Queen Elizabeth
[A/N: Please Brit-pick the hell out of this.
This was written years ago. I feel odd publishing it now, so recently after the Queen's death. Probably that means I need a political sensitivity reader, which isn't something I'd even considered could exist before now. Are there any volunteers? Please?]
Queen Elizabeth II stepped off the stairs on her way to an appointment with the prime minister. She was early, of course, she liked to re-read his briefs before he arrived so the important points were fresh. As she turned down the spacious corridor, smoke appeared violently out of nowhere and coalesced into a writhing hissing mass of leg-thick snake encircling a squirming swearing teenager.
Magic.
She took a step back and barked an order.
Very soon there were several guns trained on the pair, and several wands would be arriving soon, but by that time the intruding presence had separated, into not one but two snakes, a cat, and a boy. Then the teenage boy was kneeling. And fumbling wands and baubles out of his clothes and laying them in a neat row along the floor.
And her ears were finally processing what he'd called her before he'd knelt and started disarming himself like a naughty schoolboy who was embarrassed to have been caught bringing frogs in from the garden.
"Empress!"
He was wearing gardening clothes, or short loose denim trousers, and a no … he was wearing a martial arts uniform that had been cut shorter for summer training. And she'd mistaken them for gardening clothes because he'd been training in them out-of-doors often enough for grass and mud stains to accumulate into vague shadows at knees and hips, elbows, shoulders, and ribs. Whatever martial art he practised, it must involve throwing and being rolled on the ground. Judo perhaps.
Then both snakes changed from snakes into witches, one dressed in dingy clothes, like the boy; though hers were dingy with ink stains at the cuffs. And one dressed in the purple robes that their parliament wore while in session. The Wizengamot, she'd attended a time or two, sometimes incognito. It was rather more stuffy and boring than the British Parliament, (at least, when they knew We were in the audience.)
Both of the women curtsied and stepped back.
The cat backed away and turned invisible, possibly vanishing back where it had come.
The boy finished unloading things and scooted backwards, still kneeling, touched his forehead to his knees, then sat back up, his spine and neck stiff, his eyes still on the floor.
Queen Elizabeth II held up a hand to forestall extraneous questions from her guards. Then cleared her throat.
The three mages met her gaze. Then the one in ink stains flinched, stepped up beside the boy, and knelt, but she put her head down on her knees and did not lift it again.
That was interesting, British monarchs hadn't asked for kneeling from their subjects for a very long time, not counting ceremonial occasions like knighthoods.
There was a tattoo in her hair … or a brand. The faint glow meant it was magic, or mildly radioactive, which seemed less likely. The boy's hand also had a tattoo, silver in colour, that couldn't possibly be normal either.
"Your Majesty," said the peer in purple, "Please speak with my grandson-in-law, he's been moping for days."
"Empress," the boy had tried to correct. But been ignored by his 'grandmother-in-law'.
"Please forgive the informality of our entry, I'm unfamiliar with your customs," a bright blush, "I do my best to remain ignorant of my own people's customs as well, but … for my granddaughter's betrothed to be pining like this, I had to do something. For family."
"We see," said Elizabeth, "Young man, what seems to be the problem?"
"I … there's … a ritual magic, where I can protect people with my magic, in exchange for … well …" he began his stumbling explanation.
"It's a way of solidifying the personal variation of his family's magic, and extending it to non-family," said the still-unnamed Peer, "They are called thrall marks, He's been taking vassals, which is his right as a lord, the problem is who he has been marking and that when he's done so, it hasn't instantly cancelled or absorbed and converted the thrall marks of those others. How many have you marked, that also have marks of their own still active?"
"Four or five," said the teenager.
So he wasn't doing this magic … completely enough?
"And why is this our problem?" said Elizabeth.
"Because," said the boy, "it means that Magic Herself deems those four of my vassals are themselves peers in their own right." He swallowed, "Yet my marks also remain and even thrive."
The witch in purple sniffed.
"Are you trying to imply that Magic Herself condones you holding them as vassals?" said Elizabeth.
The boy nodded, "I'm not sure about the names and technicalities, but I think that it means 'Duke' or 'Royal', but … I'd really rather you knew. Empress."
And if he really believed himself to be a king by some quirk of fate and magic, it explained his insistence in addressing her by a higher title. By extension, he believes 'king' and not duke, otherwise addressing her as his queen would be a sufficient show of respect.
He was rather young. Old enough to be rebelling against his parents to get access to the car and the wine before it was entirely legal, not nearly old enough to be wanting to face a series of trials for treason for a magic trick he'd found. Probably a trick that was not taught to all the school children, he'd managed to unearth it in some dusty family tome and started using it whenever he thought a friend needed a little extra luck or whatever.
Elizabeth sniffed, "And what are your loyalties, young man?"
"Huh?" he said as if that were the most foolish question he'd ever been asked. As if he hadn't been to nearly enough stuffy old ceremonies and learned that they mostly consisted of a bunch of foolish questions, so that the person going through the ceremony could monologue in front of the audience, or for that matter show off how well they could remember their lines.
Or more modernly, the master of ceremonies would ask them if they'd uphold their various contracts according to law, and they could respond, 'I will,' or 'I do,' or whatever was appropriate. But if he was asking for a duty without knowing its name, then he'd have to explain it himself without the benefit of tradition.
"To us, we're sure," said Elizabeth, "or you wouldn't be here, but where is your realm? Hmm? Where do your heart and treasure lie? Or shall we just give you something somewhere?"
The witch beside him flinched and sat up. Her eyes locked on Elizabeth, full of hate and envy. As if she wanted land and title of her own, or had once upon a time.
There were certainly people present who had more right to claim recognition than this unknown boy, but…
The witch's eyes narrowed, and words popped unbidden into Elizbeth's mind, Do not challenge this boy to feats of bravery, he has already attempted more for the peace of your wizarding populace than 90% of your other mage subjects combined. (And half of the remainder were aligned against him.)
Meanwhile, he'd shaken his head, and found his breath to say, "My father's county seat is in the east lands, in wine country. Near hers, actually." a toss of his head to indicate his grandmother-in-law, still standing a bit behind him. "I'm not asking for more land or a title, I just … don't want anyone to get the wrong impression about … that I serve you and not myself, and that you know I'm one of your, umm, kings?"
His chin trembled a little, a common tell revealing how deep his desire rooted.
"We understand that," said Elizabeth, "But you still need to say the words. Perhaps start with, 'I,' and your name, 'do swear by Almighty God that…' and finish with what you're going to do for me, and for those whom you are responsible."
