Radical shift in POV and location, in accordance with my usual cavalier attitude to narrative convention:
Alexis Malfoy, or Alex Malone as he preferred to be known (yes, there's a book character of the same name, but it is purely coincidental), grinned as he read his son's letter. Trust Rick to come up with that!
Alex was not one of Vernon Dursley's biggest fans. The man was pompous, small minded, and reputedly had an irrational predjudice against the wizarding world. Kitty (Alex's wife) had suggested locking Vernon in a very small room with Lucius, but Alex would not have wished that on either of them- even the Dark Lord would probably have baulked at such inhuman cruelty.
Doing it to Narcissa and that godawful Dursley woman was tempting, though. The way she bossed that poor kid about! If it weren't for the problems with adverse publicity for young Harry then Social Services would have been knocking on -or if necessary down- 42 Privet Drive's front door years ago. Kitty favoured giving Petunia Dursley quote, 'a right slapping,' unquote. This had provoked Alex to give thought to the only bit of advice his mother had ever vouchsafed to him: 'Don't marry a Liverpudlian, working-class mudblood.' Coincidentally it had been shortly after his mother had met Kitty for the first time that she gave him this advice, and Alex had disregarded it utterly. He now pictured Kitty and Mrs Dursley going for the best of three falls, and decided that it was the worst piece of advice he'd ever been given by anybody, except by a man in a plastic mac giving out copies of The Watchtower in the high street yesterday afternoon.
He grinned, and departed to get into the loft.
Vernon Dursley was a man sorely put-upon. Dudley really had done it this time! He and Petunia were prepared to put up with their son's juvenile exploits, which he would probably -hopefully, Veron corrected himself; there was no point in self-delusion- grow out of, but this was something else. Even Petunia had been prepared to concede that Potter had never obliged them to collect him from the local police station, and Vernon had made a mental note to be somewhat nicer to the boy when he returned. In a rare moment of contemplation Vernon had decided that whilst there was precious little to recommend the wizarding world to him, he had rather approved of their judicial system when Potter had described it. He might just let that rather intimidating character with the funny eye -Moody, wasn't it? If it was it suited him- have a little chat with darling Duddles, as Petunia insisted upon calling him, even at age sixteen.
"Morning, Vernie!" called Mr Malone. Vernon winced. How had that brash idiot, three years younger than most of his subordinates, got himself made manager? Vernon was being unfair, and knew it; you tended to place competence before age/'experience'/'maturity' if you wouldn't see forty again and you had more than seven functioning brain cells- which whatever else may be said about him Vernon did. It was just that the man was always so infuriatingly cheery, and never seemed to shout; what the hell did you get yourself promoted for, Vernon wondered, if you then didn't shout at people? Even when the motorbike courier was caught in a passionate embrace with Malone's own secretary in the stationery cupboard, the man had taken him aside and given him what most would call fatherly advice, and what Vernon called something else entirely which I'm not going to repeat here. The fact that the young lad had been far more respectful to everybody in the department afterwards, himself included, had regettably but not unexpectedly failed to register with Vernon.
After about half an hour, he steeled himself against Malone's unrelenting perkiness and went to deliver the completed stack of expenses forms which Malone was required to initial, as well as check to ensure that no expenses had been wrongly disallowed (and there were invariably quite a few, even when Vernon wasn't having as bad a day as he was today).
Malone was dictating a report via one of those fancy new speech-writer microphone things which even Vernon liked, as they cost a lot less than a decent typist, despite the number of errors that they tended to make. This left his hands free to build what appeared to be a model of the Starship Enterprise out of Blu-Tac.
Vernon's eyes were drawn to a photograph hanging above Malone's desk. It appeared to be a graduation photograph, not the official one but taken a few hours later, probably at a pub. Malone was there, along with his ghastly Scouse wife and bunch of typical student-types, and... Potter's parents. They were dressed somewhat differently, in whatever ludicrous fashions had semed like a good idea at the time (Vernon recognised the t-shirt which Petunia had presumably loaned to her sister for the occasion), but despite this and the crowds of others they were clearly recognisable.
Vernon put down the stack of forms, muttered something and departed at some speed. Alex put down the microphone, switched it off for a few moments, and allowed himself a small snigger. Let him get his head around THAT!
He wasn't altogether surprised, a few weeks later, to recieve Dursley's letter of resignation.
"I'll be sorry to lose you, Vernon," he declared. "We may not see eye-to-eye on most things, but your one of the best accountants on the team. You're a bit vague about why you're leaving," he continued thoughtfully. "I appreciate that it's your business, but your new employer may want a reference from us, you see."
Vernon's eyes flicked to the picture above Malone's desk. "Ah, I see." //Oh, bloody hell. What have I done?// he thought to himself, when Vernon turned a deep shade of purple.
