Chapter Two: In Which Harry Wages Strategic Warfare and Dudley Exacts Revenge (Sort of)

Harry methodically searched his room for the photograph, even though he knew perfectly well what had happened to it.

Dudley had stolen his photograph.

Without thinking, Harry opened his trunk at the foot of his bed, withdrew his Invisibility cloak from the bottom, and slung it about his shoulders. (It did not, he reasoned stubbornly, count as performing magic by an underage wizard because he was only using the magic innate in the cloak itself.) Softly opening his bedroom door, he crept across the hall to Dudley's room. He could hear voices coming from Dudley's television, as well as rhythmic, deep snoring. Cracking open Dudley's door one inch at a time, Harry peered inside. Dudley was sprawled on his bed, where he had evidently fallen asleep while watching television. And there, clutched in one meaty hand, held close to Dudley's face, was Harry's photograph.

Stepping closer, Harry could see by the last light of the day that all the figures in the photograph had fled to the edges of the picture except for Ron, who was looking dejected, grimacing in disgust whenever Dudley emitted a particularly noisome wheeze.

Harry moved still closer. He was sure he could snatch the photograph from Dudley's hand without waking him. Leaning over his cousin's prone body, Harry nearly had the frame in his fingertips when Dudley grunted and rolled over onto his stomach, pinning the photograph beneath him.

Cursing in frustration, his anger building, Harry stomped back to his room careless of making noise, determined to get his wand and hex Dudley into next week before retrieving his property.

Don't be stupid, Harry. It's things like this that always get you into trouble, he heard a voice in his head say. The voice was not soft or placating; it was straightforward, logical, and quite bossy. Hermione's voice. Unstated but implied was the fact that his habit of rushing into things without thinking first was what had lead to Sirius's death.

Closing his door behind him and leaning back against it, Harry exhaled noisily. Hermione was right, or, rather, he was right. He crossed to his bed and sat down on it, where he stared mindlessly at the open lid of his trunk. It was then that he remembered one of the books on defense against the dark arts that Hermione had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Retrieving it, he leaned back against his pillow and cracked it open. The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a great Chinese wizard.

It was just possible that this book could offer him some advice on how to deal with Dudley.

Know your enemy.

He knew Dudley all right; fifteen years of (unwilling) propinquity had gained him that much.

All warfare is based on deception.

Good enough. What should he do, tell Dudley that the photograph was cursed with Dark magic? No good.

If your enemy is superiour in strength, evade him.

Harry had to grudgingly admit that Dudley was of superiour strength. Although a summer eating a protein-rich diet (thanks to Dudley's culinary demands) coupled with constant yard work had improved his own muscle mass, he was nowhere near the beast his cousin was. Not to mention the fact that Dudley would be supported in any conflict by Vernon and Petunia. In sheer body weight and strategic high ground, if not in wits, he was massively outnumbered.

If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him.

Now there was an idea. All of the Dursleys were easily irritated...but any irritation Harry caused was more than likely to result in unpleasant consequences to himself.

If his forces are united, separate them.

But how?

Now the wizard who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The wizard who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat.

Frowning, Harry set the book on his lap and closed his eyes. It really was useless, no matter how many calculations he made. One couldn't use logical methods with the Dursleys; they existed in their own private universe of 'Might Makes Right'.

Or could one? An idea fluttered into Harry's mind. He carefully turned it back and forth, examining and expanding it. It just might work. It would work. Harry smiled. Perhaps it wasn't exactly what Sun Tzu had envisioned when he wrote his book, but it was worth a shot. Taking off his glasses and setting his book aside, Harry rolled onto his stomach and fell asleep.

The next morning, Harry set his trap. As his relatives stumbled into the kitchen rather late Sunday morning, Harry had coffee ready to serve. He handed round the eggs and bacon (no toast for Dudley), and gave Petunia her preferred diet shake.

As Vernon and Dudley happily imbibed cholesterol and Petunia sipped fretfully at her breakfast, Harry washed the first of the dishes.

"D'you know, I often feel quite sorry for my friend Ron," he addressed the window over the sink.

Silence.

"Yeah, he's an incredibly handsome guy. Not that I swing that way, of course, and neither does Ron, but lots of other guys do, and poor Ron has a bit of a hard time of it." Harry glanced over at the breakfast table, his expression piously innocent.

Petunia sniffed. "Perverts."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly what I say. That's what my girlfriend and Ron's girlfriend say too, but of course it doesn't help things. Every time Ron goes out - anywhere, the shops, the cinema - he practically gets mauled. Must be something about him that attracts fellows" - here Harry dropped his voice ominously - "who are like that."

