The Hundred Acre Wood

Disclaimer & Warnings: See chapter 1

Timeline: Sunday, August 4th, 1991, morning

Chapter 52 – No Refund, No Exchange

If one thing was carved in granite, it was that Vernon Dursley was inflexible. He abhorred all things magical. To him all that malarkey was a crime against nature. However, he was also a pragmatist. And after rethinking it overnight he'd decided what was his was his, and if he had to deal with magic to get it, then so be it. After wizards invaded his home, he calculated that at this point the only way to get what was due him, was to go on the offensive and approach Fudge, before Fudge could come to collect.

Vernon Dursley checked his watch as he paced nervously in front of an abandoned red telephone phone booth. It was early Sunday morning, not quite six. In his opinion, any self-respecting executive worth his salt should be at his desk by six a.m. sharp, no matter what day it was. He himself had been in his own office at five that morning. Therefore, since Fudge was intending to do business with him today, Vernon felt the other man should already be in his office preparing as well. As a side bonus, this early on a weekend, he hoped he'd be able to minimize the number of freaky people he had to deal with to one.

He'd only entered the Ministry of Magic twice before – once a decade ago when Fudge had brought him here to discuss the details of their agreement, then again about a week ago to discuss the boy's final selling price. Knowing the advantage of being in control during negotiations, he would've preferred to have handled both of those meetings in his own office at Grunnings, but Fudge has insisted on doing it here.

As they were both heavyset men, they didn't fit into the booth at the same time. Therefore, Fudge had instructed Vernon on how to activate the entrance by dialing the numbers that corresponded to spelling the word "MAGIC" with the telephone keypad. Bollocks! Dialing "NAH-HA" would do the same thing and he could sneer at the wizarding world at the same time he was taking advantage of them. Vernon dialed, then turned red in the face after the phone booth sunk below street level and deposited him unceremoniously in the middle of a long hallway lined with fireplaces.

"Why can't their effing lot ever do anything normal?" he blustered indignantly. Taking a firm grip of the handle of his briefcase, he marched with purpose across the empty hall to the far end where the lifts were. Stepping into an open box, he was relieved to see the attendant wasn't on duty yet. The less interaction he had to have with the magical community the better.

Remembering the sudden movements the lift took during his earlier visits, he took a grip on one of the gold ropes hanging from the ceiling before growling out the name 'Cornelius Fudge'. The doors slid shut and the lift zoomed straight up, then down, sideways, and back up again, finally stopping just as abruptly as it'd started, leaving Vernon's stomach several floors below. As the doors slid open with a small 'ding', a sweet voice announced he'd arrived at 'Level One – Department of the Minister for Magic'.

"Purple, not even their rugs are normal," Vernon shuddered, stepping out onto the plush carpet of a hall lined with gleaming mahogany doors. Each one bore a small plaque with the name and occupation of the owner upon it. However, only one had a light gleaming below it - the door at the end.

"Righto, he's in!" chortled Vernon as he continued his march towards his goal of a big payout.

"Assistant to the Junior Assistant, Junior Assistant, Junior Undersecretary, Undersecretary, Senior Undersecretary – Ah, here we go – Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic." As expected, it was the last door and it was ajar. From inside he could hear a low mutter.

"Idiot! The man's a bloody idiot! But why is there nothing in The Prophet about it?"

At first, Vernon thought Fudge must not be alone. Then when no one answered the question, he realized the man was talking to himself. That could be to his advantage. If the man was becoming unhinged it might make him easier to manipulate. Vernon pushed open the door.

"Harrumph!" he cleared his throat by way of announcing himself.

"Go away."

Irritated, Fudge didn't even bother to look up from the document he was reading to see who'd entered, instead he just flicked his wand in the person's direction pushing them out the door and slamming it shut in their face. Vernon prided himself a salesman beyond compare, and as such wasn't about to let a mere door stand between him and closing a deal. He yanked the door open again and stepped in with pomp and purpose.

"Harrumph!"

