I am re-posting this story as I realized it needs some major re-vamping. Many thanks to beta shirelily6!
x.x.x
Vernon Dursley was not a happy camper. Oh no, he was far from happy. His day had gotten off to a bad start, as Dudley had finished off the last of the loaf of bread, leaving none for Vernon's daily ration of toast smothered to the point of drowning in butter. He left the house late, and was stuck in traffic on his way to work. Some little old lady had crashed her car into a light pole and cars were backed up for half an hour while she raised a fuss about her toy poodle stuck in the backseat of the smashed car.
Once at work, Vernon had to deal with the mindless lemmings who worked beneath him. He yelled at a total of five fresh-faced interns before his 10:15 meeting, then left for a much-needed coffee break, and ended up yelling at the inept barista at the espresso stand when she informed him it would take a few minutes to make his extra-tall, double-shot, fat-free, part-skim, caramel cappuccino. Similarly, in the dingy little café where he chose to eat lunch, he waited much longer than he should have for his sandwich. He stormed around Grunnings and sent more interns running for their lives and snarling at workers until the hour was reasonably late enough for him leave work and head back home. But home was not quite as welcoming as it should have been. Dudley, still on his diet, whined about dinner and how he shouldn't have to eat rabbit food (salad) when he wasn't a rabbit, and why couldn't he have a burger or something like all the other boys. Vernon's incorrigibly obnoxious nephew, Harry, got a dressing down for allowing that blasted owl to swoop around the house, causing Petunia to drop a tray of éclairs. Yelling at Harry didn't even make him feel slightly better as it usually did, as the owl managed to leave Vernon a nice present on the top of his head while Harry shepherded it back upstairs. Bloody owl.
It was for all these reasons that, by only 9:30 in the evening, Vernon Dursley's short temper was only millimeters long. As he sat in the living room reflecting on his miserable day while attempting to tune out the television, which was blaring some cartoon at a cruelly loud volume, he concluded that his life just couldn't get any worse. Until, that is, the phone started ringing.
Cursing people who called at such a late hour, he hauled his bulk off the sofa and reached for the telephone. "Dursley residence, Vernon speaking," he harrumphed into the receiver. He waited for the caller to respond, but the dull buzz of the dial tone was the only sound that met his greeting. Grumbling about idiots making prank calls, he threw the phone onto its stand and flopped back onto the immaculate leather couch. Just as he had arranged a pillow comfortably beneath his head, the telephone rang again.
With a groan, he answered the phone. "Hello?" Silence from the other end. "Is anyone there?" he asked, his patience thinning. There was no answer. Irritably, he tossed the phone away and went to sulk on the couch once more. And wonder of wonders, no sooner than he had sat down, the phone rang yet again. Vernon closed his eyes, hoping the irksome noise would cease.
The phone rang again.
And again.
"Bloody people just don't know when to stop do they?" he grumbled to no one in particular from the depths of the voluminous couch. He would not give in. None of those blasted prank callers could lure him, Vernon Dursley, from the couch. No, he would not fall victim to their little game; he was Vernon Dursley.
The phone rang again. Vernon gritted his teeth and willed himself to be strong. He would resist. Another ring sounded, the noise penetrating his skull and rattling his brain against his eyeballs, like a racquetball ricocheting off the walls of the boxy court.
With a snarl of frustration that would have put an angry feline to shame, he reached for the phone. "WHAT?" he screamed into the mouthpiece, spit flying from his lips and splattering on Petunia's coffee table.
"My my, do you always greet people in such a manner?" the cool voice from the other end asked. "I highly doubt you make many friends that way."
"Who is this?" demanded Vernon in what he thought was his most intimidating tone. It was the tone that he used on the interns early in the morning, the one that sent two of them home early, after panic attacks and fainting spells caused by "job-related stress." The caller only gave a mirthless laugh, sending a chill up Vernon's spine.
"That's for me to know and you to spend many sleepless nights pondering over." the smooth voice responded. "I would like to speak with Harry Potter." Vernon's face, which had turned a spectacular shade of deep maroon at the caller's rudeness and sheer audacity, was drained of color before he fully comprehended the caller's words.