"Must we talk about this over breakfast?" Vernon growled.

"Oh, I was just talking things out. That's what families are for, isn't it?" Harry nearly gagged at his own syrupy sentiment.

Before Vernon had a chance to interject his opinion on Harry's place in the family, Harry continued hurriedly. "And there's another thing. I had this school picture of Ron. Had it setting on my bureau next to the picture of my girlfriend. Now it's gone, and I can't imagine what's happened to it. Yesterday it was there, now it's gone. Just like that."

Harry peered over his shoulder at the group sitting at the table. Petunia's lips were still pursed in disapproval and Vernon was shoveling the last bit of bacon into his mouth, but Dudley seemed to be listening. His eggs were not yet half gone. Harry took this as a good sign.

"You don't think that someone could've crawled into my window and nicked it, do you? I mean, they say there's no length to what some of those people will do. Ron is a very good-looking guy."

"Improbable", Vernon grunted.

Dudley had gone a bit pale.

"Well, if it was someone I know who took it, I would probably be sympathetic. After all, it is hard to be different from everyone else. And I'd be sure to tell his family about it so that they could support him in his choice." Harry wondered how much further he would have to push it.

"One should not be sympathetic to such people," Petunia sniffed. "But I don't wonder that you would feel that way, considering - well, considering circumstances."

Harry shook his head sadly. "Lots of people think that way. Then it ends up that someone from their very own family is like that. Very cruel surprise for them, I'm sure."

That did it. Dudley stood up from the table so suddenly that he nearly upset his chair. "Goddogoworkout," he mumbled incoherently.

"Are you feeling all right dear?" Petunia enquired anxiously.

"Fine, fine, going now." Dudley fled the room.

Vernon glared up at Harry. "Wouldn't be surprised if he was sickened, what with all this nasty talk of queers and perverts. I'll thank you to keep your mouth shut in future, boy. You're not here to pervert the innocent youth in our house."

Harry thought that attempting to pervert Dudley further would be a task even Draco Malfoy would find difficult, but he nodded meekly and remained silent.

Only a keen observer would have noticed the smile twitching at the corners of Harry Potter's lips.

Sure enough, by the time Harry had the chance to return to his bedroom, his photograph had 'magically' reappeared on his bureau. All the figures were back in the picture now, back to their old positions and familiar posturings. As Harry gazed at the photo, he blinked rapidly and looked at it more closely. Was it just his imagination, or had Hermione just nodded and smiled at him?

Imagination or not, Harry was quite positive that Hermione would approve of his clever tactics.

Sun Tzu would probably be proud, too.

Hell, Harry was darn pleased with himself.

The next day Dudley confronted Harry.

As soon as Harry heard the back door of Number Four slam shut and heavy footsteps on the path, he knew he was in for it. His heartbeat began to accelerate and he could feel nervous tension coursing through his body, but he attempted to ignore it and continued to place bags of garbage into the rubbish bin that stood in the alley just outside the back yard fence.

Dudley barged through the back gate with such force that the hinges shrieked in protest. "That was a filthy trick. I ought to pound you into a bloody pulp, d'you know that?" Dudley was visibly inflated with rage and his face was purplish; Harry was reminded irresistibly of his uncle Vernon. "In fact," he added, his porcine eyes glittering with hate, "I think I will."

Dudley was not the only boy in the alley who was angry: Harry himself was reaching the boiling point. He had been bullied, beaten, bloodied, and tormented by Dudley for fifteen years. This, he decided, was where it ended. So what if Dudley outweighed him by five stone of muscle? So what if using magic would result in his expulsion from Hogwarts? Harry would fight Dudley to the death, and his aunt and uncle could dispose of his own battered corpse in any way they desired. Voldemort could be damned. At this moment, Dudley Dursley was Harry Potter's arch nemesis and that was all that mattered.

So absorbed was Harry in his own thoughts of revenge that he neglected to notice that Dudley was speaking again. "...for me, and make sure she says yes, I might just forget that this happened."

His brain still dancing with visions of blacking Dudley's eyes and bloodying Dudley's nose (in lieu of hitting him with a few well-placed hexes), Harry slowly surfaced. "What? Say what?"

Dudley narrowed his eyes, making them nearly disappear. "Don't try to be fresh. You heard what I said. Ask the redheaded girl to meet me, get her number for me, and I'll reconsider killing you."

Harry was shocked. Never had he known Dudley to evince such interest in a human being besides himself, not even a girl. The surprise temporarily cleared Harry's brain of rage and he considered Dudley with new interest. "She's a witch, you know."

Dudley grunted a laugh. "Of course she's a witch. That red hair, what else could she be?"

