A/N: For Harmonic Friction, who challenged me to write a story about Vernon.

The Problem of Harry

Vernon Dursley was a man who enjoyed his breakfast. His favorite breakfast, today's breakfast, in fact, consisted of fat strips of bacon still sizzling on his plate; thick slices of bread, crisped brown, softened with butter; and eggs that left enough yolk behind for his crusts to mop up. But it was rather difficult for him to enjoy his meal when the sullen ingrate across from him only picked at his own food.

"What's the matter, boy? Don't like your food?"

"My stomach hurts," he whined back. Always whining, that one. Next to him, Dudley forked one of the boy's slices of bacon over onto his own plate. Vernon smiled fondly at his son. Dudley, now, he had a healthy appetite. He was only seven, but he always cleared his plate, no matter what was set before him. Vernon couldn't stand picky eaters. Food was food, and it rankled him that after all he and Petunia had done for the boy, he had the nerve to turn up his nose at what they provided.

Vernon eyed Harry with annoyance. He was the exact opposite of Dudley in every way. His shaggy hair grew thick and black, sprouting from his head like a haystack. He looked so common. Likely he made his hair grow just to spite them. Although Vernon had no idea how you-know-what worked and was quite happy not knowing, he suspected that the boy was perversely trying to bankrupt them by requiring a haircut every week. Of course that would never happen, but who could guess how a child's mind worked? Well, he'd have a word with Petunia. She could take care of it this time. Likely she'd do a better job than the barbers, anyway. Idiots, all of them, always trying to get you to keep up with the current fashion when all you wanted was a trim. None of that shaggy fringe nonsense for him, thank you very much. He was normal, not some hippie weirdo.

Petunia sniffed as she noticed the boy still toying with his food. "Hurry up," she said. "You'll be late. Duddy's already finished, aren't you, darling?" Dudley beamed as he drained his glass and shoved back from the table. The boy stuck out his elbow at just the right moment, jostling Dudley who, rightfully, raised a protest.

"He hit me!"
"I didn't mean to. You elbowed me!"

Vernon bristled. His son wasn't a liar. "Now, I saw quite clearly that you put your elbow out, so don't try to deny it." The boy was always sneaking about, never giving the whole truth about anything. Why, just last week half of Petunia's trifle had disappeared from the pantry overnight. The boy denied eating it, but who else would have? Dudley had said he hadn't, so it must have been Harry. He'd gotten his deceitful tendencies from his father, no doubt. Bad blood, just like Vernon had thought. They were doing Harry a favor, taking him in, raising him, feeding him proper meals. He could have gone to the orphanage, if they hadn't been so generous. He wouldn't have had food like this there, that's for certain! And if Harry's parents hadn't been mixed up in whatever foul dealings they'd been involved in, likely they wouldn't have been able to feed themselves half so well, either. What sort of money could they make, in their world? It was all shifty, completely shady.

The boy stood, scraping his chair against the floor. Petunia winced as she cleared the plates. Vernon glared. He should know better. Dudders never scraped his chairs, and Harry was a runty little thing. Shouldn't he be able to get up more quietly?

"Help your aunt!" Vernon snapped, irritated that he had to say anything. Harry should be happy to help Petunia. She worked hard keeping the house neat and taking care of Dudders. They'd taken in the boy out of family duty (what would the neighbors have said if they'd found out the Dursleys had sent their nephew to an orphanage? Likely there'd have been some talk. But Vernon was sure that everyone recognized their generosity in taking Harry in), and the least the boy could do was show some gratitude.

Vernon watched as the boy, shuffling in Dudders' old clothes, clumsily stacked plates and carried them to the sink. Perhaps the clothes were a bit big; after all, his son was a normal size, but there's no reason to waste perfectly good clothing. The boy should wear a belt, turn up his hems. He could easily look less like a scruffy wastrel. Less like his good-for-nothing father, who'd gotten himself blown up before his twenty-second birthday! What a waste of space. Vernon would make damn sure that Harry didn't go down the same route. No, he would go to a proper school (a strict school), learn a useful trade, hold a regular job. No family member of his was going to rattle around aimlessly, whispering mumbo-jumbo and casting spells. No, they'd stamp it out of Harry, before it became a problem. He'd never be one of the Dursleys, not entirely, but he'd be normal, at least. He wouldn't know anything about that.

Vernon finished his last strip of bacon, dabbing away the grease on his chin with his napkin. The boy collected his now-empty plate and carried the stack to the sink, then turned back.

"Can I go?" His voice was belligerent, despite his youth. But then, it was never too early for bad blood to show, Vernon reflected. "I'll be late."

"Go, go." Vernon waved his hand impatiently, and the boy darted from the room. "He should help you with more of the chores, Petunia. He's impudent. Heading for trouble, that one."

Petunia nodded in agreement. They often discussed the problem of Harry, but they always came to the same conclusion: If they were consistent with discipline and hard work, his attitude would improve. And if not, Vernon smirked, when he got to secondary school he'd soon learn the importance of discipline. Yes, he thought, the problem should sort itself out quite nicely indeed.

Fin.