He frowned, and whispered several things under his breath, for almost two minutes, several times shaking his head and starting over. Twice he blushed. A lot of people were fidgeting, though most had the good grace to hide it. And of course, many of the guards were also muttering to each other over their coms, keeping those outside informed, in case this bit of chaos went sour again after all.
Then he looked up and said in a clear voice, "I, Lord Harry James Potter, do solemnly swear by Mother Magic, that I will always and faithfully serve my Empress, Elizabeth the Second, and that I will do what I can to uphold the laws of her lands and protect the just interests of all manner of beings and beasts living therein, without fear or favour, affection or ill will. And to help them learn, grow, and prosper, to the extent that they come to me for knowledge or advice, if I should have any to offer."
The first part was a judge's oath, not a Parliament oath. Interesting. It matched Elizabeth's coronation oath rather well, except leaving out the part where she was also head of the Anglican church. And the last part, was that from a professor's oath? Near the beginning of one, maybe with a bit more life experience, he'd have designed a better oath for himself.
He seemed done. "So help me 'Mother Magic'," prompted Elizabeth.
"So help me Mother Magic!" he said. And a tear slid down his cheek. And he wiggled.
She recognised that one too, that meant his armpits were drenched.
To hide her smirk she looked away, and met the gaze of Sir John Major, probably come to find out why she was late.
They shared a look, then she returned her attention to the boy before her. And the row of wands and jewellery on the floor between them. She'd knighted only two wizards during her reign, and there had always been a bit of ill will about the sword vs. wand issue. And she didn't have a sword handy, and the boy's wooden practice sword, (which he hadn't deigned to surrender when he was busy disarming himself, told her exactly how he rated that as a weapon.) Though if he, at an age much too old to be playing with toy swords, was wearing a manufactured practice sword, and martial arts clothing, perhaps he was one of the few wizards who knew enough to appreciate being knighted with a real sword.
Who could predict how the other mages in this crowd would feel? Better not to risk it.
So she bent down and retrieved the longest of the four wands he'd laid on the floor at her feet, a rather ornate specimen of light-coloured wood.
Now then, what responsibility do I want to bless and curse him with? Something appropriate to the oath he swore.
"Good," she said, "We accept your oath, and your service, On official records your citizenship will remain to the Kingdom of England, and you will be entered in the roles as a Justice of the Peace, at large, or the nearest equivalent office, in the realms of England, Wales, and Scotland. We bestow on you the non-hereditary and nontransferable title of Judge Royal, (It will not pass to your children, nor are you permitted to sell it.) It does let you sit in judgement between any of our subjects, and as many peers of our realms as are willing to acknowledge the authority of your office and title. We acknowledge the royal rank to which Magic has appointed you, but do not choose to instate you with any duchy or kingdom at this time, as you have neither requested such nor shown any special favouritism for any of them. Judge well. Live well. Lord Harry James Potter,"
She tapped him on each shoulder with the tip of the white wand. He flinched but kept his back straight. Then nodded low, though this time he kept his back straight and it was only his head that bowed.
She raised her eyes to see another woman in rags kneeling behind him. She also had wands and daggers strapped to her forearms, and another practice sword strapped at her hips.
"Rise, Judge Royal," she intoned.
He grabbed his things and stood. The wands disappeared quickly, then the bracelets slipped on, and last of all the crystal morning star looped over his head and laid against his collarbone.
She'd wondered about that item, but if it were a magical grenade he wouldn't wear it there.
She held the white wand out hilt first, noting that it trailed purple and gold sparks. No other wands she'd held had ever done that. She resisted the urge to wave it around and write her initials in the air like a schoolgirl with a Fawkes day sparkler.
He took it with another nod of thanks, then sheathed it along his left forearm with the black one she suspected he favoured most.
"Judge Royal," she said, "Until you are twenty-five at least, we are expecting yearly reports of your activities as Judge Royal."
"Yes, Mum," he said, then flinched, "Yes, Empress."
She smirked, "The four of you may go," she said. And watched as the faded scar on his temple darkened into a vague colour between black and red and purple, with a subtle glow that might not be light at all, and dripped down his cheek to pool and reorganise on his shoulder, into an arc of flowers and leaves. She kept an eye on it until he left, and between his loose collar and his various bows and glances to his companions, she gathered enough glimpses to be sure that she recognised the familiar crowned E wreathed in flowers.
"Thank you for your time," He'd said and bowed again, more the way the Wizengamot peers bowed to each other, and less like he was facing execution.
"Now will you be able to properly focus on your sword lesson, my lord?" muttered the woman with the practice sword.
"I'll try," he muttered back as if he couldn't be overheard.
"Good," she said and turned into a rather large cat and jumped onto his shoulder.
The ink-stained woman turned back into a snake and coiled very quickly around his left knee.
Which made him flinch, unlike the cat and her claws.
"Just to be clear," said Elizabeth, "slavery is illegal in our realms."
"Slavery of humans is illegal," he said, "They know. They have contracts and incomes and clothing budgets even, but one refuses to buy anything except books and luxury imported Japanese chalk, and the other only buys boots, knives, and gauntlets."
The witch in purple rolled her eyes and held out her hand. The boy took it, and with a muted thunderclap of under-pressure, they were gone. And within seconds the moisture condensed by the sudden depressurisation had again evaporated.
"Well," said Elizabeth, "that was out of the everyday. Everyone may stand down and resume their posts. Someone check whether the precautions about that sort of intrusion are functioning properly and whether they ought to be updated. And who has standing access past them? Sir John Major, shall we?"
He nodded. They made their way to where their appointment had been intended.
.
Later that day, while she was at luncheon she remembered the disturbing sight of that scar reforming itself into one of the symbols of her person and rank, and placing itself at the location where she'd touched him with the tip of the white wand after she'd accepted his oath.
Rare rituals indeed.
Magic Herself enforcing oaths sworn by her name.
Perhaps not something that needed to be looked up in a dusty old tome, just the sort of thing that 'one had to mean.'
And right after that, he'd said, 'yes, mum,' He'd certainly intended to mean 'ma'am' but that look in his eye afterwards, when he heard the Freudian Slip he'd uttered, as if he wished he could mean it the other way … Though I'm probably the same age as his grandmother-in-law, not that she shows most of it, what with being a witch and all.
That might be most of what they'd meant by 'pining away.' If he suddenly found he 'outranked' everyone that he was used to looking up to, then who could he lean on for support?
With that oath, he'd solidified his allegiance to her, but also to the law.
She turned to an aide, "Get us what's known by the government about Lord Harry James Potter and the size and state of his family. He is said to hold a county in the east country. Likely not the same size county as are on the modern maps."
The aid nodded and took notes, "By when?"
Their school term starts 'with September,' "Before August 15, go through the PM's office if you need to, they'll have readier access to that order of nobility."