"I could have told them all," he snarled, keeping his voice low but still conveying an air of menace. "I doubt I'd be the first. Your kind don't frighten me."
"There are ways of preventing that," Malone replied. "We've been keeping out of trouble with the majority of the normal world for centuries. We don't hurt anybody and we keep a very, VERY low profile. What have we done to you?"
Vernon didn't bother to reply, but walked out in a rage. He made it as far as the lift, but then clasped his hands against his head with a yell of pain, and collapsed.
"Jesus CHRIST! Call an ambulance, now!"
Vernon recieved few visitors, and several of THEM were from the Ministry of Magic. They had explained why telling all the Sunday papers would be a very bad idea, leaving Vernon feeling even more irritated than before. This, on top of being carried from his place of work on a stretcher and being carried to hospital, was something which he could have done without.
On the whole, it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Strokes normally left you paralysed, but Vernon was able to use one arm and his vocal cords, and was assured that he would recover in time. The lack of his left arm wasn't much more than an annoyance.
Malone was comfortingly guilt-ridden, though even Vernon was unable to place the blame with him. If he'd known he was hypertensive he wouldn't have got quite so hacked off, Vernon assured his former boss by way of alleviating this slightly. Petunia hadn't seen things this way, though fortunately she was engaged in open warfare with Catherine Malone and therefore unable to take it out on him. And watching them both being dragged apart and ejected from the building after a particularly vicious catfight had brightened Vernon's day considerably.
To his mild surprise, Potter had been one of the visitors, bearing a large bottle of some sort of wizard's whiskey. They hadn't spoken much, but Vernon had made a point of being slightly more civil to him.
Once he had gone, Vernon had poured himself a glass of the whiskey, not an easy task with one hand. It was rather good, actually.
Vernon was forced to reassess this view when whatever it was made out of apparently reacted with the medication he was taking and caused his moustache to turn bright green. He decided quietly to commence legal action against... Weasely Brothers, or whoever owned the distillery. On the other hand he wasn't really supposed to be drinking anyway, so that was his case buggered right from the start, wasn't it?
Fortunately he never discovered what Weasly Brothers actually was, or that they had given Harry the bottle knowing full well what would happen. Harry should really have checked the label, but hearing of the circumstances surounding the stroke and percieving a certain rough justice in them, had decided against complaining.
Alexis Malfoy, or Alex Malone as he preferred to be known (yes, there's a book character of the same name, but it is purely coincidental), grinned as he read his son's letter. Trust Rick to come up with that!
Alex was not one of Vernon Dursley's biggest fans. The man was pompous, small minded, and reputedly had an irrational predjudice against the wizarding world. Kitty (Alex's wife) had suggested locking Vernon in a very small room with Lucius, but Alex would not have wished that on either of them- even the Dark Lord would probably have baulked at such inhuman cruelty.
Doing it to Narcissa and that godawful Dursley woman was tempting, though. The way she bossed that poor kid about! If it weren't for the problems with adverse publicity for young Harry then Social Services would have been knocking on -or if necessary down- 42 Privet Drive's front door years ago. Kitty favoured giving Petunia Dursley quote, 'a right slapping,' unquote. This had provoked Alex to give thought to the only bit of advice his mother had ever vouchsafed to him: 'Don't marry a Liverpudlian, working-class mudblood.' Coincidentally it had been shortly after his mother had met Kitty for the first time that she gave him this advice, and Alex had disregarded it utterly. He now pictured Kitty and Mrs Dursley going for the best of three falls, and decided that it was the worst piece of advice he'd ever been given by anybody, except by a man in a plastic mac giving out copies of The Watchtower in the high street yesterday afternoon.
He grinned, and departed to get into the loft.
Vernon Dursley was a man sorely put-upon. Dudley really had done it this time! He and Petunia were prepared to put up with their son's juvenile exploits, which he would probably -hopefully, Veron corrected himself; there was no point in self-delusion- grow out of, but this was something else. Even Petunia had been prepared to concede that Potter had never obliged them to collect him from the local police station, and Vernon had made a mental note to be somewhat nicer to the boy when he returned. In a rare moment of contemplation Vernon had decided that whilst there was precious little to recommend the wizarding world to him, he had rather approved of their judicial system when Potter had described it. He might just let that rather intimidating character with the funny eye -Moody, wasn't it? If it was it suited him- have a little chat with darling Duddles, as Petunia insisted upon calling him, even at age sixteen.
