"Oh, darling Duddy."
"You got that trophy from earlier?!"
Seeing her son Dudley return triumphantly clutching the trophy like a conquering hero, Petunia gasped in delight, her hands flying to cover her mouth in maternal pride.
"Well done, son!"
Vernon beamed with the kind of satisfaction that came from watching his offspring succeed at something—anything, really.
Today's guest was his manager, who happened to be a devoted Tottenham Hotspur fan with the kind of obsession that made grown men weep over football results.
With this trophy covered in authentic signatures, Vernon's position at the company would surely ascend another precious rung on the corporate ladder.
The couple didn't bother asking where the trophy had materialized from—they simply basked in their son's apparent triumph with the blind faith of parents who had learned not to question good fortune.
The whistle shrieked across the stadium.
The second half exploded into life, and the Dursleys joined their guest in enthusiastic cheering, their voices lost in the roar of thousands...
Just then, Hermione approached Dudley carrying the birthday cake, her face wearing a smile that could have been carved from ice—polite, proper, and absolutely murderous.
"Hello, Dudley."
Hearing his name spoken with such deceptive sweetness, Dudley turned around with the confused expression of someone trying to solve advanced mathematics, his sugar-stained mouth stuffed with popcorn like a hamster's cheek pouches.
Honestly, Hermione had seen Tiger at his absolute scruffiest—covered in soot, reeking of explosives, looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Yet she'd never felt the slightest disgust.
But looking at Dudley, she wanted nothing more than to stuff the trophy into the cake, then introduce the entire confection to his skull with considerable force.
"What d'you want?"
Dudley mumbled through his mouthful, his tone carrying the impatience of someone interrupted during feeding time, though his piggy eyes remained locked on the cake like a predator spotting prey.
"Could I trade this lovely cake for your trophy?"
Hermione stated her request with the directness of someone who had exhausted her capacity for subtlety approximately thirty seconds ago.
Facing this creature who seemed to make Crabbe and Goyle look like Rhodes Scholars, she genuinely couldn't summon the energy for clever manipulation.
She didn't even want to think.
"No..."
Dudley clutched the trophy protectively against his considerable bulk, his arms wrapping around it like a dragon guarding gold.
Though his gaze never wavered from the cake's creamy perfection, he clearly remembered his father Vernon's promise about the trophy's value—one cake versus endless cakes, and even Dudley could manage that arithmetic.
Hermione's smile developed hairline cracks like porcelain under pressure.
Right. She'd underestimated this particular specimen of stupidity.
"No, no, you misunderstood completely."
"I just want to look at the trophy, not take it. I can sit right beside you and admire it."
Hermione's smile had become a work of art—beautiful, fragile, and absolutely terrifying to anyone with functioning survival instincts.
She held the exquisite cream cake toward Dudley, its sweet aroma filling the air with promises of sugar-induced bliss.
Her patience—never her strongest virtue when dealing with idiots—had been completely incinerated in the span of two sentences.
"Mm... alright..."
"One minute. Only one minute." Dudley hesitated with the deep concentration of someone making a life-altering decision, then nodded repeatedly like a bobblehead.
His attention remained entirely focused on the cake—he completely missed the homicidal gleam in Hermione's eyes that would have sent wiser men running for their lives.
"Oh, thank you so much..."
Hermione settled beside Dudley with a smile that could have frozen hellfire, graciously handing him the cake while accepting the trophy from his sticky fingers.
The moment she felt the disgusting residue coating the metal, something fundamental snapped in her mind like a violin string under too much tension.
"Hey, hurry up and look."
"You only have one minute."
Dudley urged impatiently, already envisioning the glorious moment when he could scatter his popcorn across the cake's pristine surface like confetti on a battlefield.
"Won't need a minute."
Hermione gripped the trophy's base with white-knuckled intensity, her teeth grinding audibly as she fixed Dudley with a smile that belonged in nightmares.
"Only need a second, pig-head."
"What did you say?"
Dudley's face cycled through anger and confusion like a broken traffic light, his brain struggling to process the insult through layers of sugar-induced fog.
But the next second—
Wind whistled through the air with deadly purpose.
Meeting Dudley's suddenly terrified gaze, Hermione raised the trophy like Thor wielding Mjolnir and brought it down toward his head with all the righteous fury of justice finally served.
"THUNK!"
The sound echoed like a church bell tolling, heavy and final. Dudley slumped against his seat like a deflated balloon, consciousness fleeing his body with remarkable speed.
Popcorn cascaded to the ground like golden snow.
"I absolutely love violence."
Hermione spoke with the serene satisfaction of someone who had just discovered their true calling, calmly retrieving the cake from Dudley's lap and hefting the trophy with professional appreciation.
She adored this feeling of not having to engage her brain when dealing with evolutionary dead ends. If she'd known physical solutions felt this liberating, she would have followed Tiger's example at Muggle school and rearranged a few deserving faces years ago.
"Sorry, Harry."
"I accidentally knocked the trophy against something, but I'm sure you won't mind, will you?"
Looking at the fresh bloodstains decorating the dented golden ball, Harry managed a smile that would have fooled absolutely no one.
"Of course not, Hermione. I'm your best friend—no matter what happens, I could never mind..."
"I'm your best friend!"
"You know that, right?"