"H- Harry Potter?" he croaked, suddenly very, very frightened. "But… you're not one of his lot, are you?" He very much hoped not.
"I am." The caller stated shortly. "Now I insist that I speak with him." His worst fears now confirmed, Vernon dropped the phone like he would a dirty sock. It clattered onto the floor and then fell still, the static of the connection still audible, though the caller patiently remained silent. The only thing worse than prank calls were calls from… those people. He shuddered at the very thought.
"Boy!" he yelled up the stairs. "Get down here, NOW!"
x.x.x
Harry Potter was in his room trying to coax his owl, Hedwig, into her cage. Uncle Vernon had just given him a half-hour-long lecture about not letting her fly around the house. She had only flown into the dining room and perched on the chandelier, it wasn't such a big deal, but Uncle Vernon, as well as Aunt Petunia, had been horrified. Granted, Hedwig had made a complete mess of the table, and frightened Aunt Petunia so badly that she smashed her best crystal tray and ruined her chocolate éclairs, but Hedwig had only escaped from Harry's room because he had forgotten to shut the door. Consequently, he was forced to scrub the table free of owl residue and wipe up shards of glass and chocolate pudding from the tiled floor. He had also locked Hedwig in his bedroom before Uncle Vernon carried out his threat of finding a recipe for owl dumplings.
As he was bribing Hedwig back into her cage with a stale owl treat, he heard Uncle Vernon's shout. "What now?" Harry groaned to his owl. Hedwig blinked her large, amber eyes at him and swooped soundlessly to the top of his dresser; as far as she could possibly get from the cage. "You have to go back in there sometime," Harry told her, trudging out into the hall, prepared to face what was probably going to be another accusation of his carelessness. He took as long as he could to go down the stairs, lingering for a few seconds on each step before finally descending to the next. His spirits sank with each step he took. He had heard the fury in Uncle Vernon's voice. He was sure to face another verbal attack, and his ears were still ringing from the one only a few hours ago. But when he entered the living room, he found a white-faced Uncle Vernon staring at the telephone, which as lying harmlessly on the floor, as though it would burst into flames and burn the house down. "What?" Harry asked.
Uncle Vernon tore his gaze away from the telephone to look at Harry. Was that fear in his uncle's eyes? No anger? No glee at the thought of exerting his superiority over his nephew? It was definitely fear, Harry decided. He had only seen his uncle frightened a precious few times in his life, usually when Harry pulled out his want over the holidays and threatened to turn Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley into cockroaches. Uncle Vernon sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. "You got a phone call." he said, somewhat distantly.
"A phone call?" Harry repeated in disbelief. No one had ever called him before, save Ron Weasley two years ago, and he had quickly learned that telephone was not the most convenient way to communicate with Harry. That incident had resulted in one of the worst fights with Uncle Vernon that Harry had ever endured. He had been completely drenched in his uncle's spit while he was yelled at for giving out the Dursley's phone number to other wizards. After that incident, Harry had never so much as mentioned a telephone to his friends again. And now, apparently, someone was calling him again.
"A phone call," confirmed Uncle Vernon brusquely. "Pick it up and tell whoever it is to never, ever call this house again." Then he stormed out of the room to pour himself a large brandy, hoping to drink the troubles of the day away. Harry was left in the living room, taking over his uncle's task of looking at the phone. Perhaps it was Ron again, he mused. More likely Hermione, but she had no reason to phone him, and she would have had more sense than to tell Uncle Vernon that she was a witch. Curiously, Harry plucked the telephone off the freshly vacuumed carpet and put it to his ear.
"Hello?" he inquired, half-hoping to hear Ron's or Hermione's voice. He hadn't seen them all summer; it would be nice to talk with one of them…
"Ah, Harry Potter," a collected voice issued from the earpiece. It was most definitely not Ron or Hermione. "I hoped I might get a chance to speak with you." Harry froze. He knew that voice. No one else had the same masterfully calm, silky voice.
"V- Voldemort?" He asked incredulously. Could it really be…?
"That's right, Potter," Voldemort said, sounding pleased that Harry had recognized him so quickly. "We have something to discuss."
x.x.x
TBC