Disclaimer: Dear God. For my birthday, can you please schedule a meeting between JK Rowling, author of Harry Potter and me? I'll never be her but I'd like to know how she does it...

This chapter involves Vernon Dursley, Girl Who Lived, Petunia and Dudley Dursley, brief mention of Lily and James Potter, and the Malfoys

Please read and comment. If it helps, the Malfoys will soon appear, as will the Weasleys, before Hogwarts.

INTRODUCING VERNON DURSLEY

There now. Why don't we skip a few years to the Christmas of 1987, where our heroine is seven years old?

It's a rather cold, snowing night and Vernon Dursley is about to get the best shock of his life...

Chapter 3: Vernon Dursley receives some unwanted advice

Vernon Dursley was a proud man. Proud to be British, proud to be a Dursley, and proud to be the director of his firm Grunnings, one that made a safe supply of drills for the equally-proud people of Surrey.

It so happened, therefore, that when his seven-year-old niece decided to question his company's marketing tactics, he was left speechless, shocked and his pride more than a little bruised.

Mistletoe Potter, he had decided the instant he laid eyes on her that very first day of November, was Bad News. Her eyes, a strong residue of the freakishness the child had endured during her first years (vital, that they were) of growth, said it all. He thought back to the day he'd first met Petunia's family, and how Lily Evans' eyes were almost the same colour. Her eyes were pretty, more than what he could say for a freak. Her daughter's eyes, on the other hand, were downright creepy.

Then there was the wee problem with her habit of reading his mind and answering his questions, especially when she had been too young to speak, by voicing them loudly in his head. Now that was truly horrifying. The girl had been doing it before she could walk and five years with the Dursleys had not changed that.

Oh, and the girl liked to talk to snakes.

All in all, Vernon often wondered what on Earth the Potters had done to their child for her to turn out the way she had. His family, being such a welcoming, kind-hearted, charitable and caring family, naturally never complained.

It would be simpler to say, however, that Petunia was a little disappointed. She had hoped that Mistletoe would turn out just like their perfect, handsome Diddykins who was such a smart little boy. In fact, if Vernon didn't know better, he'd say that Petunia had raised the girl in hopes that she would turn out just like Petunia had – the domestic, caring and certainly non-freakish type.

Petunia, he thought a little sadly, had failed on all three accounts.

At four years of age, the girl, so eager to help around the house that it almost became frightening to watch, had volunteered to clean up the kitchen. Vernon winced at that memory. Needless to say, domestic housework was firmly left to Petunia, who panicked at the mere thought of the girl fingering her plates with a sponge.

As for caring, the girl was often caught giving Duddy cold looks whenever he wailed loudly about inequity and unfairness, claiming – lying of course – that 'he started it first'.

Vernon didn't have the heart to consider the girl's freakishness, so he left it at that.

The girl was currently rambling off about a passage in a book she'd read, quoting how 'business franchising is the ultimate way for a business to expand'.

Whatever rubbish she was going off about, he didn't really care. The girl was, after all only seven. A genius perhaps, and maybe (in her words) seven and a half, but she was, in essence, a freak. What would the world be like if everyone suddenly began to listen to the words of people like her? Havoc, surely.

The girl finally stopped mid-sentence and sent him a piercing glare, illuminating those emerald orbs of hers and sending a nasty shiver down his back. "I hope you were listening, dear uncle," the girl's sweet voice resounded in his head.

Oh dear. It seemed like she had heard him. He simpered and pretended to listen attentively. "Pretend, Vernon?" Mistletoe mind-scoffed. It was times like these when Vernon wished the girl would stop reading his mind. It bugged the bloody hell out of him.

"Alright, alright," he huffed, "I'm listening."

The seven (and a half) year old nodded at him approvingly, eyes scanning intelligently across the page of the book – his book, mind. "I was saying, uncle, that now would be a good time to expand your business."

He stared at her incredulously. "I'll have you know that Grunnings is perfectly fine the way it is, young lady."

And that was the other thing – she always knew when to give comments on things that often made sense. He thought freaks weren't supposed to make sense. It must have been something the girl had picked up living with them Dursleys.

"Yes," Mistletoe said slyly, "it must be."

"I'm the director of my firm, Mistletoe. Not you."

"No, not yet." She flipped through the book again. "Business, currently, is doing well, I suppose?"

Vernon chortled. "Well, it's never done better!"

She nodded. "Let's just suppose that Grunnings could do even better?"

He stared at her suspiciously. "What're you getting at, young lady?"

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Throughout its entire fourteen year history, Grunnings has always made drills." She leaned forward, a cunning look on her face. "But what if Grunnings were to make more than just drills? What if Grunnings were to start making...nailers?"

Vernon's mouth dropped open. Though it only drooped a few inches, a few inches was all it took for all of Vernon's three chins to shift downwards, dragged down by gravity, and jingle a little as they contemplated their journey. "What?"

The girl nodded, her face one of complete seriousness, an expression not often seen on a seven year old girl.

"Not just nailers, uncle. Think hammer trackers, staple guns...even a range of more primitive tools like the hammer and screwdriver. Think about all the fantastic choices you get to make!"

Vernon blinked, mouth (and chins) staying where they were. Why hadn't he thought of this? It was so blindingly obvious, of course. The clients were always complaining about the lack of variety. And to think that a seven year old freak had managed to solve his problems! The girl sent him a rather stern look. "Seven and a half, uncle."

He grunted, for once not caring of the girl's freakishness. "That's a brilliant idea, Mistletoe," he admitted, "I should contact the board immediately."

Vernon, though he didn't like it when people knew, was part of a board of directors who operated under the firm Grunnings. Employers worked for the board and the board worked for the chairman. Though he didn't like mentioning that part all too often.