"What? Oh, it's you Dursley," Cornelius observed with narrowed eyes, lowering his wand slightly. "What're you doing here?" he asked suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be at home getting the boy ready to leave? Oh, that's right; according to the Auror report that I was just reviewing, that despite the magical mayhem that occurred there yesterday, there were no magical people at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, when they arrived. Not a one. That would mean the boy already left, wouldn't it? Well? Speak up. You let him escape, didn't you?"

Vernon knew that question would be coming and was prepared to answer.

"Heh-heh-heh. Not at all, my good man, not at all," he chuckled as if they were co-conspirators to an inside joke. "May I?" he asked, indicating the chair across the desk from Fudge. When Fudge remained stone faced, Vernon took the liberty of sitting down. He put his briefcase on Fudge's desktop, knocking the offending report to the floor in the process.

"Ahem. First of all, I wouldn't take much stock in anything those Auror's of yours have to say."

"Why on earth not?" Fudge asked, still irritated, flicking his wand and causing the scattered papers to restack in front of him.

"It'd be a bunch of rubbish and twaddle that's why. Met one of them. Pink haired busybody. She was sulking around my office last week spying on me and then tried to interfere when I was disciplining the boy! Totally unreliable help you have there. Obviously didn't know what was what," he said, with all the self-importance of a man who felt disrespected.

"She did - did she? Are you sure she had pink hair?"

"As sure as I'm sitting here. Roots and all. We were up close and personal."

"Truly remarkable," Fudge commented not amused, jotting down a note for Dolores Umbridge regarding personnel changes.

"Well, yes. Secondly, regarding the er- 'mayhem' you referred to, it wasn't my fault - it was yours. I demand an apology!" Nothing like putting the opposition on the defensive.

"Mine? How so?"

"It was those magi-magimicky-thingamabobs you said would keep them out – inferior! Didn't work. Got overrun with the worst of your lot. Dumbledore and his horrendous hoard ruined my wife's fête entirely."

"How terribly inconvenient for you," Fudge remarked sarcastically, keeping his wand trained on Dursley while watching him through slitted eyes. "Is that how you lost the boy? Did they remove him from your custody?" If Dumbledore had the boy, as he feared after reading the Auror's report, there would be hell to pay and Dursley might as well be the one to pay it.

"No, no, no, no, no. Now there's no need to worry a whit. I was smarter than they were. Used my noggin, I did," he said, tapping his temple knowingly. "Knew right away what they were after, so I simply moved my… er- that is 'our' property to an alternate location for safekeeping until our business is concluded," Vernon demonstrated by sliding his case from one side of the desk to the other as he said the word 'moved' then sat back smiling while letting that sink in.

Fudge lowered his wand cautiously. Could the muggle idiot really have done something right? It made sense. If Dursley had lost the boy, he certainly wouldn't have had the balls to show up like this. He must still have him!

"Now, heh-heh, about that business," Vernon prodded clicking open the locks on the briefcase, "I will take my payment. Here's the contract your assistant drew up, all signed. I believe we agreed on £25,000 pounds up front and, of course, my percent of the royalties. You may send that monthly. And none of that funny money mind you, just good old pound sterling if you please."

"You've got some nerve Dursley. Unless he's in that valise, you haven't delivered the boy yet. What makes you believe I'd pay you now?"

"Just thinking of your convenience," Vernon lied smoothly. "Once you have the boy on your hands, do you really want to muck around with paperwork and such? Thought it better to get all that unpleasantness out of the way first, so nothing's left standing between you and your… enjoyment. If you know what I mean," he finished with a wink.

Fudge leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands in front of him contemplatively. He didn't trust the man, but on the other hand, he couldn't believe Dursley would try bluffing him as he knew very well what the consequences would be if he did. No, Dursley must've somehow slipped the boy out right from under Dumbledore's nose, as he claimed. That could explain why there was no article in The Daily Prophet quoting the gloating old wizard saying something nauseatingly cheerful about the boy who lived being safely in his custody and starting Hogwarts in September.

