Part II: Harry Potter Fic "Magical Dursley"

Dudley Dursley, Hogwarts, and all other characters, settings, and content from the "Harry Potter" series are the property of the J.K. Rowling estate and their respective copyright holders; don't mind me, I'm just playing with her toys.

The morning after the Dursley family received Charlie's letter, Charlotte woke thinking the whole thing had been a strange dream. After all, a wizard school? What a very odd concept, and whoever heard of such a thing? However, she couldn't put her normally level-headed husband's behavior out of her head. It hadn't just been his uncharacteristic hesitation and silence, or the slight tremors she’d seen running through his hands as he read the letter—it had also been the pasty, greenish tint to his skin as he'd trudged up the stairs.

It had also been that he hadn't come to bed until nearly four in the morning.

This last bit was, in particular, why Charlotte was so surprised to find Dudley already awake and downstairs by the time she got up. Dudley always slept in on Saturdays, never mind going to bed at such an ungodly hour. But when she walked into the kitchen to get the pancake batter started, there was Dudley, fully dressed and rummaging loudly through the junk drawer.

"Good morning, Dudley darling," Charlotte said, trying to mask her uncertainty with cheerfulness. Dudley grunted in response. His wife hesitated, but she hadn't been married to Dudley Dursley for fourteen years just to let him ignore her when strange things were afoot. She marched right up to her husband and exclaimed, "Dudley, for heaven's sake, what is going on? We get some funny trick letter and suddenly you're—"

"Where’s my cousin's last letter?" Dudley interrupted her. Charlotte couldn't have been silenced any faster if Dudley had put his hand over her mouth. Her jaw snapped shut and her eyes bulged in surprise as he, not receiving a response, turned back to the drawer. He sifted through papers, rubber bands, a broken noisemaker of Charlie's, paper clips, refrigerator magnets, and a few old Christmas cards, looking for one very specific letter.

Dudley had sat by Charlie's bedside until after three in the morning, talking with his son about the letter. Charlie had been, in turns, confused, angry, incredulous, and finally, excited. After leaving his son, Dudley had tossed back another strong drink, tried and failed to get a few hours of sleep, and finally admitted to himself that if Charlie wanted to go to that school, there was nothing for it. So now, despite the fact that Harry Potter hadn't been mentioned in his house for nine years, he was searching high and low for the last message his cousin had sent him.

Charlotte watched Dudley tear through the junk drawer with increasing frustration, until it gradually dawned on her that she wasn't going to get answers to any of her questions until her husband was through with whatever he was trying to accomplish. In hopes of ending his preoccupation, she went to the study and, thanks to her uncommonly efficient organizational skills, returned only a few moments later with the letter in question.

Dudley took the letter from his wife with a brief nod of gratitude, and sat down at the table with it. Looking over the birth announcement for Lily Luna Potter, suppressing a shudder as the picture on it blinked, he found what he was looking for: his cousin’s address.

Grabbing a pad of paper in a decidedly disgruntled fashion, Dudley penned as much of a note as he could stand:

Potter—

This is your fault, you know.

Don’t suppose you've got a ruddy owl I can borrow before July 31st?

—Dudley

Hoping Potter would be confused by his brevity so he could, at least, get some amusement out of this bloody situation, Dudley trudged off to find an envelope and post the letter.

Part III: Excerpt from "Song of the Blood"

 It had been two days. With her hands bound before her, the other end of that short leash always held by one of the two of them, she had little choice but to walk. Her only other option was to be dragged, and she had the feeling that at least the smaller one would enjoy that.

The shorter man, compact but barely a few inches taller than she, had a loud mouth—at least when it came to her. He said little to his companion, and those few phrases had been respectful compared to the abuse he heaped on Sera. For her, he seemed to hold a special hatred. She got the impression it was because she worked so hard to deny him the sadistic pleasure of watching her kick and scream.

It amused her, that he was so invested in her reactions. He was like a schoolyard bully, only happy when he upset someone else. It would be pointless for her to cry and beg, and would only feed his sadism, so she concentrated on her plan and ignored him.

Her plan, if it could be called that, hadn’t made much progress over the two days she’d been with her captors. For while the first man was comically easy to bother, there was the matter of the second.

The taller man, larger built and with long, dark hair, posed a serious problem to any plan Sera might contrive to escape. He spoke little, but his grey eyes seemed to notice everything. Even now, as the shorter man jerked on the rope that bound her hands, she had barely stumbled before he was there. His hand closed around her arm—she hadn’t realized how much larger he was, that his fingers touched around her bicep—and he roughly kept her on her feet. While one might mistake his silence for stupidity, she could sense the power between her two captors. The large man was unmistakably in charge.

---

The girl’s silence was starting to grate on him. At first, Geoff had been glad not to have to hear the usual, “Who are you? Where are you taking me?” After two days of walking, though, it was becoming unnerving. They had removed her gag when they were far enough into the woods, but the girl still hadn’t said a word. She just walked obediently between him and Hunter, hands bound in front of her and eyes on the ground. If he wasn’t careful, he almost forgot she was there.

