Harry hated Marge, who he ardently denied any relation to. But not to the extent Sasha hated Ripper, the prize bulldog.
Harry had stepped on the dog's paw – a complete accident, mind you – and in thanks the beast had chased him up a tree. The Dursleys were delighted and betrayed no intention to help, so Harry got comfortable. He figured it could be worse.
They'd been there for a few hours already. It was getting dark and cold, but Harry was kept entertained by the snake's constant stream of insults, all of which seemed to incense the dog further.
Sasha grew bored with the dog a few hours after dark and instead began plotting revenge on the Dursleys.
"I could strangle them with their spleens?" Snakes, as it turns out, have long memories and are capable of carrying grudges for an indefinite period of time.
"That lets them off easy. If we poison them, paint them grey and donate them to a park so they can be crapped on by pigeons all day, they'd endure for a while."
"Lock them in a room with the nasty lady's cats and wait for them to go insane and then convince them it is their life dream to stuff sausages."
"Write to a gossip magazine saying that Aunt Petunia is wearing a dress from last season."
"Oh, P.T., you sadist!"
Harry thought that Ripper was called off around midnight, after the neighbours objected to the dog's constant noise, but he didn't mind. He carried Sasha back to his cupboard with a huge smile on his face. The Dursleys were so disappointed, and that was near perfect revenge. Well, for the moment, anyway. Maybe he'd fake a gossip column if he had the time.