Picking up the signed contract, he scanned through it quickly to make sure that Dursley hadn't managed to alter it. He could see where he tried to change the '60 percent' to '80' but Dolores's anti-erasing spell had prevented it. Dolores had also done a fine job with the wording. Allowing the succeeding master to amend the worldly possessions list on the original slave contract that Dursley had so royally mucked up, without actually alerting the man there was anything else to gain.

He supposed he should thank Dursley for insisting they put their deal in writing, since it nicely solved for that problem with the goblins at Gringotts. He peered over the papers at the smug expression on the muggle's face. On second thought, no he wouldn't. He didn't deserve the courtesy. Nevertheless, Dursley did have a point. It'd be easier to get the paperwork out of the way now.

"Fine. It all seems to be in order," he reached into a drawer of his massive desk and drew out a Department of Wards, Waifs, and Werewolves account book, thankful he'd had the foresight to have Dolores transfer the funds from the Potter Estate to cover it.

"I prefer cash," Vernon requested primly.

"Do you think me a fool? I don't keep that kind of currency in the office!"

"The bank isn't open today. How do I know you won't stop payment on it once you have the boy?"

"And how do I know you'll turn over the boy once you have the money?" Fudge returned.

"You have my word as a businessman, he'll be all yours. However, I must remind you, we Dursley's have a no refund and no exchange policy for all business transactions. Full payment is all I will accept, and if you aren't happy with the merchandise, you can't return him. I don't want him back," Vernon said staunchly.

"And you have my word as Minister for Magic I've no intention of doing so."

"You say that now, but believe me when I tell you the boy can try the patience of a saint."

"You're no saint," Fudge replied while writing out a cheque for £22,500 pounds. Cheap to the end, he held it out for Dursley to take, keeping it just out of comfortable reach. "I deducted ten percent for the inconvenience of not being able to inspect the boy first."

Dursley seethed and ground his teeth.

"Do you want the cheque or not? It's my only and final offer."

Both men fumed at the seeming stalemate. Vernon Dursley gave in first, as Cornelius Fudge knew he would. The temptation of all that money within reach was just too great. Vernon leaned over and grasped the other side of the cheque. After a small tug-of-war, he secured it in his briefcase and stood up.

"Now, where did you take the boy? I'd like my property as soon as possible."

"No need to worry about that. Now that he's paid for, you may pick him up at my home in say… one hour? It takes that long to drive there."

"One hour, then," Fudge agreed, picking back up his wand while standing and pointing it meaningfully at Vernon Dursley lest he dare double-cross him.

"One hour."

Implied threat received, Vernon backed out of the office quickly and beat a hasty retreat down the long hall. He wanted to get out of the building before it started filling up with weekend workers. He was just glad there was a normal exit in the Atrium to the centre of London. It wasn't until securely in his car with the door locked, that Vernon relaxed. Once he did, a small smile turned the corners of his mouth upward.

He'd done it! He had the money. Fudge thought himself so smart with that stick gizmo of his that Vernon was sure he'd be able to find the boy with no trouble at all, so no need for him to be there. Not at all. Especially, heh-heh, as he had no idea where the boy had run off to. Pulling out into the light Sunday morning traffic, instead of driving home, he sped in the opposite direction. In one hour, he planned to be as far away from Surrey as he could possibly get.

Fifty-nine minutes later Cornelius Fudge, transformed into Albus Dumbledore courtesy of the last drop of his store of polyjuice potion, was striding up to the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive.

Sixty minutes on the dot, he was ringing the doorbell.

At sixty-one minutes, a hysterical Petunia was opening the door.

"Oh thank god you came back! Please, please, take it away!"

"That's what I came to do," Fudge said, stepping in and closing the door behind him against prying eyes. "Show me to him, and I'll be on my way."

"I don't have to, it's everywhere! In the mirrors, the windows, even my teacup! Everywhere I look! Please take it away! I can't stand it anymore! It's too hideous! Every time I try to leave the house to get away from it, I'm pushed back in. I can't escape it!"