"No, she's a witch." Harry hesitated, but decided to continue. "I'm a wizard. She's a witch. She goes to my school. She's one of those people."

Harry could almost see the wheels turning behind Dudley's slowly blinking eyes. "You mean - d'you mean - she's like you? Batty? Perverted? Nutters?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "If that's what I am, yes. She's a witch. She practises magic. Her parents are a witch and a wizard, and her brothers - she has six brothers, by the way - are all wizards. She doesn't even have a telephone, doesn't know how to use one. Still interested?"

"Yes. I am," Dudley said stoutly. "If she doesn't have a telephone - and who," he interjected suspiciously, "doesn't have a telephone? You can...you can...you can," his face brightened as an idea struck, "You can get her to send me a letter by owl, or I'll use your bloody big bird to send one to her." Dudley suddenly hesitated, and he sounded, astonishingly, a bit shy. "She would...em, she would write, wouldn't she? I mean, she doesn't already have someone, does she? I'm sure she could fancy me, y'know?"

Harry was horribly tempted to dash his cousin's hopes with a few well-placed words. Here was his cousin Dudley, who had been pampered and spoiled within an inch of his life for all of his seventeen years, who had had everything while Harry had had nothing, whose every wish had been granted almost before he could utter it. Harry had the chance to hurt Dudley as badly in this moment as Dudley had ever hurt him.

Sorry, Duds, old man, Harry could picture himself saying. Ginny has a keen eye for handsome wizards and muggles, and she would probably vomit on sight if you presented your ugly face and lard ass to her as a romantic prospect. Not to mention the fact that most witches prefer a guy who has an IQ higher than his body temperature.

Before he could act out his thoughts, a memory flashed through Harry's mind: a memory that was not his own, a memory of another pair of teenaged boys, one tormenting the other. He couldn't do it. Swallowing hard, Harry realised that he could not be like his father.

He forced himself to speak. "Well, I don't know, Dudley. Lots of girls want to know the guy they date in person before they go out, don't they? But, well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask."

Dudley looked as if Christmas had come three months early. A grin spread across his broad face, and just as he was about to punch Harry's arm in jubilation, he remembered that he hated his cousin and pulled back quickly. "Ah, right. Well, make sure you ask her then, and you had better be thankful that you're still breathing right now."

Annoyed by Dudley's complete lack of gratitude, Harry scowled and turned back to the rubbish bin. He comforted himself with the knowledge that if armed with his wand, he could have defeated Dudley as easily as Confundus, Incarcerous, Furnunculus. Although, Harry thought uncharitably, in Dudley's case Confundus would probably be completely redundant...

The summer passed slowly. Very little news from the Order reached Harry, aside from the expected and obligatory, "We're fine, everything here is fine, lie low for the summer and we will contact you when you return to Hogwarts."

Unlike the previous year when Harry had nearly crawled out of his skin with frustration about the lack of news given him, this year it didn't seem to matter. The prophecy weighed heavily on his mind. A sense of doom surrounded him. What could he, an insignificant teenage boy, do to defeat the greatest Dark Lord who had ever arisen? Harry pushed aside the fact that he had walked away from five encounters with Voldemort unscathed. Chance, those were. Happy accidents. Now that Voldemort had regained full strength, he would pick his moment, one in which he was sure not to be defeated, and would simply kill him.

Harry decided that he didn't have a prayer.

Ron's recent letters had deteriorated to one-line scrawls, usually: Horribly bored, have you SEEN what we're supposed to read over the holiday, so why do they call it a holiday anyway? Bollocks.

Hermione, who had finished her holiday reading list the week after she left Hogwarts, sent much longer messages. Harry re-read part of her last letter:

...and I was thinking, why does Voldemort have such a fixation on you? That may seem like a painfully obvious question, but if one considers things logically, it begins to come clear. Time after time he has attempted to kill you, often risking himself and his own chances at regeneration to do so. Why would a Dark Lord as crafty and clever as he do something as foolhardy as seeking revenge against a seemingly unimportant young man? I am beginning to wonder if he knows something that we do not. Perhaps you carry some special power that Voldemort must eliminate before he can come fully to power? When we return to Hogwarts I fully intend to research everything I can about Voldemort and your possible significance to him. I am positive that there is more to this issue than what appears on the surface...

Should he tell Hermione about the prophecy? It seemed like a good idea; she had practically deduced the fact that such a thing must exist herself. It would be an incredible relief to be able to talk to someone about it.

He would tell Ron too, he decided. Both of them.

And Sirius was dead. The pain of thinking about him had now dulled to a throbbing ache, but the nightmares about the battle in the Ministry of Magic were still frequent.