Dudley's eleventh birthday
The day, Harry thought, had started off better than he'd expected - not that that said much. Aunt Petunia had been the one to wake him, which was good, because she didn't slam the door like uncle Vernon or jump on the stairs like Dudley, only screeching for him to make himself useful. Of course, the occasion today (not that she needed one to be in such a mood) was Dudley's eleventh birthday, something that caused Harry to very nearly groan as he searched his cupboard for a clean pair of socks.
'Joy of joys, piggy is growing one year closer to the slaughter', Tom wrily commented. 'Is it too much to hope that they'll have a car crash of their own this time around?'
'Probably', Harry answered as he pulled the socks over his feet and adjusted his glasses. 'Shame aunt Petunia threw out the bad potatoes, too.'
'Yeah, I doubt that one would've worked', Tom said. 'Guess we're back to the kitchen knives, then.'
Harry chuckled under his breath. Of course, he didn't have any actual desire to kill the Dursleys, though it was fun to sometimes imagine how he and Tom could go about it and make sure they got away with it - even if Tom was far too serious about this sort of thing.
As he exited his 'room' and entered the kitchen to prepare breakfast, he immediately spied the countless birthday gifts covering the table. As always, Dudley had gotten his way; he managed to make out the new computer, a new TV, and a sports bicycle - that last one was weird, because Tom's description of Dudley was an accurate one.
Truth be told, sometimes Harry wondered if the Dursley's had simply kidnapped him as their live-in slave, with how little resemblance there was between him and them. Vernon Dursley was a large man, with a short neck and a mustache that would've made a walrus turn green with envy, and Dudley took much after him (minus the mustache), having only inherited aunt Petunia's blonde hair. His aunt always looked like a straight line compared to her husband and son, with her long neck and a face which bore some resemblance to a horse's, and Harry suspected she dyed her hair to cover up the grey streaks. Harry on the other hand was a small, scrawny kid with bright green eyes and messy black hair - the latter of which once again drew uncle Vernon's ire, as he barked an order to comb it Harry's way as a greeting.
'Tried that, doesn't exactly work', Tom snarked. Harry meanwhile was thankful for that fact; it covered that lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which while he did like it, was a remnant of the car crash which, according to the Dursley's, had killed his parents, supposedly due to their intoxicated state at the time. Harry however had his doubts on the story, primarily because he seriously doubted a lethal car crash would only give him that one scar, and again, because there was absolutely no resemblance between him and his 'relatives'.
Just as he was busying himself with the eggs, he heard Dudley enter the kitchen, and resisted Tom's urge to screw it all and pelt his cousin with eggs for his birthday. Sure, it would be fun, but they might actually kill him this time around if he did that, and Harry did like being alive.
"Thirty-six", Dudley stated, and boy oh boy, Harry already knew what was coming. "That's two less than last year."
Yup, just as expected.
'I still can't believe Duddykins can count this far', Tom joked, and truth be told, neither did Harry.
"You didn't count aunty Marge's, sweetling, right here, under the big from mummy and daddy", aunt Petunia immediately moved to pacify her 'sweet little boy'.
"Ah well, thirty-seven, then", Dudley said and began turning red like a tomato - Harry could already see a major tamtrum approaching and decided to finish his bacon quickly, lest Dudley do something stupid like flip over the table.
Aunt Petunia's maternal instinct apparently warned her of something similar, because she immediately carried on her apeasement by saying: "And when we go out later today, we'll get you two more presents. How's that sound, Duddykins?"
Apparently, this sounded like more than Dudley could count, because he stammered: "Then I have thirty... thirty..."
It was honestly hilarious to both Harry and Tom to watch the gears in Dudley's brain slowly turn and use up all their power for the rest of the month, even if Tom had to laugh for the both of them. Not that he minded, Tom loved to laugh, especially when it was about others.
"Thirty-nine, my sweetling", aunt Petunia helped him out.
"Oh", Dudley dumbly stated. "That works." And, as always, he immediately reached for a package.
