12/12: I've had some free weekends, leaving me time for this fanfic! Hope you enjoy the newest chapter. I might write a shorter one tomorrow.
It's bound to get into the genes a little; it don't mean nothin'.
Dudley drilled the words into his head, refusing to believe in anything else. He would not lose his son to that old insanity. He refused to sit by and expose his son to dangerous magical beings that could torture him, murder him, and worse yet, steal his soul; all as swiftly as blinking. His innards turned cold as the blood froze in his veins. He would not have that; no he would not.
Harry once told him about these people called squibs. Though they were born into wizarding households, they were ill-equipped to perform magic. There was a hitch; they were capable of some very trite displays, for it was simply in their blood to possess them. He decided that this was what Dale exhibited, and nothing more. What is a torn jumper when you think about it? And so what if glass shatters occasionally when he's in a temper? He had seen wizards deal more devastating blows than that. A man of giant proportions once gave him a pig's tale. He's wittnessed his Aunt Marge expand with hot air and float to the ceiling, all for crossing Harry. He stood in awe as a red-haired family dressed in cloaks blasted out of his father's fireplace. And didn't he have the presence of mind to see that white mist in the shape of some sort of animal, shielding him from the worst sort of fate?
When you've grown up with Harry Potter, it's hard to be impressed when a little boy inexplicably covers the loo in shaving foam while your back is turned.
The danger of Dudley's remembrances is this: he only knows the might of trained or in-training wizards. He does not have his mother's memory of how Harry once shrunk a sweater before her very eyes. He had a vague imagining of Harry with a disastrous haircut, but when he came upon Harry the following day, his mop had returned to its original length. His mother insisted upon Dudley's vision being a dream, and Time did further taint his original recollection. The things Harry did were bewildering and frightening—he did not realize how mundane and harmless his cousin's initial magical responses were.
That Dale could display such willful power, and without a drop of training—indeed, that was something.
He considered phoning Harry; something he so rarely did, being from two different worlds and sharing such a sordid past.
He could call Harry. He even enclosed his mobile number in the last Christmas card.
This little muggle innovation is far handier than sending patronuses back and forth. It certainly gets fewer looks when you're out-and-about in London.
He could call him directly, without the inconvenience of his wife or children picking up. He could, but he knew what he'd likely say.
"Well, Dudders, sounds like you've got a wizard on your hands."
He was yet prepared for that kind of truth.
It was best to see how it all panned out before jumping to any conclusions. Dale was Dale. Clumsy, grimy, and even a target of bullies; how could he be a wizard? How many times has Dana had to fight his battles?
But if there was one thing he remembered correctly, it was that there was no better bully-bate than Harry James Potter.
He gave every appearance of being weak. Frail, bespeckled, and wearing Dudley's rubbish clothes, he was ripe for derision. But Harry was not weak, in fact, he was clever and fast, which did enough to confound Dudley without the use of a spell.
Dudley laughed humorlessly at how this once infuriated him so. How well Harry could spar with only his wit, or speed away out of the reach of Dudley's meaty fists. He was an expert escapist. Dale was sharp as well, and he often antagonized the large and slow-witted. As Dudley was once arrogant with his size and strength, so was Dale arrogant with his intellect and craftiness. Oh, how alike he and Harry were. Why had he never noticed it before?
No, no. Doesn't do to start thinking about that. There is time to think this over. There is time. Harry didn't get his letter 'til he was eleven. Dale's only . . .
Eleven. He turned eleven last April. How could he have forgotten? Why did he consider Dale just fresh out of preschool?
Well, Dale isn't due for Sandringham School for another . . .
Three months. It was the summer!
He scoped out the area around the family room. Sure that it was clear, Dudley for the first time ever, shut the doors. He nearly tripped over his swollen feet to arrive at the couch. He pulled the mobile from his pocket and found Harry's saved number.
I'll only ask him how his kids are doing at Hogwarts . . . it'll be a polite conversation. I just need to know the day when those blasted owls come.
He hesitated no longer. The phone dialed the number. There were several rings until finally; they stopped at the sound of Harry's voice.
"Hello. If you're hearing this, it means I am indisposed in the magical world and therefore, unable to pick up a signal. You can reach me at my enchanted land-line, or by patronus or floo powder."
A beep sounded, and Dudley spluttered.
"H-h-h'lo, Harry! It's your cousin Dudley, here. Didn't get much of that rubbish you were on about, but I'll try you at home. Just calling to see how goes it, and I thought I'd ask you over for dinner one of these nights. It's been what, thirteen years since we last got the families together? Now's as good a time as any--" A second beep had cut his rambling short. He had no intention of inviting the Potters over; it spilled out in his search for an excuse to call. Dudley then abandoned a fresh attempt at reaching Harry. If he was lucky, it would be a very long time before Harry would discover that he had a message. How often did he venture outside of his wizarding community? Dudley didn't presume it was often.
But as head of the Auror department, Harry had a lot of dealings with the Muggle world. He had just gotten done with obliviating the memories of an entire secondary school when a vibration indicated a new message on his phone. Harry stowed his wand up his sleeve, and sat on an empty bench. He called his voice mail and came upon the message from Dudley, moments after he had left it.
"What in Barnabas the Barmy's sock drawer is Dudley on about?"
And Harry, whose keen sense had detected something gone amiss, dialed up his cousin for the first time in several years.