More notes and nods.
"If they won't hand over the records to you, tell them to prepare the report and John Major can brief us himself."
"As you say."
Elizabeth returned to her meal.
.
...-...
Toby
Toby didn't even sit up when someone sneaked into his room and eased the door closed with a creditable attempt at complete silence. Instead, he tried to calculate the date, and remember when this had last happened.
"Hey Ben," he said, "getting bad at home again?"
"Kind of," said Ben, "Can I spend the night?" His voice was off-pitch like he might have a lump in his throat or something.
"Of course," said Toby, "Do you want help raiding the linen closet for blankets and pillows, or are you wanting to leave no trace?"
"'Leaving no trace,' isn't my priority," said Ben, "But I certainly would not turn down the snuggle."
Toby sat up.
Ben crouched and started taking off his shoes.
That hunch of shoulders meant a lot more than merely the need to reach shoelaces.
"It's not that they're getting better then?" said Toby, "It's that you started off this summer in a better headspace and it took them longer to get to you?"
"They're not bad people," said Ben.
Toby had heard that one before, it had taken him a while to understand it. "I know, I know," he said, "they just don't know how to deal with you."
Ben shrugged and turned away to take off his shorts and sweatshirt.
"You're alright," said Toby, "You're safe here."
"I know," said Ben, "It's why I came. I … just needed time to relax? for real?"
"Yeah," said Toby and lay back down.
Ben's footsteps retreated in the direction of the loo, then returned, and after a moment he was pressing his back against Toby's side.
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"Don't know what to start with," said Ben, "maybe it can wait for morning?"
"Maybe," said Toby, "Is it bad?"
"It's not as bad as last year," said Ben, "and lots, lots worse, because Lord Potter notified my parents that he's paying attention. So there's … impetus to get things actually settled."
Which meant arguing. Arguing like every decision must matter permanently, rather than merely towards a new experiment, which might become the new normal for a month or two, before things resumed the old equilibrium, whatever had worked best or required the least work before.
"Hell," said Toby and rolled over to give Ben a hug.
He found something he wasn't expecting. Ben tensed. Toby pulled his hand back, "Are you wearing a bra?"
"Yeah," said Ben.
"Why?"
"They're too big now to not," said Ben, "Still experimenting with how much I can loosen it for bed without it getting more uncomfortable than leaving it how tight it needs to be for walking."
"You're a girl?"
"Yeah."
"Oh," said Toby, "Yeah, then I guess it's about time that they'd be too big."
"Yeah."
"What's your real name?"
Ben sniffed.
"Never mind," said Toby and slid half an arm's length farther away so he could rub her back instead of hugging her.
Gradually she relaxed.
Better than crying again, But he … she usually cried late afternoon, not evening, and it … might have more to do with an oncoming need to 'return home for Tea,' rather than anything Toby had anything to do with. On the other hand, sometimes touch relaxed the barriers keeping someone from crying, instead of relaxing the tension that might call for crying to start with.
Toby didn't consider himself an expert. It was just a thing that he'd noticed.
Most of the girls in his school had gotten boobs between 12 and 14, Ben just turned seventeen and … no that didn't seem right.
"How old are you really?" said Toby.
A long pause, "Almost thirteen," said Ben.
Toby snickered, "No wonder."
A longer pause.
"My name is Freyazegen, but most people pronounce it, 'Jennifer,' which means something completely different. Except I think by a couple of weird folk etymologies."
"What do they each mean?"
"Freyazegen means 'Desire of Freya, or her blessing or her pleasure,' Freya is the Norse queen mother goddess or something, Jennifer means 'famously white woman' or something."
"I bet it doesn't," said Toby, "though naming your child after anyone from the Norse pantheon seems to me a rather white thing to do."
Ben snickered.
After a little while, "I'm named after my Mum's favourite aunt."
"Ah," said Toby, "You want me to keep calling you Ben anyway. Or Jennifer like everyone else, or Fray-yahzay-heh like it's supposed to be, how do you say that?."
"Probably, Fray-ah-zay-ghen," said Freyazegen, "if you can manage, and teach others. Otherwise, err… whichever matches what clothes I'm wearing?"
"Oh," said Toby, "that's complicated."
Freyazegen shrugged.
"I won't be mad if you say Jennifer instead."
"Alright."
"I won't be mad if you … don't tell anyone about this until next summer, and you figure out then … if you ask me then whether I'm going to ever try to be a boy after that, maybe I won't."
"Yeah, I see," said Toby, "I'll try not to tell anyone until then, and … only tell whatever it is you give me permission to tell, at that point."
"Thank you." She said, and rolled over and kissed his cheek.
"Hmm," said Toby, "I think I like you being a girl if it means kisses."
She giggled and slid away to a more comfortable distance for staring at each other in the dark.
She picked up his hand and moved it to her chest, "You're allowed to touch," she said.
"Are you sure?"
"At least when I'm the one invading your bed."
"Not if it makes you feel too unsafe to come back," said Toby.
"I don't, er, not yet, hmm, They're too new and I'm still getting used to them, you can … help me get used to them by not … flinching away from them. Just hug me like normal, or not. I mean, don't grab them like they belong to you, and don't apologise for touching them by accident. Just try to be normal, so I can … also learn how to be normal."
"Yeah, ok," said Toby.
A moment of silence.
"Roll over so I can hug you like normal."
She rolled away and scooted closer. He hugged her the way she'd wanted both times she'd been in his bed before: 'Both of them facing the door.'
Also, that meant his arm was around her stomach, not around her chest. So that turned out not to be teaching her what was or wasn't normal, whatever 'normal' meant. How was Toby supposed to know either?
Her breathing evened out.
Good.
"Did your parents make you pretend to be older, to get rid of you early, off to boarding school?"
"Maybe, probably not quite like that."
"Like what then?"
"I kept my grades up," said Ben … Jennifer … Fraya-zayghen.
I've known you since we moved here, and you were the only one with low enough status to have nothing to lose by letting the new kid approach you. How long ago did you skip years … How many years did you skip…
"You skipped so many forms that they … what?"
"What if you were two or three or four forms ahead, sharing classes with bigger, stronger kids?"
"Oh," said Toby, "you started telling the wrong age, and the wrong gender to stand out less."
Freyazegen shrugged, "I guess."
"I guess I might do that too."
Freyazegen relaxed, "Yeah, I don't like standing out, but I don't like lying either."
"I know you don't."
"I'm glad I could … tell you this much. Tell someone this much." said Freyazegen, "Kind of sorry about, dumping it on you and then asking you to keep quiet for a while."
