The morning sun crept over the manicured gardens of Privet Drive, glinting off the bronze number four on the Dursleys' front door. Inside, the light spilled across the living room, illuminating the round, well-fed form of Mr. Dursley. In the kitchen, Mrs. Dursley hummed a cheerful, old-fashioned tune as she meticulously prepared breakfast.
A collection of photographs on the mantelpiece told the story of a happy family of three: a large-headed boy on his first bicycle, spinning on a merry-go-round at the fair, playing computer games with his father, and being smothered in hugs and kisses by his mother.
But tucked away in a corner, another, smaller photograph hinted that there was a fourth member of this household. In it, the same big-headed boy had his arm thrown tightly around a much smaller, skinnier boy in matching clothes. They were both beaming, their smiles genuine and bright.
Outside, on the perfectly green lawn, Dudley was a blur of motion.
"One, two, three, four... two, two, three, four..."
He supported his entire body on a single thumb, rhythmically pushing himself up and down. Large drops of sweat fell from his brow, soaking the back of his shirt and flattening the lush grass beneath him into misshapen patches.
Harry sat on the front steps, his chin resting in his hands, watching his cousin with a quiet intensity. In his mind, he silently kept count.
One hundred and five, one hundred and six... two hundred...
While Harry often seemed afraid of his cousin, he secretly preferred his company. With Dudley, he felt seen, not treated like an invisible ghost in his own home.
When Harry's silent count reached three hundred, Dudley finally collapsed, flopping onto the grass with a contented groan.
"Ah, that's the stuff."
Wiping the sweat from his face, which was flushed and ruddy from exertion, he looked completely satisfied. He casually reached for a pair of dumbbells lying nearby, each loaded with 30 kilograms of iron, and began working his biceps. In his hands, the immense weight looked like a plastic toy.
Magic or no magic, a strong and healthy body was paramount. As he saw it, even the great wizard Gandalf proved that to be a proper mage, one must first be able to swing a sword through a horde of Uruk-hai before worrying about casting spells.
"You should work out too, Harry," Dudley said between reps, not forgetting to lecture his little cousin. "You're too short and skinny. You look like an underfed monkey." He winked. "Let me tell you a secret: girls love muscular guys like me."
To be fair, Harry was perfectly fine, just a bit slender. Dudley's perception was skewed by comparing Harry to his own massive frame.
"Okay," Harry replied woodenly, his bright green eyes staring blankly at his cousin. It was impossible to tell if he genuinely didn't understand or was just pretending not to.
The Harry in the movies was clever, Dudley thought with a frown. My cousin's a bit of a space cadet. How is he supposed to take on the noseless wonder if he's like this?
"Dudley Dursley! Got a letter for you!"
The postman's shout cut through his thoughts. He handed a thick envelope to Dudley, his eyes lingering for a moment on the well-defined muscles of Dudley's abdomen. As Dudley had once heard, a good physique attracts the opposite sex, but an excessive one attracts the same sex.
He glanced at the seal on the envelope: it was from Bloomsbury Publishing.
He tore it open. Inside was a formal letter and a cheque for £10,000.
Dudley quickly looked around. Seeing that no one but Harry was paying attention, he carefully tucked the cheque into his pocket before unfolding the letter.
Dear Mr. Jerry,
The letter began with a long, flowery string of official pleasantries and praise. "Jerry" was Dudley's pen name. When he first arrived in this world, his first priority had been to make money. The saying "money makes the world go 'round" was a universal truth, and besides, being a mage was an expensive hobby in any reality.
Coupled with the Dursleys' previously tight finances, Dudley had panicked and embarked on a new career path: writing novels. It was the simplest, lowest-risk way to earn a living that he could think of.
The manuscript fee for the first volume of your novel, The Lord of the Rings, is enclosed. We hope you will be available to meet at ten o'clock this Saturday to discuss the publication of the second volume.
Sincerely,
Akashni
Bloomsbury Publishing
That's right. The author of this year's runaway fantasy sensation, The Lord of the Rings, was none other than Dudley Dursley.
This world was different from the one he knew. Perhaps due to the real existence of wizards, Western fantasy as a genre was pitifully underdeveloped. None of the great works he remembered existed here. Since The Lord of the Rings was up for grabs, Dudley had practised a bit of "creative borrowing."
Of course, it wasn't a direct copy. He'd injected a few modern webnovel flourishes, adding catchy hooks like "Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west" and "Never underestimate a hobbit." He'd made it more accessible, and as a result, it had sold even better than the original.
A £10,000 manuscript fee was a fortune in 1980s England. Given the book's popularity, he probably deserved more, but for a newcomer, it was a satisfying start. Besides, this was just the first volume. It was better to build a steady stream of income. What he'd submitted wasn't even one of the three full volumes but closer to half of one.
The noseless wonder once said that seven was a magical number. So, Dudley planned to split the Lord of the Rings trilogy into a septology.
And just as he'd predicted, the publisher was already chasing him for the next instalment. His name, or rather, his pen name, was now a golden brand. Even if his next book was complete trash, it would still sell millions of copies. The "detailed discussion" was just code for offering him more money. He now had leverage. If Bloomsbury couldn't offer a satisfactory price, he was certain other publishers would be lining up to do so.
"Jerry" meant money.
He already had a plan. Finish the trilogy-turned-septology, write a prequel about the hobbit, then sell off the movie rights. The royalties alone could set him up for life. He would achieve financial freedom in a single step.
The only question was whether it would be enough to fund his future as a mage. If not, he could always write a few more. The Dragonlance Chronicles seemed like a good option.
Flush with his £10,000 windfall, Dudley was in an excellent mood. He reached over and affectionately ruffled Harry's messy, bird's-nest hair. "C'mon, Harry. Your big cousin is treating you to ice cream."
"Okay," Harry said.
But before they could even leave the garden, Mrs. Dursley's voice rang out from the kitchen window.
"Oh, my dear little Diddy-dums, where are you off to? Come and have your breakfast first!"
***
(End of Chapter)
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