not mean he wanted to be included in every Potter family birthday and anniversary (and good God, there were plenty of them!). But Harry refused to stop treating him as if they were brothers—the next thing out of his mouth would be an invitation, Dudley was sure of it.

"Isn't it your wife's birthday soon?" Harry asked. "Perhaps we could throw a little something for her—strictly muggle-friendly, of course..."

Bingo. Dudley shook his head, cutting off his cousin sharply. "I thought this was a business call."

Harry sobered a little. "Yeah… Come inside."

Harry stepped to the side and let Dudley pass by him into the foyer. Dudley's eyes strayed to Harry's cupboard, locked tight and untouched for more than twenty years. The sight reminded him of a drawer in his own home, locked equally tight and holding similar secrets. Harry caught him staring and they both looked away, hurrying into the kitchen.

Dudley walked past Harry, heading straight for the refrigerator. He wondered if the wizards kept any food in this house; he found himself craving something to occupy his fingers and his mind. Eating was and always had been Dudley's go-to distraction. The fridge was empty, however, and he closed it wearily.

"Try again," said Harry.

Dudley glanced at him and was shocked to see his cousin's wand out, pointed directly at him. He leapt out of the way. "Bloody hell!"

Dudley had made it to the dining room door, headed for the back way, hoping that no magic would hit him in the back as he ran, when he felt Harry's arms wrap around one of his own.

"Dudley, stop!"

Dudley did not stop. He staggered into the dining room, dragging his slim cousin with him. Two years of police training had left Dudley resembling a bull rather than an elephant, and Harry had never quite regained the weight loss his stunted youth had cost him. It was absurd for Harry to try to use physical force on Dudley. That was what wands were for, wasn't it? Beating bigger opponents?

"I wasn't pointing at—Dudley, stop!"

Dudley stopped. He'd been stupid, overreacted. Harry wasn't going to hurt him. Harry had no reason, no motive for attacking him. He hadn't used his wand when Dudley tried to run, even though he could have easily stopped him with it. He sighed. This wouldn't have happened in parliament, wouldn't have happened at all if he weren't so preoccupied and antsy around magic.

Harry let go of him, panting. "I thought you were going to drag me out the door for a moment there."

"Thanks," Dudley grumbled.

"For what?"

"Not magicking me. When I ran."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, for putting up with all this. I know you don't like magic, and you already have to deal with it at work… It's really decent of you."

Dudley trudged back to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. His own, he noticed, from so many years ago. Here was the scratch from his UltraMan action figure. He peeled his eyes from the table and watched Harry cross to the fridge. To his astonishment, the younger man was greeted by a display of food when he opened it.

"Ah, excellent. Ginny made lasagna," Harry said. He turned to Dudley. "I conjured the contents of my fridge to this one. I'll put it back, and she won't notice a little gone."

"You lot must be awful absent-minded if your wife doesn't notice the lasagna missing. Mine always does."

"Actually, Ginny always does, too." His cousin shared a sheepish smile with him, and then put the lasagna on the counter. Harry started to bring out his wand, thought better of it, and put the whole container in the microwave. The outdated model's hum was unnaturally loud in the abandoned house.

Dudley pulled his mind back to business. "Why are we here? Why not my office? Or your house?"

Harry sat down. "Because I can't leave this house. I'm watching someone—she's upstairs sleeping—and I couldn't bring her with me. We can't figure out what to do with her, and I thought you might be able to help."

Dudley thought that this was less than illuminating, but mentally began preparing a list of strings he could pull to have someone guarded. He had a contact in the justice department… "Is she dangerous? A witness to something? A criminal? Our prisons are no more secure than yours; I've been over this with your brother-in-law."

"No, I don't need any of that. This isn't a job for Prime Minister Dursley. This is a job for Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Dursley." Harry got up and fetched the lasagna and two forks. He plopped it in between them on the table and continued. "We've been having trouble with this group trying to break the Statute of Secrecy—I'm sure Percy has briefed you about it before."

Dudley nodded, tasting the lasagna warily. Who knew what witches cooked with?

"Good," Harry said. "Recently they've been raiding government offices—the Daily Prophet and such—and we couldn't figure out how they weren't tripping the wards." Dudley raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly explained, "Tripping the alarms. We managed to track down one of their hideouts last month, and the raid didn't quite go as planned."

"Is the woman upstairs one of them?"

"No—no. She's a little girl." Here his cousin stopped, clearly upset. "Albus's age. We found her in the hideout, half-starved and obliviated—she'd had her memory wiped. We have no idea who she is, and neither does she."

What a terrible thing to do to a child. Dudley knew that terrible things happened to children in the real world—heck, he'd campaigned on gun safety and child protection reform—but these wizarding things… They were so unnatural, it was just worse. "What was she doing there?"

"We think they were using her to get past the wards." Harry frowned. "Look, it's complicated. Our research team only got a quick look at her; I didn't want them upsetting her more than necessary. It appears, however, that she's impervious to magic. No spells work on her, nothing."

It was Dudley's turn to frown. "I thought you said they took her memory with a spell?"

"Yeah. Like I said, complicated."

Dudley set down his fork tiredly. The lasagna was half gone; it was very good, whatever Harry's wife had put in it. Dudley ran his fingers through thinning hair. "Well, what do you want me to do with her? I can't put a witch in a normal person's house; I can't put any of my CPS workers on the case; I can't give her a protection detail if those wizards are going to come after her…"

"She's not a witch," his cousin said.