Did she or did she not just imply that she was keeping a lot more back? And she wasn't apologising for hiding anything, she was apologising for sharing more than he might be comfortable knowing. Odd.
"Is it alright if I say, 'you're welcome' about that, rather than 'forgiven'?"
"Um … yeah, OK," she slid a hand down to her stomach and wrapped it around his wrist, "Thank you, Toby, for being a good friend, and intermittently being a big brother when I needed it."
"Hey now!" said Toby.
"What?"
"Don't friend-zone me too hard," said Toby, "I might want something more someday,"
She flinched, "even if 'someday' might not be for a year or more."
"Yeah."
"Alright," she said, "It's a deal, we can date someday when I'm old enough."
"I'm fairly sure you're old enough to date," he said, "Just not old enough for some of the other things … that … uni students are rumoured to do on their dates."
She snorted, "right? Also, I … I'm not sure what age would be normal for me to be dating someone as much older than me as you are."
"Hmm," said Toby, "I think that matters less when you're the smarter one."
She shrugged, "I might not be smarter, I might just be better at taking tests."
"Whatever that means."
She shrugged.
"I'll ask my dad about normal ages to date."
"Without mentioning me or my age?"
"Yes, without mentioning that."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She relaxed.
And they slept.
...-...
Dudley's Road Trip (Part 1): Arriving
Dudley sighed. The scenery hadn't changed in the slightest, it was still the same south-eastern countryside he'd been seeing for hours, and yet… Now it all felt right.
He glanced out the rearview mirror.
The only anomaly within sight was a low stone wall. Could have been a ruin since the roman times, though somehow he knew it was not.
He kept driving. He wasn't bored anymore. In fact, he felt invigorated. He could keep driving for hours. Though, according to the map and odometer, he should be only a few more minutes out.
An intersection appeared. The road signs were different here. But the directions still seemed good. He made the correct turn and continued.
Two turns later and he was pulling up in front of a quaint little bungalow … or maybe more of a cottage. He parked and got out. The mailbox number was correct. He knocked on the door.
Nothing.
He knocked again harder.
"Hey!" shouted someone from the next yard over.
He walked to that end of the porch, except there was no next yard over, it was just the mess of trees and shrubs where a field had been abandoned long enough.
"Back here!"
He walked to the back and found an irritated girl staring at him, and blowing hair out of her sweaty face, "What do you want?"
"I'm here to see Harry."
"Is he expecting you?"
Dudley shook his head, "Birthday surprise."
She grinned, "yeah, alright, when's his birthday anyway?"
"July 31st," said Dudley.
"Day after tomorrow," She smirked, "Good to know."
"Who are you anyway?" he said.
"Melantha Potter, his fourth cousin."
"Dudley Dursley," said Dudley, "first cousin."
They looked each other over.
"You're a witch, right?" said Dudley.
"Yeah, but so far I don't know anything except what I taught myself, or read in the books he gave me."
"Oh," said Dudley.
She looked him over, "you're not a mage are you?"
"No," said Dudley, "someone told my Mum that I'm a half, but I don't know if I believe them."
Melantha nodded. Then pointed, "If you head over that way you're sure to find him, taking sword lessons with some of the others."
"Good to know he's not shirking," said Dudley.
Melantha gave him a weird look.
"Dad implied that was why he stopped coming home: he wanted to skip out on boxing and sword lessons."
The weird expression didn't go away.
Oh, she thinks helping with the yard work would have been more productive than sword lessons.
Fine, yeah probably.
Dudley shrugged.
Same glare, "I guess I'll see you around," he went back to his car. But then realised he could hear the shouts and jeers of a crowd already. He made his way in that direction.
As advertised, there were a bunch of teens hanging around watching while another pair gave a demo battle.
Harry was among the audience. As was his 'not-my-girlfriend'. Though to Dudley's entirely untrained eye, the girl with tattoos, standing right behind her watching over her shoulder and whispering a running commentary about the mock battle was even more interested in her than Harry ever had been.
Intriguing.
Maybe she was lesbian and that's why Harry always made the 'not-my-girlfriend' disclaimer.
Harry on the other hand… was giving a running commentary to the redhead at his side … even though he was holding hands with an Asian girl … whose twin sister wore snake earrings.
The Asian girls both had scimitars instead of straight swords. And looked bored. And were whispering to each other.
They were cuter than the redhead, though not by much.
She turned and locked eyes with him as if she'd felt him looking.
He shrugged and waved.
The roof of his mouth tingled, throbbed and tingled again, and all four of them turned to look at him.
He waved again.
Then the instructor stopped and looked at him. Then everyone was looking at him.
"Muggle present," said someone.
"My muggle," said Harry, "and he already knows about magic."
"That means a relative," growled a platinum blond, who must not be a girl after all, "Is he the cousin that kept trying to kill you?"
"Yeah," said Harry, "But he gave up the pastime as pointless after he watched a more professional assassination attempt fail."
"Huh?"
"Two dementors," said Harry, "seemingly sent by a corrupt ministry official, though I was never really in the loop about the investigation afterwards."
"I gave up a long time before that," said Dudley, "Because—" Oh, I'm not allowed to say it's not permanent, "he got faster than I wanted to chase."
"Sounds familiar," said the blond.
"Why are you here, Dudley?" said Harry.
Dudley shrugged, "I don't know. I uh brought you a birthday present."
"I gave you an address so that you could mail it." Harry glared at him.
Dudley swallowed. Harry is still smaller than me in every dimension. But he's only gotten more intense since last year.
"You probably won't believe me," said Dudley, "But … I think 'magic' made me come."
A couple of snorts of disbelief.
"What do you mean?" said Harry.
"I really like it here?" said Dudley.
Harry raised an eyebrow, "What do you mean by 'like' and what do you mean by 'here'?"
"Ever since the little stone wall, about 15 minutes drive that way," He pointed back the way he'd come.
Harry smirked, "Wotcher recognised that you're under my protection, and was letting you know you'd crossed inside where she can protect you automatically, by making you feel safe. What about before that?"
Dudley shrugged, "I wanted to see you." I wanted to see Leona. I shouldn't say that. "I missed you." heard you weren't planning to visit this summer, decided it was my turn.
That intense look again.
Crazy Leona isn't the real Harry, the lion is the real Harry.
Protect.
Pet.
How many of these other humans were also the pets of Harry the Lion?
They were all waiting for lessons to get started again.
"Sorry," said Dudley, "I didn't mean to interrupt lessons, I can go somewhere and wait until you're ready for me."
"Lunch is in an hour and a half," said Harry, "Why don't you go around back and see if they need an extra set of hands."
Dudley blinked, then nodded.
The 'around back' definitely seemed to refer to the house across the road, not to the other house with 'Melantha' sulking behind it.
