Author's Note: I was bitten by a plot bunny. My apologies. Hope you enjoy - just an amusing little one-shot that was demanding to be written. And yes, the world has gone insane - enough so that Vernon Dursley is the good guy. Or at least he thinks he is.
Dursley. Vernon Dursley.
Vernon Dursley grunted and pressed the binoculars closer against his eyes. He'd be damned if he let the little bugger escape.
"Sergeant," he barked. "What've you got?"
The other man glanced up. His feet were propped against the dashboard and he held a folder open on his lap. "Young lad, about twenty. Dark hair, small. Witnesses have seen someone matching that description at every crime scene, 'scept for the McDougalls'. He was spotted at the Lynks' estate by the gardener three years ago, again at the Mucklers', the Amyths', Jones', Roberts'… Some old bird, name of Figg, swore she saw him skulking round the bank just before that break-in a few months back. Said you knew her. Said it was him," the man offered.
Vernon's grip tightened. Of course it was him. No one had believed him, oh no, but he'd seen the trouble in the boy right from the very beginning. Should've sent him off to St. Brutus's sooner, but the damned school had wanted a physiatrist's recommendation and Petunia had been convinced they needed to keep everything hushed up. Then the boy had gone and done the unthinkable – he'd broken out. Now he was loose on the streets, and getting up to the trouble that Vernon had put him away to prevent.
"Anything on the girl?" he snapped.
"Nineteen. Name's Ginevra Weasley, more commonly known as Ginny. Apprehended a few times for petty theft. Papers say she ran away from her family about the same time our boy escaped from St. Brutus."
Vernon's hopes were minutely raised by his partner's hesitation. "You don't believe it."
"No, sir. See, the oldest Weasley left Brutus the same year he started, and he went to the same primary school as the second youngest, Ron. The parents say they won't have anything to do with the oldest and that the girl ran away. If you ask me, that's too much to be a coincidence. I think the whole family's in on it."
Vernon's eyes gleamed. Finally catching the boy in the act would prove he'd been right all along. But a whole ring – that would be the case of his life. The promotion would be his.
A sudden explosion in the warehouse they were watching made him swear, and he tore off his seatbelt, bellowing at his sergeant to do the same. He threw himself out the door and stumbled behind the dumpster, the only available shelter that side of the alley. He was just in time; the car creaked ominously as something heavy landed on it, and the explosion that followed belted jets of flame and spewed metal parts.
Pulling out his gun, he crouched low and sprinted around the burning car, grimacing at the heat. His partner was half sprawled behind some old boxes and Vernon had choice words for him as he dragged the barely-conscious man to safety. Sympathy was never one of his strong suits. If the man had been stupid enough to let himself get blown up, then someone ought to cure him of that stupidity. He called for an ambulance on his mobile and irritably tossed his jacket over his sergeant.
Then something caught his eye, and he followed the shadow, knowing immediately that it would be his nephew.
"I know you're there, boy," he muttered. "Back up's on the way. Do us all a favour and turn yourself in."
Quiet laughter met his ears and Vernon was sure he was the only one who knew the boy well enough to recognize the madness in it. He cursed again, this time because he felt the situation – and that ruddy nephew of his – deserved it.
At that moment the ambulance arrived, and Vernon knew his nephew would already be gone. He'd lost his chance.
Watching his partner be taken away only made him feel worse; who knew how long the case would be delayed while he was in hospital. So he felt no regret being a little sharp with the blundering dunderhead he was forced to report to.
Especially when the man, squinting at his papers, asked if he were Dernon Vursley.
"It's Dursley!" he bellowed. "Vernon Dursley!"
Three months. Three long, miserable, wasted months without another single ruddy lead. Vernon would've asked for another partner, but the sergeant was the only one who hadn't adopted some sort of respect for his pathetic nephew and started referring to him by that awful pseudonym.
Or so he thought.
Walking into the lobby, he was just in time to hear the end of his sergeant's recount to the pretty receptionist.
"… he just appeared out of nowhere, then BAM! The thing exploded like nothing I've ever seen before. No wonder they call him the Magician." He shook his head in awe.
Vernon felt like vomiting on the man and asking if he'd ever seen anything like that. "NEVER SAY THAT NAME!" he roared, slamming his fists onto the countertop, spit flecking his sergeant's release papers.
The urge to strangle the other man only subsided when the sergeant timidly said he thought he knew where the boy would strike next. Vernon found himself driving up to Privet Drive to have a cup of tea and a chat with his old neighbor, Arabella Figg.
"Vernon, come in, come in. Don't mind Mr. Tibbles, sergeant. How can I help you?" she asked as they sat down.
"Arabella, we're worried the boy is going to go after your house. We'd like to take you into protective custody, just in case, and keep an eye on the house."
Mrs. Figg frowned. "What about Mr. Tibbles and my other babies?"
Vernon's sergeant was quick to reassure her. "You can take them with you, if you'd like, but it would probably be more comfortable for them if they stay here with us."
"Well, alright," she conceded. "As long as you take proper care of them. Mr. Tibbles only eats tuna on Wednesdays, but the others aren't as picky.