"Morning, Vernie!" called Mr Malone. Vernon winced. How had that brash idiot, three years younger than most of his subordinates, got himself made manager? Vernon was being unfair, and knew it; you tended to place competence before age/'experience'/'maturity' if you wouldn't see forty again and you had more than seven functioning brain cells- which whatever else may be said about him Vernon did. It was just that the man was always so infuriatingly cheery, and never seemed to shout; what the hell did you get yourself promoted for, Vernon wondered, if you then didn't shout at people? Even when the motorbike courier was caught in a passionate embrace with Malone's own secretary in the stationery cupboard, the man had taken him aside and given him what most would call fatherly advice, and what Vernon called something else entirely which I'm not going to repeat here. The fact that the young lad had been far more respectful to everybody in the department afterwards, himself included, had regettably but not unexpectedly failed to register with Vernon.
After about half an hour, he steeled himself against Malone's unrelenting perkiness and went to deliver the completed stack of expenses forms which Malone was required to initial, as well as check to ensure that no expenses had been wrongly disallowed (and there were invariably quite a few, even when Vernon wasn't having as bad a day as he was today).
Malone was dictating a report via one of those fancy new speech-writer microphone things which even Vernon liked, as they cost a lot less than a decent typist, despite the number of errors that they tended to make. This left his hands free to build what appeared to be a model of the Starship Enterprise out of Blu-Tac.
Vernon's eyes were drawn to a photograph hanging above Malone's desk. It appeared to be a graduation photograph, not the official one but taken a few hours later, probably at a pub. Malone was there, along with his ghastly Scouse wife and bunch of typical student-types, and... Potter's parents. They were dressed somewhat differently, in whatever ludicrous fashions had semed like a good idea at the time (Vernon recognised the t-shirt which Petunia had presumably loaned to her sister for the occasion), but despite this and the crowds of others they were clearly recognisable.
Vernon put down the stack of forms, muttered something and departed at some speed. Alex put down the microphone, switched it off for a few moments, and allowed himself a small snigger. Let him get his head around THAT!
He wasn't altogether surprised, a few weeks later, to recieve Dursley's letter of resignation.
"I'll be sorry to lose you, Vernon," he declared. "We may not see eye-to-eye on most things, but your one of the best accountants on the team. You're a bit vague about why you're leaving," he continued thoughtfully. "I appreciate that it's your business, but your new employer may want a reference from us, you see."
Vernon's eyes flicked to the picture above Malone's desk. "Ah, I see." //Oh, bloody hell. What have I done?// he thought to himself, when Vernon turned a deep shade of purple.
"I could have told them all," he snarled, keeping his voice low but still conveying an air of menace. "I doubt I'd be the first. Your kind don't frighten me."
"There are ways of preventing that," Malone replied. "We've been keeping out of trouble with the majority of the normal world for centuries. We don't hurt anybody and we keep a very, VERY low profile. What have we done to you?"
Vernon didn't bother to reply, but walked out in a rage. He made it as far as the lift, but then clasped his hands against his head with a yell of pain, and collapsed.
"Jesus CHRIST! Call an ambulance, now!"
Vernon recieved few visitors, and several of THEM were from the Ministry of Magic. They had explained why telling all the Sunday papers would be a very bad idea, leaving Vernon feeling even more irritated than before. This, on top of being carried from his place of work on a stretcher and being carried to hospital, was something which he could have done without.
On the whole, it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Strokes normally left you paralysed, but Vernon was able to use one arm and his vocal cords, and was assured that he would recover in time. The lack of his left arm wasn't much more than an annoyance.
Malone was comfortingly guilt-ridden, though even Vernon was unable to place the blame with him. If he'd known he was hypertensive he wouldn't have got quite so hacked off, Vernon assured his former boss by way of alleviating this slightly. Petunia hadn't seen things this way, though fortunately she was engaged in open warfare with Catherine Malone and therefore unable to take it out on him. And watching them both being dragged apart and ejected from the building after a particularly vicious catfight had brightened Vernon's day considerably.
To his mild surprise, Potter had been one of the visitors, bearing a large bottle of some sort of wizard's whiskey. They hadn't spoken much, but Vernon had made a point of being slightly more civil to him.
Once he had gone, Vernon had poured himself a glass of the whiskey, not an easy task with one hand. It was rather good, actually.
Vernon was forced to reassess this view when whatever it was made out of apparently reacted with the medication he was taking and caused his moustache to turn bright green. He decided quietly to commence legal action against... Weasely Brothers, or whoever owned the distillery. On the other hand he wasn't really supposed to be drinking anyway, so that was his case buggered right from the start, wasn't it?
Fortunately he never discovered what Weasly Brothers actually was, or that they had given Harry the bottle knowing full well what would happen. Harry should really have checked the label, but hearing of the circumstances surounding the stroke and percieving a certain rough justice in them, had decided against complaining.