"What the devil are you nattering on about?" Fudge had a suspicion they weren't talking about the same thing.

He stepped back and took a hard look at Petunia. He'd taken the Auror department to task for what he considered overly embellished reports filed on former Death Eater's activity, but now they'd gone overboard in the opposite direction. Their report only mentioned that one Mrs Dursley found residing at this address was 'somewhat distraught and incoherent', but they woefully understated the situation. She was a total wreck. Her hair mussed, attire wrinkled, and makeup streaked with tears. She looked as though she hadn't slept all night. She was far from the perfectly dressed and coifed Dursley matriarch that he was used to seeing. Something was obviously amiss - an understatement considering the amount of broken glass in the ransacked front hall alone. It appeared as though all hell had broken loose.

"You should know. You left it here last night to torture me! Please, please, take it away!" Petunia begged, clutching his arm.

"Unhand me woman!" Fudge demanded, his alarm rising as she unwittingly confirmed his fears.

If she believed he'd been there when he hadn't visited for a month, the only explanation was that the real Dumbledore had indeed visited Number 4 Privet Drive as he suspected while reading the report. Dumbledore must have been the cause of the chaos the day before, and for Petunia's apparent breakdown. It was unfortunate the Auror's hadn't come up with any concrete proof of the perpetrator or perpetrators, so that he could press charges.

"I did nothing of the kind. Get hold of yourself. I'm not Albus Dumbledore. I just look like him. I'm Cornelius Fudge. Now, where is your husband? He was to meet me here."

"I don't know! I don't know!" Petunia wailed, pulling at her hair. "Vernon didn't come home last night. I think… I think the other you murdered him!"

"Piss and poppycock! I saw him an hour ago and he was definitely alive. However, I can't vouch his condition will remain that way. Regardless, I suppose his presence isn't required anymore. All I want is the boy. Bring him out now!" Fudge commanded.

Petunia sank to her knees, sobbing. She really couldn't go through this conversation again.

"How many times do I have to say it? He's not here either. He ran away."

"He ran away?" Fudge spat the words out. He knew he shouldn't have trusted Dursley. 'Just moved him' did he? Ha! And dementors wore tutus.

"Yesterday. Sometime during the Fête," Petunia confirmed wearily.

"And your husband? What hand did he have in it? I thought he secured the boy elsewhere."

"Vernon? No, he couldn't find him either. He was just gone. We looked everywhere just before all those wizards barged into my home. They were unhappy about it too, but I was glad. I never wanted him here in the first place."

Fudge was livid and relieved at the same time. According to Petunia's babble, while the Dursleys no longer had the boy, apparently neither did Dumbledore. Therefore, since he was the only one with a document giving him a clear and irrevocable title, all he had to do was to locate his rightful property, and do it first.

Blast that Dursley for making things difficult and losing him in the first place. Quite annoying. Monday morning he'd make a point of returning the favour by stopping payment on the cheque. After all, he'd carefully avoided giving his word on that point, actually only promising not to return the boy. A tiny fact, which Dursley, in his greed, did not notice.

For now, with time being of an essence, coupled with the difficulty of coming up with a plausible reason to send his team of Aurors on a countrywide hunt for someone who supposedly didn't exist, he'd need one of his more discreet employees to help him search. As Dolores Umbridge already had a vested interest in the project, she was the reasonable choice. The fewer involved now, the less he'd have to share, once he had access to the Potter's vaults.

A plan of action made, Cornelius Fudge turned on his heels to leave, causing Petunia to panic.

"No! No! No! Not you too! Please don't leave me with that monster still here! Please save me!"

Immune to Petunia's pleas, Fudge marched down the front walk, leaving her behind to the apt punishment Albus Dumbledore had already devised. Normally he'd have taken offence to Dumbledore taking the law into his own hands, but in this case, it was just one less thing for him to do.

"Pleaaassseee?"