A/N: On the third day of Christmas, Royari gave to me... (see profile for more info). Sorry it's not the most lengthy of things... I wasn't as inspired with this section as the last. Enjoy - y'all talked me into writing more of it! Oh, and when I said Detective in the last chapter, I meant Inspector.

Dursley. Vernon Dursley.

Part Two:

As Vernon Dursley shifted, he grunted in discomfort. Not even pounding against the sofa with all his might would rid the dratted thing of its lumps.

Vernon decided he hated Christmas.

He was certain the Christmas tree was mocking him. Its branches were too full, it was far too tall, and it looked far too happy. Vernon shot the tree a glower, reflexively glancing around to make sure no one had seen him, just in case. But the windows were as dark as they always were at three a.m., his surroundings just as silent.

The tree was probably in league with his nephew; the blasted boy was still parading around, committing all sorts of crimes and being praised for it. People thought he was clever, magi – no, Vernon couldn't even bring himself to think the word.

Magic.

He glanced warily at the top of the stairs, expecting Petunia to appear, ready to scold him, and shuddered. The very word made him feel… abnormal.

Vernon took one last look at the tree and could've sworn its lights shone more brightly as if in agreement with his thoughts. He hastily rolled over and resolved to do whatever it took for Petunia to let him back into their bed.

He really needed to get away from the sodding tree. It was doing a number to his sanity.

Inspector Vernon Dursley was not a particularly patient man, so the fact that he still hadn't caught his nephew (which meant that he still hadn't received his promotion) rankled. It hadn't helped that he'd spent a whole month searching for a new Sergeant. His options had been appalling; finally he'd had to choose a female transfer from America.

He hated the American girl almost as much as the Christmas tree.

She dressed impeccably but her hair was so bushy it always seemed unkempt. She was obviously intelligent and her eyes were always calculating, but her Southern twang made him want to either bash her head in with a stapler or drag her to the nearby school and force someone to teach her the Queen's English, at gunpoint if necessary.

And to top it all off, her name was almost as abnormal as that of his nephew's accomplice, Ginevra Weasley. Of course, she claimed it was from Egyptian mythology or something and her parents were normal dentists, but he had the bad feeling that she was secretly involved with witchcraft or something twisted like that.

"Granger," he greeted grudgingly.

"Inspector," she returned, cheerfully. "I brought you a cup of coffee." Vernon looked nauseated and pushed the offending cup away with his index finger. "What're we doin' this mornin'?"

"Following a lead. Someone found Figg's refrigerator in Islington. Grab your gun and meet me in five, Sergeant."

Driving with the girl was never fun, either. She had a habit of shooting him disapproving looks whenever he made a mistake, like forgetting to turn on his blinker or taking a turn too sharply. Good God, he missed his old sergeant, prostitutes or not. If he'd had his old sergeant, Petunia wouldn't have had another reason to increase his stay on that damned sofa.

The refrigerator was, unsurprisingly, clean of fingerprints and anything useful, including its plug. No one had seen anything until the appliance mysteriously appeared earlier that morning.

He had no new leads until Christmas Eve, when his mobile rudely rang in the middle of dinner.

"What?" he barked through a mouthful of pheasant.

"We just received a call from the Amryths'; they think someone's tryin' to break in," Sergeant Granger said. "I'll pick you up on my way there."

That's how Inspector Dursley found himself climbing into Granger's car, his wife's disapproving gaze following his every movement. Granger was on her mobile as soon as he took the wheel.

"Yes, ma'am, we'll be there soon. Of course. Yes, I'm sure you are. We'll be there soon ma'am. Just stay there ma'am. If it is the Magician, I doubt you'll be in any danger. There's yet to be a single death in any of his robberies." Granger ended the call. "Odd," she murmured. "None of the other victims ever heard anything. D'you think he wants us to know he's there?"

Vernon grunted. "First good idea you've had," he muttered. "Weapons out," he ordered as they pulled up to the Amryth estate.

Everything was silent; all the lights on the ground floor were turned off. It made him uneasy. They approached the front door slowly. It was off the latch and Vernon pushed it open the rest of the way with his gun. Gesturing for Granger to follow him, he checked each room as they made the way down the hall.

"Nothing," he murmured. "Stairs." He inclined his head and Granger crept up the stairs in front of something.

Suddenly, she froze. "I hear somethin'!" she hissed.

Then, without another word, she took off, leaving Vernon swearing behind her. Ruddy Americans!

He quickly followed her, ducking around precariously-balanced antique vases and other knickknacks in the crowded hallway. He followed his sergeant into the room at the end of the hall. The first thing he saw was a large canopied bed. Only then did he see the woman lounging on it: she wore a silk robe, she seemed to be about his age, and her red hair curled around her chin, framing an amused smile.

"Good work, Hermione," she murmured.

Vernon stiffened and turned around. His sergeant was leaning next to the door, toying with her gun.

"I always knew there was something wrong with your name," he muttered.

Hermione grinned unrepentantly. "I'm afraid you'll need to find a new sergeant." Then, turning to the older woman, she asked, "Molly, how are you? Will the others be here soon?"

"I'm well, thank you, dear. The others are on their way. Now, Inspector, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to hand your weapon over to Hermione. Nice and slowly, that's the trick." She smiled kindly as he obliged, her face lighting up as they heard feet pounding up the stairs.

Vernon's nephew and the Weasley girl bounded into the room, hands entwined.

"Hullo, mum," the girl said cheerfully.

"Hello Ginny, Harry, dears. Are the others almost here?" Molly asked.

"They're parking," Harry chirped. "Is Uncle Vernon staying here too?"

"Absolutely not!" Vernon blustered. He wasn't quite sure what was going on, but he certainly wanted no part in it.

The boy and the Weasley girl giggled as though they found something he said quite amusing. There was the sound of more feet pounding up the stairs and then a gaggle of red-heads burst into the room.

Vernon was certain the horror he felt could be seen on his face. "Ronald Weasley," he said weakly.

The red-head in question beamed and shuffled over to Hermione's side, wrapping his arm around her waist. They exchanged a smirk as she leaned in against him. Vernon's head began to swim as he realized just what he'd gotten himself into.

"It's all right, Vernon," said the older one quietly. He looked to be about Molly's age; his red hair was beginning to thin. "We're just staying here for the holidays. The Amryths won't even know we were here. You remember the story of Robin Hood, don't you?"

Vernon nodded, confused.

"I think you should reread it when you get home," the man continued serenely. "It's a rather interesting story. The library always has a copy on hand."

Vernon blinked. The situation reminded him uncomfortably of the one he'd found himself in while visiting "Red" at Madam Malkin's.

"Don't worry too much, Inspector," Granger said, shooting him an understanding, slightly scornful look. "You won't remember this anyway."

Vernon Dursley's nephew was known as the Magician. He had long stopped being surprised when the world suddenly went dark.

There was a lot of wind. It was windy, cold, and there was something metal against his back. Vernon peered around him groggily and rose halfway up. Then he paused, because something was not quite right. There didn't appear to be anything around him. He looked again, but all he could see was empty air.

Then he looked down and every meal he'd eaten in the past few days nearly came up again.

He was getting a bird's-eye view of London from the top of Big Ben.

He was once more only wearing his pants.

There were large numbers of reporters thronging around the base of the building.

He was pretty sure that was Petunia shrieking at one of the reporters, but he was too far away to tell for sure.

He had no idea how to get down.

He hated Christmas, he hated Americans, and most of all he hated his nephew.

And, annoyingly, he had the strongest urge to read Robin Hood.