Classified (HP) WTM/RTB

Unveiled Dreams and Strange Conversations

"About time you had a haircut," grumbled Uncle Vernon, peering over his newspaper, a weekly proclamation unheeded by Harry's rebellious hair.

"Definitely got the Potter hair," echoed Sirius, inspecting the unruly strands.

In the kitchen, Harry, now frying eggs, caught Dudley's grand entrance with his mother. Aunt Petunia's assertion that Dudley resembled a baby angel contrasted sharply with Harry's opinion—Dudley resembled a "pig in a wig." Plates laden with egg and bacon were placed on the crowded table as Dudley scrutinized his presents, a discontented expression crossing his face.

"Thirty-six. That's two less than last year," he grumbled.

All the children looked horrified at the way he was speaking. The pureblood children were stumped that anyone felt that comfortable to complain.

Even James, surrounded by the spoils of wealth, found Dudley's discontent amusing, "Not even I got that much."

Aunt Petunia hastily suggested procuring two more presents during their outing, appeasing Dudley's tantrum.

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's presents. see it's under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," he said, his face reddening with the effort of counting.

Harry, sensing an impending Dudley tantrum, hastily shoved down his bacon, wary of the possibility that the table might soon be upended.

Aunt Petunia, keenly attuned to Dudley's moods, immediately interjected, "We'll get you another two presents while we're out today. How's that, pumpkin? Does that suit you?"

Molly, observing the scene with a discerning eye, couldn't help but voice her disapproval. "That is certainly an interesting way to instill values in a child," she remarked, prompting several other mothers in the room to nod in agreement.

Dudley pondered for a moment, the act of counting clearly taxing his mental faculties. "So, I'll have thirty... thirty," he mumbled, a furrow forming on his brow as he struggled with the arithmetic.

"Thirty-nine, sweetums," corrected Petunia, every patient.

"Can he not even count?" Molly whispered to Arthur, her concern etched on her face.

Uncle Vernon chuckled heartily, "Little tyke wants to make sure he gets his money's worth, just like his father. Atta boy, Dudley."

Harry, having finished his bacon and foreseeing the storm passing, observed the family dynamics with a sense of detachment. The Dursleys, in their own peculiar way, continued their peculiar dance of indulgence and self-serving affection.

The room buzzed with Dudley's final decision. "Oh, all right then," he conceded, his hand reaching for the nearest present.

Uncle Vernon, content with the outcome, gave his son an approving pat on the back. "That's my boy, Dudley. Always ensuring you get the best deal. Just like a true Dursley."

As Aunt Petunia gracefully made her way to answer the phone, Dudley eagerly commenced the unwrapping of his birthday presents. The room, suffused with the anticipation of celebration, took an abrupt turn when Petunia returned, her countenance betraying both anger and concern.

"Bad news. Mrs. Figg broke her leg. She can't take him," she declared, her gaze sharply directed at Harry.

Dudley's expression morphed into one of sheer horror, while Harry's heart, normally burdened on Dudley's special day, experienced an unexpected surge of hope. Traditionally, on Dudley's birthday, the Dursleys would spirit him and a chosen friend away for a day of indulgence, leaving Harry in the rather dreary company of Mrs Figg and her feline companions.