The girl beamed. "No need, uncle," she said excitedly, "I've already proposed the idea under your name. I'm sure you won't mind. Consider it a slightly early Christmas present."

Vernon's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "You what?" he roared.

Mistletoe smiled innocently. "I was trying to tell you that in the beginning, but honestly, you weren't listening." Vernon was silent, too busy trying to control his erratic breathing. His face, no doubt was purple. He thought about what the other, less-important directors would say. He thought about what the chairman would say and how his employers would ever listen to him again without laughing at him.

The girl, her and her freakish nature once again disrupting his normal life as it had five years ago, was laughing at him. He almost wanted to hit her, only stopping when he thought about what Petunia would think.

"Oh, calm down, Vernie," she teased. His eyes narrowed. "I think your chairman will be very impressed with you. I even sent him an outline of the different products manufactured by other firms. He should be calling any minute now."

Vernon howled. "You're seven years old, Mistletoe Petronica Potter!"

"And a half!" his stubborn niece fumed. "I'll have you know that the youngest college-lecturer in the world was eight years old when he began his profession, the youngest professional video gamer is six, and Capablanca beat his own father in a chess match at four!"

Vernon rolled his eyes. And that was just another abnormal thing about her – she was just always so interested in child prodigies, young talented boys and girls whose stories she enjoyed hearing immensely. It was almost as if she belonged in their group.

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "Oh course I belong with child prodigies, uncle," she retorted, "I am one myself."

Vernon grunted, too distracted to care. He was more focussed on imagining the look of the chairman's face when he went to work on Monday.

And then the phone rang.

Mistletoe smiled cheerfully. "That'll be him. Ronald Stevens, I think his name was? I hope you don't mind me calling him Ray."

As the phone droned on miserably, Vernon felt beads of sweat form on his head.

His niece, sensing his discomfort, enquired, "Would you like me to pick up the phone for you?"

"NO!" Vernon bolted up and grabbed the phone, huffing and puffing with anxiety. "V-vernon Dursley speaking."

And that was exactly how dear Vernon received the best shock of his life.

A couple years later, during a time when Number Four Privet Drive is long forgotten and Number Fifteen Victoria Street, a much larger house in a wealthier part of the town, holds the party of the month...

"Head Director and partner," Vernon said smugly.

Petunia regarded her husband with awestruck eyes. Dudley, not really understanding what all the fuss was about, loudly complained about his meal. Mistletoe snickered when she saw the expression on his face – one which clearly said he had been brutally ignored. The rest of the guests, of course, listened to Vernon's speech with rapt attention.

"We'll be importing the materials very soon and naturally, I'm in charge," he continued, making sure everyone, especially Mistletoe, knew.

Countless times, the girl had interfered. It had been her suggestion that they franchise the firm. Across the country, there were now fourteen factories manufacturing Grunnings products, and a couple of stores were currently being built in America and Australia. Though Vernon hated to admit it, business had boomed as people hounded the headquarters of the firm for large orders of tools every day.

And then there was the time on Diddykins' birthday, when she had scolded him for wasting his hard-earned money on his Diddy's thirty-six birthday presents.

"A new computer, a second television, racing bike, cine-camera, remote control aeroplane, sixteen new computer games, a video recorder and a gold wristwatch," Mistletoe had listed solemnly. "Uncle, do you have any idea how much you could invest with all this money?"

Dudley, unsurprisingly, had burst into tears. "Mum, Mummy!" he howled, "she doesn't want you to give me presents!"

The problem was quickly solved when Mistletoe burst out laughing. "Don't be stupid, Dudley. Your parents should only be using the money they would normally spend buying you presents to invest in properties and shares so that when you grow up, they'll give you all of that as one big birthday gift and you'll have so much more money that everyone'll be jealous!"

Dudley almost immediately sobered up, even insisting that they should give back all the presents. If there was one thing Vernon should give the girl credit on, it would be that Mistletoe Potter really knew how to manipulate others.

There were times when Vernon thought that he'd really grown quite fond of the girl.

"I say, let's declare a toast," Vernon announced, relishing in the attention. A crowd of eager heads nodded. "Hear, hear," they muttered.

Vernon raised his champagne fluke, staring into the rich colour. The faces of the crowd were obscured, but the grandeur, the luxury they now lived in, was still evident. Finally, he said, "to a brilliant future."

Echoes and clinks sounded. Petunia stood up and turned on the stereo, nice background music playing as the guests stood up and mingled. Several of the wealthy had even brought along their children. Vernon nodded contentedly to himself. Though they were not the richest family in the room – far from it in fact – nor the most well-known his family was only just starting their lives on Victoria Street, and in a few years' time, it would be only definite that his wife, son and niece would be the envy of the entire street.

"Greetings, uncle."

Ah, his beloved niece. He turned around, scrutinising her up and down. "Yes?"

Mistletoe smirked. "Your partner, Ray Stevens, will be arriving in about three minutes. I suggest you open the gates for their driver to enter."

It seemed, much to Vernon's unease and Petunia's disappointment, that time had only increased the girl's strange mind-reading abilities. So nuanced was her ability now that not only could she know what petty thoughts were held in the minds of people she had never even met, she could also, somewhat, predict the near future.

Mistletoe rolled her eyes. "He'll be bringing guests, just so you know," she said casually. "Personally though, I'd be mindful of them - Ray's guest holds quite a remarkable amount of authority over him, and consequently, you."

Vernon scratched his head, briefly wondering who this mystery guest was. Stevens may have mentioned him a little during lunch break. What was his name again – Madrid? Malrid? Malfod?

"That'll be Malfoy, dear uncle," his niece said sweetly in his mind. "Lucius Malfoy and his wife and kid."