Geoff refused to think that she was so quiet because she dreaded their destination. Instead, he vilified her, convincing himself that she was trying to guilt them into releasing her. As time went on, he began to resent her more, telling himself that she was just pouting, that he shouldn’t give in to her childish behavior. He refused to start feeling bad for her.

In moments, however, when he was less careful about his thoughts, he began to see that she had known someone was coming for her. She knew what they were bringing her to, and looked upon her fate with resigned dread. But he wouldn’t admit that he was taking her to torment and most likely to death. He preferred to think that she was manipulating them, and made himself angry with her for it.

To that end, he began to abuse her. During the day, he set the pace. Hunter’s silence when the pace became punishing encouraged him, and he would insult her when she fell behind him.

“Move that ass, slut,” he hissed on the third morning as she struggled to rise past the protesting muscles in her legs. She didn’t even look at him, and so he went on, refusing to admit to himself that all he wanted was a reaction from this unflappable girl. “What, bitch, you think you’re better than me? Well let me tell you, I’ll be there when the warlord knocks your little pedestal out from under you, and I’ll laugh. Oh, yeah, I’ll laugh my ass off.” She was finally on her feet, eyes on the ground, and he turned away, grinding his teeth. He missed the single tear that hit the pine needles at her feet.

Part I: Harry Potter Fic "Magical Dursley"

**A Note before we begin: I understand that JK Rowling has announced that although she considered giving Dudley a magical child, she decided against it based on the principle that no magical gene could get past Vernon's DNA. That being said, however, consider this an alternate universe setting if you must, but I like to pretend, for sake of this piece, that she never said that.**

Dudley Dursley, Hogwarts, and all other characters, settings, and content from the "Harry Potter" series are the property of the J.K. Rowling estate and their respective copyright holders; don't mind me, I'm just playing with her toys.


Mr. Dursley, of number 9 Forsythia Place, was enjoying a quiet drink after work while he watched the news. In the kitchen, his wife puttered away, contentedly wiping down every appliance she had used for dinner before she prepared for bed. She talked while she worked, ostensibly to her husband, but truth be told, more often than not Mr. Dursley only half listened.

"Talked to your mum, who said she and your dad are coming back from Spain to visit nearer the end of holidays," she was saying, perfectly aware that she had less than her dear husband’s full attention but not particularly bothered by it. "Charlie will be so pleased his gramma and grandpa will be here for his birthday. They always bring him the best presents." Though he was only partially aware of his wife's cheerful monologue, Mr. Dursley caught enough of it to chuckle appreciatively at this last statement. His Charlie did like to get the most out of his birthdays.

Mr. Dursley was so used to his wife's chatter that he barely even noticed a slight change in her tone. "Dudley?" She called out from the kitchen, sounding for the first time a little uncertain.

"Yes, Lottie?" he replied comfortably, hoping that Charlotte"s conundrum wasn't something likely to require heavy lifting, and therefore something that would require him to get off the couch.

"Charlie got a piece of mail today…" she trailed off, seeming quite unsure how to proceed. Dudley’s mind, well-trained to suppress anything out of the ordinary, skipped uneasily as he suddenly found himself dredging up decades-old memories.

"Mail?" He repeated, trying to sound nonchalant. "Not having trouble at school, I hope. I thought we'd sorted all that out."

"Well," Charlotte replied, still in her apron, as she came into the living room. "I haven't actually opened it yet. I wouldn't mention it, but it's just a little unusual…" She trailed off, and Dudley, with a thrill of foreboding, spotted an envelope in her hand. Even from here, he could tell it was addressed in emerald green ink.
Dudley's hand shook slightly as he held it out for the letter. Charlotte handed it over, and Dudley read the front:

Mr. C. Dursley
9 Forsythia Place
Little Whinging
Surrey

And on the back of the parchment envelope, as Dudley knew there would be, was a purple wax seal. Dudley, without a second’s hesitation, opened his son's letter. Charlotte read over his shoulder.

Dear Mr. Dursley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Clearwater
Deputy Headmistress

Dudley sat very still for several long moments. Charlotte, growing more confused and discomfited by the second, fidgeted and giggled nervously before finally saying, "But Dudley, this is some sort of joke, of course!" When her husband didn't respond, she paled. "This is a joke, isn't it?"

Dudley sighed heavily and heaved himself up from the couch, the envelope and its disturbing contents clutched tight in his large fist.

"Dudley?" Charlotte asked, her voice going slightly shrill. "Where are you going?"

Without looking back at her, Dudley Dursley lumbered towards the staircase. "Got to go give Charlie his letter, don't I?"


PART II:
http://greydaymuse.blogspot.com/2013/03/part-ii-harry-potter-fic-magical-dursley.html?m=0