Faced with Hermione's expression of terrifying sweetness, Harry deliberately emphasized his words, his tone carrying the desperation of someone trying to avoid becoming the next casualty.
"Of course you are..."
With that settled, Hermione gracefully settled beside Tiger, immediately shifting into a voice of wounded innocence that would have made professional actresses weep with envy:
"That awful boy's head was so hard."
"My poor wrist is throbbing from the impact—look how it's swelling..."
Tiger glanced down at Hermione's perfectly unmarked wrist with the expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle missing half its pieces, but dutifully produced his bottle of dittany anyway. He'd only used half the bottle recently for... personal hygiene purposes.
"Apply it yourself."
"Fine, I will..." Hermione huffily commandeered both Gunpowder and the healing potion, settling the cat in her lap like a furry hot water bottle.
I think Dudley's probably hurting significantly more, Harry thought, his mouth twitching as he diplomatically turned his attention back to the match, wisely keeping that observation to himself...
The match concluded with Tottenham's victory, sending the crowd into raptures of joy.
To avoid any unpleasant complications involving unconscious relatives, the Grangers escorted Harry back to Privet Drive with the efficiency of a witness protection program.
Cracks spider-webbed around the doorframe like a roadmap of destruction, and the broken, twisted front door still lay in the entrance like a casualty of war.
Surveying the wreckage with the eye of someone who had learned to find silver linings in disasters, Harry smiled slightly, returned to his cupboard, and carefully hid the trophy beneath his thin mattress.
Then, with the calculated precision of someone who had mastered the art of survival, he rolled around on the floor until his clothes were properly disheveled, positioned himself artfully beneath the broken door, and closed his eyes to wait for the Dursleys' inevitable return.
He didn't possess Tiger's raw strength or Hermione's brilliant intellect, but he had learned the most crucial skill of all—knowing exactly when to appear helpless...
[Even if you won't hurt them, you need to learn cunning. It's time to grow up, Harry.]
Hermione's parting advice from the car echoed in his mind like a mantra, the words carrying weight he was only beginning to understand.
Mrs. Figg happened to witness this masterful performance from her window and couldn't suppress a cackle of pure delight.
"Ho ho, Dumbledore."
"The boy's finally learning proper deviousness..."
Summer vacation crept toward its inevitable conclusion with the relentless march of time.
Mother Polly's gaze toward Tiger underwent a fascinating transformation—from loving maternal longing to the kind of barely contained irritation usually reserved for persistent flies.
Just as the morning threatened to explode into another symphony of magical destruction, Tiger finally received two letters that would change everything.
One from Hogwarts, listing the required textbooks for the coming academic year in neat, official script.
One from Hermione, beginning with brief news about Harry's temporary sanctuary at the Weasley household, then launching into several pages of eloquent complaints about Tiger's failure to visit her during the holidays.
Only at the letter's very end did she reveal her true purpose—arranging to meet Tiger in Diagon Alley for their annual textbook expedition.
"Bloody hell, you're the only person who can inflict actual pain without even being in the same county..."
Tiger rubbed his aching eyes with the resignation of someone who had learned that friendship came with a price, casually offering the delivery owl some nuts from a nearby dish.
Faced with the owl's impatient hooting, Tiger composed a letter of regret with genuine reluctance.
Not that he was deliberately rejecting Hermione's company—Tommy and John had returned from their mysterious business, leaving him with absolutely no spare time for social obligations.
These past few days had seen Tommy gathering the Shelby family's most dangerous elements, while Uncle Martin continuously sent protective charms and wards through various channels.
Theodore had excavated considerable magical supplies from the Nott family vaults, all of which Tommy had appropriated with characteristic efficiency.
Four Shelby family members who hadn't yet undergone blood magic rituals were methodically preparing awakening ceremonies under Lawrence's portrait's expert supervision.
The entire atmosphere screamed of impending warfare.
He wouldn't miss this opportunity for all the textbooks in Flourish and Blotts.
"Gilderoy Lockhart..."
"Bloody hell, who is this pretentious bastard?"
Examining the extensive list of required reading, Tiger's frown deepened into something approaching geological formations. This year's curriculum had clearly expanded dramatically, promising months of additional tedium.
"Gilderoy Lockhart?"
Hearing her son's muttered profanity, Mother Polly looked up with sudden interest, her tone carrying notes of recognition and profound embarrassment.
"What's wrong, Mom? You actually know this tosser?"
Tiger raised his head with genuine curiosity.
"Uh... let me see that list..." Mother Polly accepted the parchment, studying it with the intensity of someone deciphering ancient runes.
"Should be him, the flashy git."
"Christ on a broomstick, that preening peacock can actually publish books now?"
"And they're bloody Hogwarts textbooks?!"
Suddenly, a devastatingly handsome face materialized in Mother Polly's memory—all perfect teeth, flowing hair, and insufferable smugness.
The man had been clutching a pink letter that reeked of cheap perfume, the kind of cloying scent that lingered in your nostrils for hours like olfactory torture.
More mortifyingly, that sweet little Hufflepuff girl had actually blushed while accepting his romantic correspondence, her cheeks turning the color of ripe tomatoes.
Contemplating this horrifying possibility, Mother Polly covered her face with both hands, overwhelmed by a sense of impending doom that settled in her stomach like lead.
She had the terrible feeling that this year was going to be absolutely catastrophic...
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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