.
On his way 'around back' Dudley figured out that it wasn't just a big house, it was huge, and probably a conference centre/chateau thing. Behind it were five greenhouses, and beside them, ranks of vegetable beds laid out in rows, seemingly in exactly the right pattern for more greenhouses to go up around them.
Fair enough.
Though, no one seems to be working back here.
The two boys that had been following him since he left the sword lesson, caught up and completed the same assessment.
"Doesn't look like anyone wants your help here, let's ask with the werewolves."
"Um, what?"
They exchanged a look.
"The different gardens have different names," suggested one lamely.
"Everyone's welcome, see," said the other, "But if you don't bring food with you, it's two hours of farm chores to earn your keep."
Two hours, sure, except lunch was in an hour and a half … and then it would be the hottest part of the day.
He could deal with two hours, they weren't expecting him to work through lunch the first day to prove himself, were they? More to the point. "Just to clarify," said Dudley, "Everyone is welcome, even werewolves?"
"Of course," said the second boy, the one that hadn't tried to elide that there might be werewolves at 'the werewolves' garden.'
"They're only more dangerous than the rest of us one night a month," said the first boy, "and we don't expect anyone to garden at night."
"Except Parvati and Melantha," said the second boy, "But that's just dealing with magical ingredients, and they tend to be hard asses and not to let us help with that."
"Anyway," said the first boy, "are yeh going to play nice with the werewolves?"
Dudley shrugged, why not. "If they play nice with me."
"Sounds right," agreed one. They both nodded.
"Hold on," said the second, "let's go."
The boys joined hands and each grabbed one of Dudley's elbows.
"Wotcher, please put us somewhere safe, near the werewolves' garden."
And then Dudley's world went blank, and he was an order of magnitude dizzier than he'd ever been before.
"Bloody Hell!" he said and realised he could see again. "Bloody Hell!" he said again. And looked around, this was a much, much bigger garden. Parts of it looked like it was machine-tilled, and parts of it looked greenhouse-ready. Not little greenhouses like the other garden. Big industrial plastic greenhouses. He knew because he could see a few were already erected in the distance. A few were just rib frames waiting for plastic.
"This isn't a garden," said Dudley, "This is a farm."
"Nuh huh," said one boy, "all Potter estate is one farm, which includes two vineyards and three gardens that belong to Harry, and a bunch of others that belong to other people."
Dudley blinked, So Harry was more land rich than he'd let on, but so what?
"I think, one of us is using a different definition of the word 'farm', but let's not argue. How about you … give me enough of a tour that I don't get more lost than I already am?"
"We should have found something for him to help with at the main house first."
"Oh! Yeah, that would have been better. I didn't think that through."
"What?" said Dudley, "And do you two have names? I'm Dudley, except a few people call me 'Big D'"
They looked at each other, then introduced themselves as, "Gregory Goyle" and "Vincent Crabbe."
Then they took him along the edge of a field to where a bunch of people were picking tomatoes. At the end of a row there was a medium-sized lorry, with empty crates stacked at one end, and full crates stacked at the other, they each grabbed an empty crate and Goyle chose a path that no one had picked down yet and showed Dudley the ideal colour to pick, it wasn't quite as ripe as Dudley would pick for his lunch, but … he'd heard things about picking things green because shipping was a thing and the fact that they'd continue to ripen on the road and on the store shelf.
While they worked, a scarred man and a woman with a familiar accent edged their way through, diagonally across the rows. Dudley knew that was supposedly very rude to the plants, though they seemed to be trying to be careful. And they seemed to be arguing about little creatures.
He looked after them, then he clenched his fists and stood up.
Crabbe grabbed his elbow, "What's up?"
"That woman!" said Dudley.
"You know Professor Tonks?"
"Yeah," growled Dudley.
"What do you have against her?"
"She made Leona cry," said Dudley.
"You know Leona?"
Dudley looked at him, "Yeah, sort of, why?"
A shrug, "She doesn't come around much, but she always knows everything anyway, it's weird. I've begun to suspect that she's an avatar of Wotcher or something."
"Nah, I bet Harry lets Wotcher tell her things he doesn't let Wotcher tell the rest of us."
Didn't they know who Leona was? That was kind of funny actually.
"Hmm, maybe."
But that also meant Harry didn't want them to know.
"So Dudley, how do you know Leona?"
Or maybe didn't care if they knew, but didn't trust them to keep it to themselves if they did know.
"Um," said Dudley, "She visited my house once, and protected me from dementors."
"Merlin's pointy hat!" said Gregory.
"So … is your house protected by Harry's wards or House of Potter wards?"
"Does that mean, turns invisible, but only to people he hasn't given permission to see it?"
"Yes. That's Harry's wards."
"Yeah, it is."
"Then … how does Hermione say it, that is not evidence for or against the hypothesis nor the null hypothesis."
They argued about that, and about the rules of evidence.
Dudley was fairly sure they didn't know what they were talking about, but that someone had been trying very hard to teach them.
Dudley picked tomatoes.
"So who was the man with Professor Tonks?"
"From the scars, I'd say one of the newer werewolves, but didn't get a close enough look to recognise."
Prickles when up Dudley's spine, "Newer werewolves?"
"Yeah, I mean, they're not allowed to turn anyone, not inside House of Potter wards anyway, but more come every week, They hear that Harry's hiring, and doesn't mind hiring werewolves. Some of them leave again when they figure out that Harry isn't hiring, there are just three or four werewolf-owned businesses in the area that are hiring, and some of them stay anyway. The point is, if they lived alone for a long time, they tend to have lots more scars, apparently, werewolves are gregarious or something."
"Oh, ha-ha," grunted Gregory.
They stuck out their tongues at each other.
"In seriousness though," said Vincent, "being alone makes them depressed and bored, and in the absence of anything else to do, they tear into themselves, it's not the same as being suicidal, mostly because they have no hope of killing themselves while transformed, though I guess a few of them are suicidal, but by the time they end up here, that's usually not a problem they're susceptible to."
In other words, 'already succeeded at suicide.' Was Vincent just that cavalier about other people dying? Or … about werewolves, or about … 'those other werewolves that aren't our neighbours.'
Dudley picked tomatoes.
"So … tell me about Wotcher."
"Little voice that talks in your head and shows you maps of Harry's estate if you ask nicely, and are allowed to ask for a map of that."
One of those things sounds like my conscience, and the other thing sounds like something Harry would make.
"Anything else?"
"Can portkey you from anywhere in the estate, to anywhere else that you're allowed to see, in the estate. But only if no muggles are watching."
"And that's how we got here?"
"Yeah."
"Alright."
"What's a muggle?"
