Disclaimer: Harry Potter™, all characters, locations, institutions and other inventions copyrighted by Mrs. J. K. Rowling, mentioned in the Harry Potter novels, or in any other writings or statements—oral or written—by J. K. Rowling, are the sole property of said Mrs. J. K. Rowling, of her various publishers world-wide (such as, but not limited to, Bloomsbury Publishing Psc. and Scholastic Inc.), and of Warner Brothers™. No copyright infringement is intended, nor is any form of profit made from this work. This story was solely fabricated for the sake of my personal enjoyment, and published with the intent of entertaining others free of charge.
Rating: PG (K+)
Warnings: Mildly offensive language
Summary: Set during HBP. We join three Harry Potter characters on Christmas Day 1996.
Word count: Total: 6,766; this piece: 2,101 words.

I

'Ding dong merrily on high,
In heav'n the bells are ringing:
Ding dong! verily the sky
Is riv'n with angel singing.
Gloria, Hosanna in excelsis!'

'Merry Christmas, Diddykins!'

As Dudley Dursley appeared in the kitchen of his home on Christmas Morning, his mother Petunia threw herself over him, attempting to collect him in her arms; though, instead, seemingly realizing this was no longer possible, she wrapped her thin arms around her son's thick neck; her thrilled voice mingling with the television programme of carols. Dudley patted her back absent-mindedly, glancing over her shoulder at the breakfast table, where his father and aunt were sitting beside a pile of presents, both with cups of steaming coffee before them.

'Merry Christmas, Dud!' his father greeted him, raising his saucer into the air like a salute, grinning broadly, the cup wobbling dangerously thereupon.

'Come here, sweetie,' said Aunt Marge merrily, patting the empty chair beside here. 'C'm'ere, sit beside Marge!'

Dudley went over; he sat down, his mother hurriedly appearing by his other side with a frying pan, lading Dudley's plate with a couple of sausages and a fried egg.

'Give him some more, will you, Petunia? The lad's growing, for Heaven's sake!'

Petunia smiled lightly and obliged, putting down two additional sausages on her son's plate; however, as she turned away towards the oven, she frowned in disagreement—though this no one saw but Dudley, who knew his mother was still concerned about his diet, even though he was no longer obese (albeit chubby), courtesy of his boxing classes.

'While you're at it, Petunia dear, could you fetch some more coffee? My head's exploding!'

'Of course, Marge dear,' replied Petunia, an annoyed expression appearing on her face as Marge and Vernon looked away.

As her sister-in-law turned towards the kitchen sink for the coffee pot, Marge went on, 'By the way, Vernon, I'm glad that school has taken that boy off your hands—jolly nice of them to spare you the trouble of having him here during Christmas. What was the school's name now?'

'St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.' Dudley knew that his father's reply was automatic, yet forced.

'Oh, that's right. I forgot the name, it's ridiculously long and I'm getting older, you know, but thank God the kid's kept away—I hope the school's as secure as it sounds. I remember the last time I saw the brat … incredulously rude. Typical sociopath; I can't even remember the final night of my visit: I suppose I must've suppressed it all because of his cheekiness. One would think he'd show some gratitude over all you've done for him …'

'I quite agree, Marge,' said Vernon, glancing over at Petunia.

Marge nodded. 'I admire you. Say, will he return this summer, or can they keep him?'

'He'll return. Unfortunately, the school can't keep him for the summer holidays,' replied Vernon bitterly, 'but we'll only have him until the last July. Then he's of age and not our problem anymore.'

'Of age? I thought he was born the same year as Dudley?'

'Well, no,' said Vernon very quickly; Dudley knew he was thinking hard.

Dudley remembered the old man who had visited them that summer and what he had told them: his cousin would be of age on his seventeenth birthday, not his eighteenth; that was, apparently, how things were run in their world. Naturally, his parents could never confess this, and what other culture could Harry be adherent to where people turned of age one year before those living in the normal world? Aunt Marge could perhaps be trusted, but they could never admit their secret to her: the only ones aware of his cousin's peculiar nature was his parents and himself—at least as far as the social ring of the Dursleys was concerned.

'Well … this is a bit embarrassing. He had to remain in the third form,' Petunia lied. 'He caused too much trouble, when he was in the same school as Dudley—played truant every other lesson. When he actually went to class, he paid no attention whatsoever, that delinquent brat, and very often made sure the other students couldn't either: he caused havoc wherever he went in general, and in the classroom in particular. Which is partly why we sent him to St Brutus's in the first place. That's why he's in Dudley's year, but on a different school. He'll turn eighteen this July.'

'Doesn't surprise me,' grunted Marge and had yet another sip of coffee while the Dursleys relaxed: Dudley had been taught long since that Harry's true nature was the family's darkest secret and was not to be revealed for any outsider, not even Marge. 'That he had to redo a year, I mean. I'm glad there are places like that for them. To keep those instable villains out of society. Lock the madmen in, I say, and never let them on the loose! Only God knows what those people can do when they get their brains in action!'

'Er … Marge,' Vernon began very cautiously, as carefully as though he was presented with a bomb who might explode any minute. 'What exactly do you mean by "those people"?'

'Oh, Vernon, you know what I mean. Thieves, burglars, rapists, killers, workers' unions and commies … With such scum lose all around the country; it's no wonder odd things happen every now and then!' She cut her sausage in half, leaning down to the floor, giving one of the ends to her precious dog Ripper. 'I remember when I was here that summer three years ago. That Black man had gone loose. Killed thirteen people, didn't he?'

'Yes … yes, he did …'

'Do you know whether they caught him?'

