Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Short version, if you recognize it from someplace else, it's not mine.
"So, Zatanna, how's it goin'?" Harley asked awkwardly the next week at the appointed time. She and Pamela stood in the back doorway, blocking entrance into their home. Both Batgirl and Zatanna had shown up in the backyard of Privet Drive in full costume just after sunset, as previously agreed upon.
"Better than being trapped in the Queen of Fables' book," the magician performer shot back, a hint of anger showing through. "Where is the child?"
"Hey now, just wait a damn minute," Harley pushed back, fully stepping outside as she did. "There's one thing you need to know before you even think of talking to our kid. You don't scare him, you don't insult his family, you don't out anyone's secret identity. That's like three things, but the most important is you play nice. The kid isn't part of any costumed rivalry, but if you bring him into it then I swear I'll rip your spine out of your neck and use it as a Halloween decoration."
"What Harley is trying to say is Harry is in the living room watching TV," Pamela cut in, though she was just as jumpy as Quinn. "He has not shown any interest in anything in Gotham, or heroes and villains in general, and we'd prefer it stay that way. He only knows that you are going to talk with him about his magic. You can figure out something to say if he asks why you're dressed like a Vegas hooker."
"It'll be best if I talk with him alone," Zatanna declared, not responding to the jab.
Harley looked like she was about to argue further, but Pamela placed her hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Taking a calming breath, and then another, she stepped aside and motioned for Zatanna to enter. Batgirl, Harley, and Pamela watched and waited for the magician to do her thing.
"I don't know why she is still mad about being stuck in a book, it's been years since that happened. And it's kinda poetic justice with what she did to Fables," Harley commented. "She was in that tax book for years."
"Some people are just irrational like that," Pamela smiled, appreciating the irony of her statement. She turned to Batgirl. "No new felonies to report from us, any juicy hacking?"
"The CEO of Grunnings is going to get arrested this week," Batgirl smiled. "I looked into him after what you said, and he definitely deserved what you did."
"Oh, do tell," Harley prompted.
A half hour later and the three had exhausted each of their areas of gossip, with Barbara getting a few more hacking targets from Pamela, just in time for Zatanna to exit the house.
"They are getting ready for bed," Zatanna announced. "The news is mostly good about Harry, but not all. For you to fully understand what is going on with him, let me tell you the truth about the evil witch who killed Harry's parents. Her name is Voldemort."
"Our little boys are starting fourth grade," Harley cried, tears pouring down her face in comical streams.
"You have your schoolbag packed," Pamela asked Harry and Dudley.
"Yes, Mama," the two chorused.
"You got your switchblades," Harley asked.
"Front pockets, Mommy," they said in unison.
"What's the rule for pulling them out?" Pamela demanded.
"Don't get caught," they smirked.
"And," Harley prompted.
"Never pull a blade unless you are going to use it," Harry answered slightly faster than Dudley.
"That's our boys," Pamela smiled, pulling the other three in one big bear hug.
"Don't forget your lunches," Frank called out from the kitchen, two vines holding paper bags snaking their way to the front door.
"Thanks Frank," Harry waved as they raced out the door to the bus stop. "I'll try to bring you a squirrel home from school."
"They grow up so fast," Harley sighed, leaning into Pamela as the two looked out the front door.
"You know, I took the day off work today," Pamela smirked, running her fingers up and down Harley's folded arms.
"I like where this is going," Harley purred.
"Excuse me, my name is Albus Dumbledore," interrupted the oldest and ugliest Gandalf cosplayer Harley had ever seen. He had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk without either woman seeing where he had come from, which made them think he was some kind of wizard. "Might I talk to you about your nephew, Harry Potter?"
"No," Harley snapped. "Come back next week. We're busy."
"I must insist, it is most urgent," the geezer pressed, walking towards the door. When he got a dozen feet from them, he suddenly stopped and stared at them through his half moon glasses.
"What?" Pamela angrily questioned. This wasn't how she wanted this morning to go.
"You aren't Vernon and Petunia," he whispered. "What have you done with his family?"
"We are his family," Harley insisted. "And I told you, come back next week if you don't want me to rip you a new hole in your crusty ass."
The old man's eyes hardened. That was the only warning the pair had of his hostile intentions. Luckily, Zatanna had given them all the information they needed to defend themselves from these types of magic users, but even forewarned they couldn't fully dodge the spell he cast at them. They didn't even see him draw his wand. He was much quicker than Zatanna was when she did magic during her now friendly bi-monthly assessment of Harry.
Grass grew upwards to entangle his legs.
Conjured fire scorched the lawn.
Baseball bat fractured his tibia.
Summoned wind blew Harley through the front door.
Tree branches slapped the side of his head before being sliced in half with a wave of his wand.
Spells, vines, fists, and weapons flew back and forth, each combatant collecting an assortment of cuts, bruises, and injuries.
The old man finally collapsed as Harley Quinn tumbled forward and tried to use his scrotum as an American football trying to score a field goal.
"Bad wizard," Harley snarled, breathing heavily as she picking up his dropped wand and tucking it into her hair. She considered him for a moment before turning to a limping Pamela to make sure she was OK. Both women looked at each other, righteous anger and resolve in their eyes.
"Don't," Harley growled before kicking the man in the stomach.
"Ever."
The accompanying kick landed on his ribs, cracking a least one. Harley lined up her next strike between his legs.
"Fucking."
Kick to the kidney.
"Come."
Kick.
"Here."
Kick.
"Again."
A root erupted from the ground, wrapped around him, and threw his mangled body through the front window of the house across the street from Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, Great Britain, where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, thank you very much.
"Lovely day, isn't it," the Dursley's neighbors greeted, oblivious to the injuries and extensive property damage in front of them. They just waved at Pamela and Harley right before the injured former super-villainesses hobbled through their front door to make some calls, get patched up, and start planning a combat training schedule for the boys and them. Their ruined plans of sexy naked time made them quite irate, and those on the other end of the phone could feel it.
Frank was just upset he wouldn't get a meal out of the geezer, but showed restraint and kept his wise-cracks to himself, at least until the women healed up.
When the owners of Number Five Privet Drive returned home that evening, they called the police to report some hooligans had broken their front window. The officers who responded found three severed fingers, fake since there was no blood stains or signs of trauma on the edges of the digits. A clean, smooth cut on each.
Across the country, a magical school nurse berated her headmaster for his foolishness at injuring himself so badly while splinching, even going so far as requiring he enroll in the Remedial Apparition Training for Seniors. He didn't dare reveal what had happened to him directly prior to said splinching, for fear her rant would intensify and his hospital stay would be extended. He needed to figure out who was caring for Harry Potter, and figure out how to reacquire the Elder Wand, all without a direct confrontation.
Once his testicles fully healed, that is.