Harry Potter: Dudley From LOTM

A collective gasp went through the classroom, followed by a wave of excited whispers.

"He did it! On his first try!"

"Blimey, he must have been practicing!"

Professor McGonagall's stern expression, which had been fixed on Dudley since he'd walked in late, softened into one of genuine surprise and admiration. "Hmm," she said, trying to suppress the smile that was threatening to break through her severe demeanor. "A perfect Transfiguration."

She turned to the rest of the class. "Everyone, look. Mr. Dursley has successfully performed the spell. A flawless example." She gave Dudley a nod of approval that was as good as a standing ovation. "Five points to Gryffindor."

"Oh, no, you actually succeeded," Hermione muttered, a look of fierce determination on her face. She immediately pointed her wand at her own matchstick and incanted the spell. The match trembled, its tip sharpening into a perfect silver point, but the head remained stubbornly wooden. She let out a frustrated sigh.

"How did you do that?" she asked, turning to Dudley, her competitive spirit warring with her intellectual curiosity.

"I just… did it," Dudley replied with a noncommittal shrug. It was the truth, in a way. These simple spells, which relied on the precise control and application of spiritual power, were child's play for him.

Hermione bit her lip, a deep frustration settling in. She had practiced for weeks, yet he had succeeded first. The anger she felt was directed not at him, but at herself. She could have done better.

"That's brilliant, Dudley," Harry said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. Ron echoed the sentiment. They weren't shocked that Dudley had succeeded—he had already proven his magical aptitude on the train—and they felt no jealousy, only a shared sense of pride.

The rest of the class was a struggle for everyone else. Professor McGonagall patiently guided the students, but by the time the bell rang, only Hermione had managed to join Dudley in successfully transfiguring her match.

After class, Dudley lingered behind.

"What is it, Dudley?" Professor McGonagall asked, a rare, warm smile on her face. She was already using his first name. Her perception of the Dursley boy was rapidly changing. "Do you have another question?"

"Yes, Professor," he began. "I'd like to ask about Animagi. Are there many who are… unregistered?"

Her smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, concerned frown. "Unregistered Animagi? I couldn't say for certain. But I imagine they would be extremely few. The process is incredibly dangerous. One small mistake, and a wizard could be trapped in their animal form forever."

"I see," Dudley nodded.

Professor McGonagall pushed her glasses up her nose, her gaze intense. "Dudley, your talent is undeniable. But you must not even consider attempting such advanced Transfiguration. It is far, far beyond you. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I understand, Professor," Dudley said with a disarming smile. "And thank you for the warning. I'm just… interested in the theory."

"Very good," she said, though she still looked wary. "Maintaining an interest is essential for learning. But please remember not to touch things that are beyond your ability."

After thanking her again, Dudley left the classroom. He had considered telling her about Scabbers, but had ultimately decided against it. Firstly, it would raise too many questions about how he knew such things. Secondly, this world lacked the institutional enforcers, like the Nighthawks or Mandated Punishers of his past life, who were equipped to handle such matters. As a child, his word would be dismissed. And thirdly, even if a report were to be made, he shouldn't be the one to make it.

I'll see how things develop, he decided as he walked down the corridor. If necessary, I'll let Harry 'discover' the truth. It's perfectly reasonable for the famous Harry Potter to stumble upon the fact that his best friend's pet rat is a secret wizard. His time in the Tarot Society had taught him a valuable lesson: one doesn't always have to get their own hands dirty.

Harry and Ron were waiting for him in the corridor. "Hermione's expression was priceless," Ron complained as they walked. "It was like you completing the spell stole her thunder."

"That's just her personality," Dudley said. "She's competitive. It's not about me."

"Alright, we're all friends," Harry interjected, ever the peacemaker. "And she did speak up for us on the train." Ron grumbled but said nothing more.

The following days were filled with new and fascinating classes. Herbology introduced Dudley to a host of magical plants, many of which possessed spiritual properties similar to ingredients he had known in his past life. He began to wonder if he could concoct his own potions to aid in the digestion of his Beyonder Characteristics, to mitigate the risk of losing control.

History of Magic, however, was in a class of its own. The subject itself was dreadfully boring, but the professor, Cuthbert Binns, was the only ghost on staff. The legend was that he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire one day and had simply gotten up to teach the next morning, leaving his body behind. While the other students dozed off to the drone of his monotonous voice, Dudley would watch him intently, his Beyonder senses analyzing the unique spiritual existence of a ghost. It was fascinating.

But their carefree school days were about to come to an abrupt halt. On Thursday afternoon, a notice arrived for the three of them. They were to report to Professor Dumbledore's office that evening.

Draco Malfoy's father had come to demand an explanation. And, presumably, retribution.

(End of Chapter)

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