Uncle Vernon chuckled. "The little rascal wants something to see for his money, just like his daddy", he laughed as he ran his hand through Dudley's hair.
'Now if only the little rascal could be less noisy and less of an entitled shite', Tom added his commentary.
In that moment the phone rang, and aunt Petunia went to answer it, while Dudley began ripping open his presents, uncovering the bicycle, sixteen new games, a camcorder, a remote controlled model plane (which Harry doubted would survive the month), a new camera, and a gilded wristwatch (an ugly, overly large thing).
Just as he uncovered said watch, aunt Petunia returned from her phone call, her face twisted in anger and worry. "Bad news, Vernon", she pressed out. "Mrs. Figg broke a leg, she can't take him today." 'Him' being obviously Harry, who just now found himself on the receiving end of a harsh nod.
Dudley's large jaw dropped to the floor in fright at that, while Harry was cautiously optimistic. Mrs. Figg was the resident crazy cat lady whom the Dursley's always got to watch Harry during Dudley's birthday parties. Harry... didn't necessarily mind that. Sure, her house always reeked of cabbage, and she always tried to get him to learn the names of every single cat she had ever owned, but it was a step up from being around Dudley, his gang and the elder Dursleys.
"And now?", aunt Petunia asked while furiously glaring at Harry, as though he were personally responsible for that.... which, honestly, considering just how often people who messed with him had accidents, would not be that far-fetched. (He blamed Tom for that.) Still, he only felt a little bit sorry about her leg. Sure, he didn't exactly hate staying over at her place, but he honestly didn't mind having to gaze upon Tibbles, Snowy, Putty and Tuffy for another year.
"We could call Marge", uncle Vernon suggested, and Harry silently hoped for another phone call, informing the Dursley family that Marge's dog breeding farm had been raided and that Marge had been arrested.
While that didn't happen, aunt Petunia shot down that idea quickly by reminding her husband that Marge hated Harry (even more than they did, for that matter). As always, they preferred to pretend as though Harry wasn't there at all - or rather, that he was some sort of cockroach, something nasty they could not understand.
Which, considering he quite literally had another person living in his mind, may not be that wrong.
"What about whats-her-name, your friend.... Yvonne?", uncle Vernon asked.
"She's on vacation on Mallorca", aunt Petunia shot back.
'Okay, now stay quiet, make yourself small, and they'll just forget you're even there', Tom adviced. Harry obliged, daring to hope just a little bit. Sure, they'd likely lock him in the cupboard before they left, but Harry - or rather Tom - was quite proficient at picking locks, and getting out of the cupboard was far easier than the Dursleys thought. Once they were gone, he'd simply slip out, watch some TV and maybe 'borrow' Dudley's computer.
In that way, Dudley was actually helpful, fake-crying and begging his parents not to take him with them, because "he always ruins everything!" (considering just how hypocritical that statement was, Harry struggled to contain his laughter).
Still, it did look like they'd just leave him at home, right until the doorbell rang, announcing that Piers Polkiss, one of Dudley's friends, had arrived. Piers was a scrawny boy (though not as small as Harry was) with a face like a rat and the personality to match, something he had likely gotten from his mother, who accompanied him into the kitchen. Immediately, Dudley's tears stopped (not that they had ever started. Dudley, like Harry, hadn't cried in years.) and he moved to greet Piers with a friendly slap on the back.
"Oi scarhead!", Piers then yelled at Harry and shadow-punched at him in the hopes that Harry would flinch, causing laughter from Dudley and a thin smile by his mother.
Betrayed by the rat.
Uncle Vernon looked at aunt Petunia, who simply twisted her face in anger and shrugged.
"Fine", he then grunted. "But I'm warning you now, boy: no funny business, or..."
'Yes, yes, belt and cupboard', Tom snarked. 'Uncreative oaf.'
'Never been to a zoo before', Harry commented. 'This should be fun.'
'Here's hoping piggy falls into a pen', Tom grumbled.