"Come again?"

Harry leaned over the kitchen table. "Dudley, she's a muggle child. No magical power at all, and no knowledge of the magical world. After all she's been through, I'd like to keep it that way. That's why I want you to take her. You and your wife, personally, until we find her family."

Dudley blinked. He didn't speak, didn't alter his expression. The reaction always gave him the appearance of being slow, but his professional associates—which nowadays, God help him, included Potter—had learned long ago that he was simply analyzing the situation. Not answering immediately was part of his political persona. Even the general public remarked on the prime minister's habit of staring blankly before coming up with a scintillating reply to a jab from a political rival, although Montevo claimed it was because someone was feeding him lines through a Bluetooth.

Dudley thought it over. The knowledge that the child was a normal person—one of his own people, the people he had sworn to protect—made the whole issue seem personal. He wanted to take the girl. Sighing, he looked at his cousin. "I can't."

"What? Dudley, you're perfect for it. You're already under twenty-four hour muggle and wizard surveillance. She'd be safe; you'd be safe. You even have a son her age. You could tell the press she's a visiting pen pal, or something. It would only be for a few months, Dudley. Please."

Dudley squirmed in his chair. His tongue was all tied. He'd wanted to tell Harry, but not this way. He wasn't ready. He didn't—oh bother, it was no use. The secret was bound to come out anyway; his desk drawer was nearly bursting.

"Vincent got a bloody letter."

Harry's face was blank for a moment until he caught up with the change in topic. Then he smiled broadly. "Why, that's great! I had no idea. You never told me he'd shown any magical talent. You must bring him over to see the family, properly this time. And he'll be in Albus's year at school. Oh, and don't worry about tuition or supplies—if this isn't a time for nepotism then I don't know what is. I'll get everything taken care…" Harry trailed off as he noticed the look on Dudley's face.

"I don't want him to go," Dudley said. It hurt to say it, especially since Harry reacted exactly as Dudley had predicted. His cousin completely deflated, his enthusiasm replaced with a touch of a certain look Dudley hadn't received from Harry in nineteen years. Dudley didn't hate his cousin, not anymore, and though his mother might turn in her grave to hear it, he didn't want to hurt him any more than he had. "It's not what you think. I don't—I don't hate wizards. Magic gives me the creeping willies—you know that—but I love my son, Harry. Believe me. I love Vincent, wizard or not. I'm not trying to ruin his life, or punish him, or punish you." Dudley sighed heavily. "I just—I just don't want him to get hurt."

To Dudley's relief, Harry seemed reassured. Unfortunately, it didn't look like he was going to let the matter drop.

"Dudley, you realize that if he doesn't get any training he won't be able to control his magic—and then he will get hurt. You can't repress magic. I couldn't; he won't be able to, either. Do you know that?"

Dudley knew that. He gone over it a thousand times in his head. He didn't know what to do about it. "Aren't there… private tutors or something? Anything but that school."

"What do you have against Hogwarts?"

Wasn't it obvious? Dudley knew wizards were a reckless lot, but Dudley was honestly surprised that Harry let his own children go there. "It's dangerous! Every summer, you came back and someone had tried to kill you and your mates. Giant snakes? Gladiator games? I don't even know half of it, I'm sure, since Mum and Dad always shut you up before you said too much. I won't put Vincent in danger. He can't go to that school."

For a moment, the old house was silent. Then Harry laughed. Really roared. "You think—you think he'll be in danger? Oh, Dudley. Dudley. I'm sorry. Just give me second."

Harry took off his glasses and forced down his giggles. Dudley watched the display impatiently. Crazy, his cousin was. Maybe a decent fellow, but still crazy. "Are you done?"

"I'm sorry, Dudley. It's just the last reason I ever expected to hear. Listen, my experience at Hogwarts was not typical. It was so far from typical I cannot begin to tell you. First of all, I was an idiot. It comes with the territory, being a Gryffindor, but there you go. Secondly, I was super famous. And most importantly, the most powerful dark wizard of all time was constantly trying to kill me. None of that stuff applies to Vincent, right?"

Dudley shook his head.

"Then I assure you, he will come home next summer and tell you fantastic things, but none of them will include 'Hey Dad, I almost died.' Hogwarts School is the safest place on in the country. I promise."

Dudley found the tension that had made its home in the back of his neck almost four months ago start to dissolve. He had been worrying for nothing. Smiling a little, he said, "Well, it'll be a relief to get all those damn letters out of my desk. I guess I'll have to have someone stop by and talk to Vince, and the misses." He glance at his cousin, whose expression clearly showed that he was dying to do it personally. "Would you—"

"Absolutely!"

"Good." Now back to the subject at hand. "Now you see why I can't take the girl. You wanted her with her own kind."

"Oh, she'll be gone by the time Vincent gets back next summer; you can tell her he went to a boarding school. It'll be no problem. Will you still take her? I know it'll be some work, since you have to get Vincent ready and everything, but I am dying to get home. The investigation is at a standstill as long as I'm stuck here watching her."

Dudley nodded. "Alright then. Now about all this rubbish in Vincent's letter—does he really have to wear a pointy hat? And what classes will he be taking? I didn't see anything about business, or maths, or social studies…"

Author's notes:

I am American, and apologize for any anachronisms (ie. my portrayal of the position of prime minister, etc.) I hope to find a happy medium between capturing the same local flavor as the books and not having to do research. Please let me know if I am embarrassing myself.

This story will focus on the next generation, with a few guest-star adults, as above.