"Human without magic."
"Like me?"
"Probably not, anyway, half the time it's more of a legal term about whether you're allowed to know about magic."
"There ought to be a genetic term for muggle-hybrid, as in 'probably halfway magic enough to use a wand'."
"Yes, Vince, there ought to be, but there's not, squib means something else."
"What does squib mean?"
"Depends on context, usually it means 'can't do magic, even though your parents could.' But just as often it means 'can't do magic, but related to someone who can, and therefore allowed to know about magic.'"
"That's what I am?"
"Right."
"Alright," said Dudley, "But since magical things work for me just as much, why can't everyone know about magic?"
They stared at him.
"What?" said Dudley.
"How much magic have you seen?"
"I've played with a pair of handkerchiefs with an enchanted hole between them."
They nodded.
"And I've watched a battle against dementors. And I've watched a lot of different witches and wizards appear and disappear."
"Apparate and disapparate."
Dudley shrugged, "And I've seen Harry turn into a lion."
A nod and a shudder.
"And I saw you pray to Wotcher, and then us disapparate to here."
A head-shake, "That was a portkey, feels like spinning, usually … controlled by an enchanted item. Apparating feels like squeezing through a tube, usually done by a licensed adult."
"Oh."
Dudley picked tomatoes.
"Do you really want to know three thousand years of history about why we hide magic from muggles?"
"Um," said Dudley, "That sounds boring? Is there a highlights reel?"
"1) Religions don't like us, because they can never be sure which things we did and which things their gods or the enemies of their gods did. 2) There aren't many of us, and minorities get picked on. 3) lots of variations on the first two, also envy. 4) hiding is easy."
"Humph," said Dudley, "Sounds like a branding problem to me."
"What?"
"If you told people what you could and couldn't do, they wouldn't confuse you with miracles right?"
"Barring the bit about people like Hermione and Harry figuring out how to do new things."
"Oh," said Dudley, but he rallied, "Alright, but … there's a different attitude about picking on minorities than there used to be."
"I bet there isn't," said Vincent, "Human instinct is human instinct."
"Yes," said Dudley, "But not everyone has the same perspective about whether giving in to instinct makes you normal or only an animal."
"Do you know Hermione?"
"I met her once," said Dudley, "But I'm acing social studies and social biology."
"Whatever those are."
"3) Envy: if you publish what you can do, and … and can automate the useful stuff into … I think you called them, 'enchanted items' but safe enough that muggles can operate them, and put in their stores to sell to each other and give you the money right? Sure we all wish we knew how to make a car or a computer, but almost no one wants to learn how badly enough to go to school for that. What we really want is for our car or computer to keep working properly. Sure we all wish we could understand how to make new things like Harry and Hermione, but maybe I just want a doorway handkerchief from the back of my breadbox into the back of my letterbox to save a trip to the front? If I could buy that in the store, I don't need to hire a contractor to figure out if it's possible and how."
"4) don't hide, advertise. Envy is what drives the prices up."
They looked at each other for several seconds, then went back to work, but had an argument about ethics. About whether even saying things like that was treason. And whether those laws were ministry overreach. And whether the laws had only been that strict during 'Grindelwald's War.'
It was complicated.
Dudley was fairly sure no one could prosecute a minor for treason, for just asking questions.
But maybe he'd been spoiled for the normal world by a history class with lots of good discussions that one year.
And that professor had been fired by the next year.
It was a shame really.
On the other hand, these two seemed to have a similar view of questioning everything, at least anything that claimed to be history related but sounded too close to anyone's established political dogma.
On the other hand, they shut up when someone started at the end of the next row with four empty crates.
Dudley wondered why four empties until she caught up to the three of them in about four minutes. Dudley watched her work.
She wasn't picking tomatoes like a precision exercise. She wasn't picking them like it was her first time trying out an exercise. She was picking tomatoes the way Dudley punched a speed bag: speed was of the essence, and precision was unnecessary, as long as his fist blocked the bag from hitting him in the face, as long as the picked tomatoes ended up in the crate and didn't bounce out onto the ground. As long as the tomatoes picked weren't still too green.
Dudley decided that he had picked enough sets of 21 that he knew what he was doing and could speed up.
He sped up.
Not anything like the woman across from him, but just like it was his second hour at this instead of his first.
By the time the woman returned the other way, gathering up the crates she'd filled and moving them to the truck, Gregory and Vincent were both on the row behind him and no longer even trying to keep up. 1) How could she carry that much weight? 2) Dudley suspected that Gregory and Vincent either weren't all there physically or just had no pride in being all there physically.
Perhaps they'd already done their two hours in the early morning when the weather was cool, and now they were only here to babysit him. Who knew whether that was 'babysit him to make sure he worked,' or 'babysit him to make sure the werewolves didn't bother him'?'
.
Dudley carried his full crate back and returned with an empty crate for each of them.
.
A pickup pulled up next to the flatbed and someone called out for everyone to gather around.
Gregory and Vincent sprang up like this was important.
"What's going on?" said Dudley.
"Lunch," muttered Gregory, "Purcells turn to cook today at the big house, so we're better off staying here."
"Huh?"
"When Mrs. Potter cooks, you're better off up there. When Harry cooks, it's a tossup, depending on your sense of seasoning. When the Purcells cook, you're better off here."
They stacked their full crates on the near truck and wandered around to get in line. Oh god, grilled ribs. Also beans, rice, and salad.
"Mrs. Potter?" said Dudley.
"Little Redhead. Lady Ginevra Potter nee Weasley, she's going to be fat someday, but not until she stops trying to keep up with her husband and wife. She's strong, fast, and feisty. Well, all three of them are strong and fast."
He'd seen a redhead girl standing very close to Harry. Staring intently into the sword fighting lessons. He'd seen Harry muttering to her despite a completely different girl having her fingers laced with his.
"And … married to Harry?"
"No, just engaged, very very engaged."
"Umm?"
Gregory looked at him pityingly, "Weasleys marry early and breed often, rumour has it that Harry wants a big family. Rumour has it that's why he's gotten engaged to a Weasley. Rumour has it that the Weasley family magic is already taken hold, and that's why Harry's as welcoming of all his friends and his friends' allies as he is."
"You're talking like family magic can rewrite people's instincts?" said Dudley, "Is that what family magic is?"
"No," said Vincent, "That's what Weasley family magic is, Potter family magic is probably transfiguration and flying."
"Or protecting," said Gregory.
"I think that's just a Harry thing. He pretends like it's a gryffindor thing, but he isn't quite like the rest of them."
"I think protecting is from Mom's side of the family," said Dudley.
They both turned to stare at him.
"What?" said Dudley.
