A significant crotch in time
"And what have you aver earned, hmm? Not a penny to your name, your worthless parents just went and got themselves killed, good riddance I say. Just leaving you to be a burden to decent, hard-working people. You don't have a hard-working bone in you body. You've never given us anything but grief, but you take and take like the leach you are. Tell me, boy do you have something you earned, something of yours by right and not the generosity of your betters?" Aunt Marge asked. Her disdainful sneer could have won awards, launched a thousand ships; granted it wouldn't have been for her good looks or radiant personality, but even so, it was a sneer that was good at being disdainful, condescending an generally unpleasant, and it was proud of it. That sneer had graduated top of its class, had gone to finishing school, had mastered the curl of the lip, had written treaties on the exact angle which conveyed the most disgust.
At this moment, Harry's pride coughstupiditycough and temper ganged up on his common sense, beat it up, locked it up in the toilet. That unnamed metaphorical foot reared its ugly head, flexed its muscles, hijacked the tongue. The resulting chimera that launched its maiden flight from Harry Potter's mouth went thus: "I have a sword"
Petunia glared from behind her teacup, Vernon reddened and puffed himself up like a cross between an offended bullfrog and a particularly ugly robin.
Marge, on the other hand smirked like a predator smelling blood "oh? And how did you do that? I didn't know you fenced, or was it perhaps acting? St Brutus is known for its refined activities. Maybe your Daddy gave it to you? No mugging innocent citizens is more likely, it would explain the new shoes. Well? What are you waiting for Boy, show us you knife!" Hanging jowls were not the only attributes Marjorie Dursley had in common with her dogs. A lust for cruelty and blood, compounded with a tenacity when worrying away at any perceived weakness, made for ugly viciousness in both dog and woman.
At this time the crotch of the trouser of time bulged, readjusted itself a little, then split into two. In one leg, a somewhat enlarged Marge floated like an angry, profanity-spewing dirigible.
In this leg, however, a very real, very heavy and very sharp sword materialised into Harry's clenched fists. Hilt in one hand, blade in the other. This had the unfortunate consequence of slicing deeply into his left hand, blood flowing along the blade, filling the groove, then the carvings in a crimson too bright to be attributed solely to blood.
Reactions were varied, but contained risks of: shock, quivering jowls, fifty shades of puce, outcries of boy and freak.
The most surprising, yet the most normal, was Dudley's. His pathological fear of magic, instilled within him by both his progenitors and Hagrid's porcine "addition" warred with the fact that, hey, it was a pretty kick-ass sword. He somehow ended up shooting out of his chair with a strangled squeak which may or may not have been a drawn out "cool". And even if all talk of magic was prohibited in the household, he'd played enough video games and seen enough films to see where this was heading. Young orphan sent to study far away in a secluded and mysterious school to learn mystical arts. So okay he didn't seem to be learning super martial arts, and he certainly didn't look impressive, but humble beginnings usually meant humble.
Admittedly Harry was so pathetic, if he hadn't opened the shower at the right moment, he would never have seen the impressive scars that littered his smaller cousins body, the most impressive being a circular scar in his upper arm, that seemed to have punched clean through, leaving the surrounding skin discoloured, an eerie sheen of pewter.
That was probably the moment where Dudley admitted to himself that he would play second fiddle to his kin. It had always been the case, really; Harry had excelled without study when they were younger, and had drawn classmates to him, his whims the moon to their tides of games and interests. So used to being the apple in his parents eyes, he had imposed himself, and after having found himself treated as the ungrateful a unwelcome hanger-on, he had lost his temper and chased away the lot of them. Why should the boy who was so beneath him have plentiful friends when those friends scorned him? Things had escalated from there.
But now he could see that while he was temporarily content, his cronies were fickle, hardly trustworthy friends. his weight was becoming a serious issue, and the less said about his grades the better. And perhaps the young boy who would climb trees to pick the ripest cherries would entrance his crush long enough to show her that he wasn't just a bully. Perhaps the deciding factor in his change of heart had been gathering up his courage to talk the the girl, only to have her terrified, trying to give him her lunch money, if only he would refrain from hurting her or her sister; he had refused it, of course, but before he could speak she had jumped onto a bus, the wrong one at that. He had been following her a little, so he knew her schedules, it sounded creepy like that,but he wouldn't harm her.