They glanced at each other; the Dursleys knew perfectly well he had not been convicted—their nephew had informed them of that. However, they could not confess this to Marge. Black was, like their nephew, a wizard, and also their nephew's god-father: they could not risk telling Marge anything.

'Dunno,' Vernon muttered in the end, rescuing the situation. 'It was quite the hush-hush afterwards, wasn't it?'

Marge nodded fervently. 'I don't get what they're hiding. Or why they insist on putting people in jail—it's almost like they want them to escape!Well, ship 'em to Australia I say. Or kill 'em! Lousy government, repealing death penalty … That's the least thing you could do with such scum!'

'I quite agree, Marge,' said Vernon, acting much more relaxed now that the conversation was steered into safer territories. 'In my opinion, we should send them to Australia and hang them there. Those damned Communists, idiots, taking money from us to send to alcoholics and freaks that are too lazy to work for their own breadwinning!'

Both Petunia and Marge nodded fervently.

'Making me pay to them with my well-earned money! And then give it to such people too! If I'd want to, I could give money to charity like those philanthropist weirdoes, wouldn't I?'

'You're quite right, Vernon,' said Marge gravely, nodding over her fried egg. 'Those Labour nitwits should be happy to have a job—decent people like you and I shouldn't have to support them if they're too lazy to do it themselves.' She put the mug down. 'There! Are y'all done? I think it's time for some gift giving!'

She flashed a wide grin at her nephew, and turned around to fetch her hand-bag which she had slung around the back of her chair, Dudley looking with anticipation at her. 'I didn't know what to give you, love, but … here.' She handed over a white, simple envelope to him, labelled only with Dudley's name. Dudley opened it, and extracted a card with small painted Father Christmases, a banderol with the inscription 'Merry Christmas' spread on top of it. He opened it, saw his aunt's signature and a fifty-pound note neatly folded within.

'Thanks very much, Aunt Marge,' Dudley grinned, putting the note and the card back into the envelope.

Marge grinned back. 'Thought I'd give you money … you could buy whatever you'd like. Perhaps something cool for your motor bike?'

'Yeah, that'd be great!' Dudley grinned once again before opening his envelope from his parents—it contained precisely hundred pounds.

After an impressive lunch made by Petunia, consisting of the traditional turkey and claret, Dudley, Vernon and Marge had collapsed in one arm chair each, simply gazing into the fake fire wherein Harry had once disappeared, each sipping liqueur, while Petunia took care of the dishes from the great dining room adjoined with the dinner room.

'Mmm … Christmas.' Marge stretched and put her legs on the pedestal in front of her armchair, sinking deeper into the seat. 'It's nice not having to cook, for a change. Petunia, dear?'

'Yes?' Dudley's mother called back from the kitchen.

'Do you need a hand?'

'No, thank you, I'll manage this!'

'All right!' Marge lent back and let out another sigh of content, apparently very pleased that her service was unneeded.

Sitting in the armchairs, his father and aunt were soon snoring after having finished their drinks, and Dudley's thoughts drifted over to Harry.

Since he left them this summer, Dudley had spent an abnormal amount of time thinking of him, and what the old man coming to fetch him had said. He could not remember his name, though he thought the man's name was Dumbelforth. However, the man's name was not the important thing—it was what he had said that Dudley pondered. He had said Harry had been abused; though Dudley's parents claimed they had not abused his cousin—this, his parents had assured him of several times. Dudley had been raised to think that Harry was an ungrateful brat that had only taken up space—he had been more or less coaxed to believe so—but since the man had appeared in their home, Dudley had begun to consider the possibility of his parents being wrong. He had not confessed these thoughts to them, naturally. Though the process had begun after he had encountered those Dementors and after Harry had told them about the wizard who killed Harry's parents—Voldemort's—return.

Dudley could still envision the look on his mother's face as she had learnt this clearly, even though Dudley himself had been in a terrible condition due to the Dementors his mother so mysteriously had been able to identify: never before, nor after, had he seen her so scared, in such shock and terror, and he knew the terror was not only due to knowing something about the magical world: it was Voldemort's returned that had terrorized her. It was as though she had been informed that Vernon had died, or something similar, and Dudley had realized it was indeed extremely serious, though he didn't know anything about it, more than she had refused to throw her nephew out when her husband had demanded it, and she had refused to explain her behaviour to her husband—thus, Dudley dared not ask about her behaviour either.

And what had the man said? That he, Dudley, had been abused—and far more than Harry had ever been? He had yet to figure out the meaning behind those words, and it bothered him, for the man had seemed wise and his cousin had seemed very respectful towards him—he had treated him with something very near reverence, and when Dudley had seen the man's rage, he had come to understood his cousin's awe.

Half an hour later, when the Dursleys had rested enough for another helping of the hostess's delicious cooking, Petunia came carrying a huge pudding, setting it down upon the coffee table. 'Diddikins? Could you take out plates, cups and saucers from the cabinet?'

Dudley nodded and obliged, and as his mother put the pudding on the table, she started arranging them, as Vernon and Marge arose from their seats, and Vernon went over to the cocktail cabinet, extracting a bottle of brandy.

'Dud! Be a good lad and fetch brandy glasses for us all while you're at it, will you?'

As they sat down by the table, he poured liberal amounts of brandy into all four glasses, setting them beside each coffee cup, as Petunia sliced three thick slices and one considerably thinner of the pudding, apparently intending the latter for herself.

'Well then,' said Vernon loudly, as though he had to be overheard despite the fact no one was talking, 'Merry Christmas to all of you then!'

'Merry Christmas,' they all responded, drinking deeply from their glasses.