"You remind me of someone," said Gregory, "Not sure who."
"Same here," said Vincent, "Are you sure you don't have magic?"
Dudley raised an eyebrow, "Is there an easy way to tell whether I'm one of those hybrids you talked about?"
Shrugs, "I don't know about easy, but … I think there are ways, don't know what they are though."
Dudley shrugged back.
"And her wife?" said Dudley.
"Future Lady Parvati Black nee Patil," supplied Gregory, "Not quite so engaged to Harry, not quite so feisty, but …"
"A hard-arse," said Vincent.
"No, that's her sister, the librarian."
"If Mrs. Potter is the fire, Black is the fireplace."
They stared at each other, then shook their heads. And grimaced like the analogy had broken down completely and they were actively sorry they'd tried.
"And if Harry is a lion?" suggested Dudley.
They looked at him, "Both his wives are horses, Ginny's got wings, and magic stilt-legs, Parvati's got power, bet she could wear armour if she wanted."
They stared at each other, smirked, and winked.
"What's the plan?" whispered Dudley.
They looked at him, and so did everyone else.
"Fine, never mind," said Dudley.
Vincent glanced around at all the attention they had right now. "Birthday present idea for Parvati, No idea how you'd get it sized right and keep it a surprise though."
"I can handle that," growled a man a few paces away.
Dudley looked, he was big, but muscular enough to seem squat, slightly balding, and covered in scars. He'd just about emptied his plate already.
He must have been close to the front of the line.
"Any idea if she wants steel or dragon-hide?" said Gregory.
"I couldn't guess," said Vincent, "Maybe she'd want both, depending on what she was planning to fight next."
"Can she carry either of those with her when she changes form?" said the man.
"No idea," said Gregory.
"Humph," he grunted and wandered away.
About the time half of the line was gone he came back and fronted the entire line to get seconds.
"What just happened?" whispered Dudley.
"What are you talking about?" said Gregory.
"Never mind," said Dudley, but he kept his eyes open. A couple of others did the same thing, though they seemed to be getting firsts.
Other than those incidents the line seemed completely peaceful. Maybe those had been cooks and had line-skipping prerogative or something?
"What are the rules regarding skipping the line?" said Dudley.
"Only the alpha and betas have that privilege," said Vincent, "we're uninvited guests and wait until after the pack members, unless specifically invited to do otherwise."
"Oh," said Dudley. And wondered if this fell in the category of 'can you play nice with werewolves' or 'werewolves not playing nice with me.' On the other hand, I'm a long way from home, and I haven't seen a road capable of supporting a speeding ambulance for quite a while. And I still haven't had a decent enough conversation with Harry to be sure how welcome I really am around here.
Better to play it safe, it was just food after all.
Actually, there seemed to be enough for everyone to have seconds, so really it was just time, patience, and pride.
Hmm.
Finally, their turn came.
Dudley would have been slightly impressed with the portion size, except he had just seen how several of the others had been served. Whatever, don't rock the boat, finish it and see if I can get seconds.
A guttural noise made the cook flinch and look over his shoulder.
"I've seen that one work," said the man from before, "he's earned a wolf's portion if he wants it."
The cook raised an eyebrow and looked up.
Dudley swallowed, then shrugged.
The cook piled on another section of ribs and another spoon of beans.
"Thank you," said Dudley.
Both the cook and the man behind him grinned.
And then the plate was in Dudley's hands and he was making his way over to where Vincent and Gregory were crouching in the shade of the big lorry.
Vincent looked at his plate, and then at Dudley, "What?"
"Someone said I earned a wolf portion and they gave me fifty per cent more."
"Someone who?"
Dudley shrugged, "the big grunty guy with muscles like my dad wishes he had."
"Could you be more specific?" said Vincent with an odd smirk.
"Reminds me of a bulldog," said Dudley, "not the … expression, the muscles, I think it's called double-muscled in Italian cows, I have no idea what it's called in people."
"The guy who is always standing right beside you whenever you say anything remotely incriminating, embarrassing, or prejudiced?" suggested Gregory.
"I hadn't noticed that pattern," said Dudley, "Should I have?"
Gregory shrugged, smirked, and went back to eating.
"So do you know who I'm talking about?"
They both nodded, "Fenrir Greyback," said Vincent, "Alpha of the werewolves currently in Potter estates."
"Oh," said Dudley.
"Your cousin calls him Lord Greyback, even though he has no official title," said Gregory, "Same as he calls Hermione, 'Lady Granger', even though our House isn't old enough to rate a vote or anything. So her correct title is just 'Head of Granger.' "
"Hmm," said Dudley, "Who else does he call by more than their legal title?"
Gregory got a thoughtful look in his eye and stared off into space.
"Lady Nimrod Black," grunted Fenrir Greyback from three feet away.
How long had he been standing there?
Dudley did his best not to start. I have martial arts training damn it, no one that big should be able to sneak up on me like that.
"Who's that?" said Dudley.
"His cat," said Fenrir.
Dudley stared at him. Nim?
"If Mrs. Potter is his flaming arrow and his hearth," said Fenrir, "and Mrs. Black is his war horse, general, and potions mistress. Mrs. Nimrodina is his spymaster."
"Well obviously," said Dudley.
Fenrir raised an eyebrow, "and I wouldn't wonder, his torture specialist."
Dudley winced and looked away.
Fenrir chuckled.
"And who are you?" said Fenrir.
"Dudley Dursley, His cousin," said Dudley, and pet muggle.
"That means nothing," said Fenrir, "a fifth of his associates are his cousins."
"I'm his pet muggle then," said Dudley.
Fenrir chuckled, "Indeed."
"Doesn't he know that's not legal anymore," said Vincent.
"I don't mean legally," said Dudley, "I mean figuratively, like people being hearths and cats being spymasters."
"Hmm," rumbled Fenrir, "and what protection has he offered you?"
Gregory and Vincent put down their plates and backed away.
As if there had been a threat.
Dudley stood up and put his plate on the back of the tomato lorry and pushed it away.
And turned to face Fenrir Greyback.
He killed two dementors to save me when he could have run.
I'm not allowed to say that.
Should I say, 'I'm not allowed to talk about it,'?
"Do you know what protection I am able to offer you?"
What?
Oh. That was an offer to … force me to … join his pack. And I need to think faster.
"Both of those questions," said Dudley, "you should probably discuss directly with Harry."
There were lots of perplexed looks.
Either Dudley was supposed to be intelligent enough or frightened enough to turn that one down right away. Or start blabbing about what protections he was wearing. Or …
Or maybe, start asking technical questions about the pros and cons of becoming a werewolf. As if catching a mutagen disease might be a thing you'd do on purpose, like buying a car. Only permanent.
