One evening, Dudley managed to tame an entire group of Cornish Pixies.
The good news? Despite handling such a large crew, Dudley's body showed no signs of strain—just a slight dip in energy.
The bad news? Not all the Cornish Pixies could evolve to Level 2. Only the very first one reached that stage, while the rest stayed stuck at Level 1.
Perhaps scarred by the chaos of that first Cornish Pixie lesson, Professor Lockhart's subsequent Defense Against the Dark Arts classes ditched any practical components. Instead, he'd pick two or three young witches and wizards each lesson to act out scenes from his novels, calling it "teaching." It was beyond half-hearted.
Calling it Defense Against the Dark Arts was a stretch—it was more like a drama club rehearsal. Hollow, boring, and utterly devoid of substance, his lessons offered no real knowledge, despite how thrilling his books might've been.
But let's be real—novels are just novels. They're not study guides. You can't learn the Eighteen Dragon-Subduing Palms from The Legend of the Condor Heroes, just like you can't learn actual magic from Lockhart's stories.
Hermione, unsurprisingly, gave Lockhart her lowest rating yet, muttering that he was worse than Professor Quirrell—at least Quirrell taught them how to handle a troll.
Meanwhile, the Discipline Committee continued their ruthless point-collecting spree, plundering House points from professors left and right. Most students from the four Houses had given up trying to earn points, except for a handful of determined young witches and wizards. Little did they know, their persistence had landed them on the Discipline Committee's watchlist.
And so, the first month of second year passed without incident.
One night, Dudley quietly pushed open his dorm room door, rolling his slightly stiff neck, which let out a series of pops like frying beans.
"Finally done," he said with a rare, satisfied grin, holding up his latest creation.
It had taken ages to perfect—a product of alchemy and magical crafting.
It was a spherical object, red on the top half, white on the bottom, split by a single seam. At its center was a circular emblem.
If anyone from Dudley's past life saw it, they'd probably gasp, "A Poké Ball?!"
It was that similar.
The only difference was the emblem in the center—it wasn't white but a pale blue, housing a tiny fragment of the "Magic Crystal" Dudley had obtained after refining something from Voldemort.
With Pixies and a Charizard already in the mix, what was one more Poké Ball?
Dudley had wanted to call it a "Magical Creature Ball," but that sounded awful, so he stuck with "Poké Ball."
"Go!"
He tossed the knockoff Poké Ball lightly into the air. With a flash of light, it opened, and a Pixie appeared before him.
"Grah!"
The Pixie struck a fierce pose, playing its part perfectly.
"Not bad," Dudley said, tossing it a treat. He aimed the Poké Ball at the Pixie, and a red beam shot out, pulling the creature back inside with a flash. The ball shrank to a third of its size and clicked onto his belt with a soft snap, secured in place.
Don't underestimate this little sphere. It was a high-magic alchemical marvel. The red beam was a specialized Summoning Charm, the interior expanded with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and it stuck to his belt thanks to a Sticking Charm. The resizing came from a Transfiguration Charm, and the ball was bound by a magical contract—only Dudley could use it.
Ever since he'd crafted his knockoff Poké Ball, Dudley had been like a kid with a new toy, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest—not to hunt for magical plants this time, but to track down magical creatures.
And in just a week, he'd bagged a few good ones: a Niffler, a Bowtruckle, and—somehow—a Mandrake, which, despite being a magical plant, Dudley had managed to tame. Don't ask how.
All of them were safely stored in his knockoff Poké Balls.
Sadly, the "Charizard" and "Balding Colt" (his nickname for some odd magical creatures) were too wild to tame just yet—probably because Dudley's creature-taming skills weren't high-level enough.
The only downside? The "Magic Crystal" was in short supply, so mass-producing these Poké Balls wasn't an option. Otherwise, Dudley would've churned out a hundred or so to stash in his belt pouch.
Picture it: Dudley Dursley gives the word, and ten thousand magical creatures burst forth, ready to slap his enemies into next week.
Dudley wasn't one for getting his hands dirty. A refined, talented guy like him preferred to reason his way through problems.
So far, he was four out of ten thousand steps toward his dream of a magical creature army.
He was already scheming about how to get more "Magic Crystals."
Wait… didn't he already have the raw materials?
---
Meanwhile, Harry was having a rough time. A first-year Gryffindor named Colin had taken to following him around, snapping photos like a paparazzo.
Harry hated the attention.
What he loved was quietly trailing behind Dudley.
Naturally, Malfoy never missed a chance to poke fun at him for it.
But that wasn't the worst of it. Someone else had set their sights on Harry—Professor Lockhart, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Since the start of term, Lockhart had been trying to cozy up to Harry, always looking for a moment alone to "mentor" him on how to handle fame.
Why not Dudley? Well, Dudley didn't give Lockhart the time of day. Plus, Dudley's fame was mostly confined to Hogwarts and a few who knew him as "Professor Jerry." Harry Potter, on the other hand? His name was a golden ticket—the Boy Who Lived, the savior of the wizarding world.
Every witch and wizard probably owed him at least ten Galleons, if you thought about it.
That day, after another mind-numbingly dull Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Harry wasn't surprised when Lockhart asked him to stay behind.
Lockhart wanted Harry to help answer his fan mail.
Unlike Dudley, Harry couldn't just brush off a professor's request—not as a second-year. So, he stayed, reluctantly helping Lockhart reply to his adoring fans' letters.
"Maybe I can help D-Bro with his fan mail someday," Harry thought, trying to cheer himself up.
It was weird, though. Both Lockhart and D-Bro were authors, but Harry had never seen Dudley bother with fan mail.
As he mindlessly scribbled replies, Harry half-listened to Lockhart's "wisdom."
"Who dares disturb the slumber of the great…"
"I'm starving… I need blood… I need a living sacrifice…"
"Let me eat you… eat you…"
A raspy, chaotic, resentment-filled voice jolted Harry out of his thoughts.
He quickly asked Lockhart, who was sitting nearby, lost in his own ego, if he'd heard anything.
Lockhart hadn't heard a thing.
Harry was one hundred percent sure it wasn't his imagination.
What do you do when you're in trouble? Ask D-Bro.
Got a mystery? Ask D-Bro.
Got a problem? Ask D-Bro.
So, why not ask the amazing D-Bro?
The next morning, after Quidditch practice, Harry tracked Dudley down.