"I wish I'd believed you about that boy, Vernon. He always seemed like such a sweet, innocent child when he stayed with me. A bit mischievous, perhaps, but not a bad sort. Still, I can't believe he broke out of St. Brutus. They have the strongest security of those sorts of school in the country." She shook her head. "He was always oddly fascinated with Houdini and the m-word." It had always been unusual how much the Dursleys hated the idea of magic, but they were a prudent family with a deep dislike of anything they considered frivolous.
Vernon stiffened. The boy had been into all sorts of magic tricks, thought he was clever because he could pull a coin from someone's ear. Not like Dudley, who was in his second year at Oxford with a scholarship.
"Mr. Tibbles, Mr. Tibbles, what are you doing?" Mrs. Figg shrieked.
The cat had leapt onto the table and flattened itself against it, putting its ears back and hissing. He glared at the doorway.
Vernon exchanged a glance with his sergeant and they both pulled out their guns.
"We'll take care of this, Arabella."
They inched down the hallway, checking each room for any sign of him. They found what they were looking for in the kitchen.
"Bloody hell!" said the sergeant.
Taped to the wall, where the back of the refrigerator had previously rested, was a picture of Houdini.
Mrs. Figg entered the room a few minutes later, clutching tightly to Mr. Tibbles who looked less than pleased. "It was there when I answered the door," she said, shaken. "How could he have come and gone with us here and the doors locked? And what's he done with my food?"
Half an hour later, Vernon put the picture of Houdini into an evidence bag. He glowered, wishing more than anything that he could tear the thing to shreds, then find his nephew and do the same to him. It was imperative that he wrapped up the case as quickly as possible. Most of his colleagues were already openly disdainful; now they'd have the perfect excuse to mock him. Stolen practically under his nose…
Luckily he only had to wait a few days for the next lead. Apparently, there was an old pub that an anonymous witness thought they'd find interesting. The man swore he'd seen someone matching the Magician's – Vernon had twitched when the man used the pseudonym – description. However, he felt he ought to let them know that it was a special sort of pub. That, combined with the sergeant's new information on the girl's background, made the place their next lead.
That's how Detective Vernon Dursley found himself in a stakeout outside of Madam Malkin's Brothel. Apparently Miss Weasley had some sort of lurid connection with the place, and the Sergeant thought she might have enlisted the boy in livening it up for an evening. Just the sort of disturbing thing the boy would go for, Vernon thought morbidly. His main goals for the evening were to get a sighting, possibly a photo, and to keep his sergeant from getting blown up again. Another delay in the case would give his nephew more time for trouble.
They'd sent an agent in undercover about half an hour ago, and he reappeared now, raising a cigarette to his lips in the signal. Vernon got out of the car, fingering his wallet. His gun was in the other, deeper pocket, safely concealed from sight. Both he and the sergeant were dressed informally. They were, for all intents and purposes, two friends out for a night of fun.
They nodded greetings to the man, as they would if they didn't know him, but didn't meet his eyes and avoided looking at his face in general. When they entered the building, a woman bustled over from the bar to ask them if they would like a table. It looked like a normal pub, but Vernon knew that the main service Malkin's offered was not a good price on dinner. He quickly rid his mind of thoughts that would have made his dear Petunia blush.
He lowered his eyes and opted for a discreet expression. "Actually, we heard you had something special on the menu, and some friends of ours recommended that we try it."
"Ah." She understood. "Of course. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the chef so you can tell him your exact requirements."
It was like walking into a lake after months in the desert. The room they entered was full of plush furniture, luxurious fabrics, and scantily clad girls. Vernon pasted a smile onto his face as they were led to the "chef", a big, burly man with several tattoos and giggling girls clinging to either arm.
"We were hoping for a redhead," he muttered. "Young, about twenty. Our friend recommended her."
"You'll be wanting Red, then," the man said. "Probably the only one of my girls that will be able to put up with both of you at once." He eyed them scornfully. Vernon felt nauseous. "She's in there," he said, nodding to a door off to one side.
Vernon gave his sergeant a surreptitious kick – the man had been ogling one of the over-exposed girls, but it wasn't his fault, men just weren't made of as stern stuff these days – and knocked on the door.
He didn't really have a reason to be suspicious, but something about the dark room made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. So he wasn't as surprised as the sergeant when the door slammed shut behind them, presumably locked, and his nephew's inane laugh mixed with the girl's. But it was ruddy annoying and as he opened his mouth to say just that, the bloody sod had the nerve to practically pour something down his throat. He swallowed, because the other choice was to drown in the burning liquid. He wasn't surprised, either, when everything went black.
Waking up in yet another alley, Vernon was still unsurprised. It was more unnerving to find that he was only in his pants, he was not alone, and a security camera was placed right above them. Slowly, a few memories came back, causing him to actively fight against remembering any more. He looked back and forth between his sergeant, who was also only in his pants, and a girl who was wearing so little that the she made the other prostitutes look prudish.
Dear God.
He could remember his nephew smiling impishly and flinging a thong at him, but all said and done this was not the sort of evidence he had been wanting. He needed to get to that security camera and, as some of the more lurid details fought their way through his mental barrier, he realized he needed a new partner. Soon.
The prostitute rubbed up against him, mumbling slurred nonsense, and Vernon wondered how he was going to explain this to Petunia. He growled and shoved the drunken prostitute away from him.
"I'll get you for this, Potter!" he roared.
Laughter was his only response.