"It's good that he knows his place," said someone.
That started a fight that was quickly stopped and dragged sixty or seventy meters away then allowed to resume.
What?
Fenrir is looking at me again.
Now his own people are backing away, not just Gregory and Vincent.
Why is everyone so scared of him?
"Does he know how much you trust him to protect you?"
Fenrir leaned forward in what must be meant as an intimidation tactic, yet Dudley still felt perfectly safe.
The 'wards' are lying to me. Harry mentioned that.
Watcher are you real?
Watcher, are you telling me that I'm safe?
[Yes, you are safe, and my name is 'Wotcher']
Bloody hell, you really are in my head.
[No, I am buried underground, I merely communicate by scanning your mind, or projecting into it.]
Fenrir leaned closer then recoiled and blinked.
"Disillusionment won't help you when I can still smell you. I am a wolf after all."
And I'm a boxer, Dudley put his fists up and backed away a step.
"By the way," said Dudley, "What's disillusionment?"
Somewhere behind him, Gregory snickered, then put his hand over his mouth and mostly muffled it.
Wotcher, what specifically can you do to protect me?
[I can do many many things, some of them I can and will do automatically, the only thing you can command me to do is move you to: [a map of a tomato field, with a section highlighted.]]
The other side of the lorry. Basically.
[Yes.]
But not back to my car?
[No.]
Nor back to Harry?
[Not yet,]
Damn.
Fenrir took a step forward.
Dudley took a step back.
Fenrir took another step forward, still sniffing.
Dudley wound up, it was very weird facing a blind opponent. He could take a little more time, and make sure his punch was perfect.
The man's jaw didn't look at all vulnerable, and neither did his stomach. I shouldn't launch a killing blow through the eyes, he obviously only means this as posturing, and information gathering about Harry … Oh, about Harry's weaknesses: Can he abduct me or threaten me to get concessions or whatever he wants from Harry?
Well, we can't have that!
So a spar only, but now I have estimated the stakes.
Dudley let fly.
Perfect throat punch.
Fenrir reeled back and coughed, but kept his feet. And after a moment advanced again. Dudley backed up again.
When Fenrir advanced again, Dudley advanced into a forward stance and did another throat punch with the force of his advance driving it.
Fenrir choked, but this time his hands popped up preternaturally fast and wrapped around Dudley's wrist.
Damn it.
Wotcher, can you portkey me like this?
[Fenrir Greyback will be moved with you.]
Can you put me way up in the air, and after I kick him away, ask you to put me back on the ground, standing still, and not rapidly falling?
[I cannot accept malicious orders from you.]
Oh, interesting.
So back to winning this via normal means, not praying to Wotcher for rescue.
Fenrir's fist, the one not wrapped tight around Dudley's wrist, connected with Dudley's side, but only a glancing blow.
Dudley tried to yank away, his hand only moved a couple of inches, but that didn't matter because he'd only meant it as a feint to get his fist away from Fenrir's neck and down to grab his shirt collar.
It worked, Sort of.
Now it was more like a wrestle, instead of a spar. But whatever.
Dudley stepped sideways and back and yanked Fenrir with, and when his opponent's balance was worst, he stepped to the other side, and leaned forward instead, slamming the man's head into the side of the lorry.
That would bleed.
He got his hand free, but in doing so, he must have telegraphed exactly where Fenrir should look for him next.
Dudley sidestepped to be out of the line of sight of Fenrir's roving eyes.
Wotcher, please move me as far away as I'm allowed to ask you for.
The world went blank. Dudley went impossibly dizzy. And then the world gradually started making sense again.
Fenrir spun around and hopped onto the truck, "I can see you now," he said, "come back and finish?"
"I'd rather not," said Dudley, "If it's all the same to you."
Maybe he wouldn't be allowed to stop until there was a clear winner.
And if I win, what exactly would it prove? If I lost, what injuries would be involved?
"He's not scared?" said more than three of the watching crowd, then lots of speculation. Half about his lack of intelligence, half about what kind of powers he might have lurking within, or available from Harry.
"I'm not scared of Lord Greyback," called out Dudley. Which was no more than the truth, but probably was based on lying instincts, also might not be moving things in a politically advantageous or even sustainable direction.
A bemused silence.
That was it.
"But I've seen how Harry gets annoyed when his pets fight without permission, I'd really rather not get punished for more than the blood I've already spilt."
Fenrir crossed his arms and glared.
Dudley stayed absolutely still.
Fenrir nodded, "I like you, if you ever decide you want to be that much more deadly and resilient, look me up."
"Thank you, sir," said Dudley. Fenrir walked off the end of the lorry and over to inspect the results of the other fight.
Dudley made his way carefully back to his plate. He inspected it minutely for evidence of being spit in or dirt thrown into it.
Nothing. Good.
Gregory and Vincent's lunches were not so lucky.
"Sorry," said Dudley, "it wasn't intentional."
"We know," said Vincent.
Gregory brushed the dust off his bread and munched it while they got in line for seconds.
Dudley finished his firsts. And decided that was enough if he wanted to be able to move the rest of the afternoon.
Fenrir returned and stared at him. Not bothering to sneak up from the side this time.
Dudley stared back.
"I like you," Fenrir said again, "do you have any siblings?"
Are you flirting with me? "Only Harry."
"It's been years since I wanted to turn anyone so much, Where do you live?"
No true answer to that question at the moment, the annoyances of boarding school life. Especially when your current favourite family member doesn't come home for the hols anymore.
"Are you flirting with me?" said Dudley.
Dead silence again.
"What do you know about flirting, runt?"
Enough to get Harry in my bed, the one time … No, probably shouldn't say that either. But it would be hilarious.
What am I allowed to say? "Ask Tonks?"
Lots of mutters. Mostly they amounted to, "it's not that he's unafraid, it's that he has a death wish."
Interesting.
Fenrir grinned, "get back to work."
Dudley turned in that direction and picked up an empty crate on his way past the back of the lorry.
"Better than a third of my lieutenants."
Dudley repressed the urge to yell 'hoi Sensi,'
.
He finished another row, then Vincent insisted that they'd done enough and should stop before the sun got really hot.
.
...-...
{End chapter 2}
[A/N:
Ok, this covered a lot of ground.
Fair warning, the next 4.5 chapters are purely Dudley's POV, though he's not always the central character.
I know he's not a popular character. However, he has an important role to play towards the end of this arc, so here he is.
More to the point, this is a year into his redemption arc, and I'm interested in contemplating his progress away from the magi-phobia that he was raised to, and by reflection, the muggle-phobia of various other characters and them getting a chance to see who of their friends reacts or does not react to his presence.]
