Down in London's Surrey, at number four, Privet Drive, the sun rose over the perfectly manicured front garden, casting a warm glow on the polished brass number on the Dursleys' door. It crept into the living room, bathing Mr. Dursley's naturally rotund bottom in light as he sat on the sofa. From the kitchen, Mrs. Dursley hummed a tune that seemed to be from an era long past, busily preparing their family's breakfast.
The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs, a proud display for any visitor. They showed a big-headed boy riding his first bicycle, enjoying a carousel at the fair, playing computer games with his father, and being embraced by his mother—a picture of a truly happy family of three. Yet, tucked away in a far corner, one other photo suggested there was more to this household. In it, the same tall, big-headed boy had his arm wrapped tightly around a scrawny, smaller boy in a similar uniform. Both were smiling, their grins as sweet as honeydukes' treats.
"One, two, three, four... two, two, three, four... three, two, three, four... again!"
Dudley, out on the lawn, was pushing himself up and down on a single thumb. Huge beads of sweat poured from him, soaking the back of his shirt and leaving dark, damp spots on the vivid green grass beneath. The tiny blades of grass he was crushing beneath him seemed to wither under his might.
Harry sat quietly on the front steps, his head resting in his hands, watching his cousin exercise and silently counting along. '105, 106... 200...'
Though Harry often seemed a bit timid around his cousin, he actually preferred being near Dudley. It felt safe, and he never felt like a ghost, as he did to the rest of the Dursley household.
When Harry's silent count reached three hundred, Dudley finally stopped, plopping down onto the grass with a sigh.
"Ah, that's the good stuff," he grunted, wiping a hand across his face. A contented grin spread across his round, rosy cheeks.
He casually picked up two dumbbells resting nearby, each weighing a staggering sixty pounds, and began working on his biceps. To him, they looked like plastic toys.
Whether one could wield a wand or not, having a healthy and strong body was always a good idea. The tales of the great White Wizard, Gandalf, taught that to become a formidable wizard, one first had to be able to hold a sword and chop up an Orc before they could even learn to cast a simple Lumos.
"You ought to get some exercise in too, Harry," Dudley puffed, not even breaking his rhythm. "You're too skinny and too small. You look like a starved monkey." He leaned in closer as if to share a great secret. "Just between you and me, those blonds love a muscle-bound hunk like me."
In truth, Harry was perfectly healthy, just a bit on the thin side. Dudley only said this because his own, shall we say, more substantial frame made anyone else look scrawny in comparison.
"Okay, D-man," Harry replied flatly. It was hard to tell if he truly understood or if he was just being agreeable. His bright green eyes remained fixed on Dudley, who knew what went on in that head of his.
'The Harry Potter from the films wasn't this dull, was he? He was quite quick on his feet,' Dudley thought. 'My cousin is a bit simple. What am I to do? This won't work if we have to face the noseless one down the line.'
"Dudley Dursley! You have a letter!"
The postman's shout cut through Dudley's musings. He handed over a thick envelope, a look of pure admiration on his face as his eyes fell upon the now faintly defined muscle outlines on Dudley's stomach.
There was a wise old saying Dudley liked: "Working out attracts the opposite sex, but working out a little too much attracts the same."
Dudley looked at the seal on the envelope. It was from Bloomsbury Publishing. He tore it open to find a letter filled with words of praise and, more importantly, a cheque for ten thousand pounds.
Glancing around, he saw no one but Harry paying him any mind. He tucked the cheque carefully into his pocket before unfolding the letter.
"Dear Mr. Jerry," it began, followed by a long, flowery passage of compliments. Jerry was, of course, Dudley's pen name.
When Dudley first arrived in this world, the first thing he wanted to do was make a fortune. The saying, "money makes the world go 'round," holds true no matter where you are. Magic, after all, is a rather expensive profession. He was even more motivated by the Dursleys' strained financial situation. So, he took up a most unusual career: writing novels.
Dudley had always known that becoming a doctor or a scientist was the safer path, but frankly, he'd never been much of a student. Writing, on the other hand, was easy and risk-free.
"We have enclosed the royalties for the first volume of your book, The Lord of the Rings. We hope you will join us at ten o'clock this Saturday to discuss the publication of the second volume. Yours, Akashni, Bloomsbury Publishing."
That's right. The Jerry who wrote the most popular fantasy novel of the year was none other than Dudley himself.
This world was a little different from the one he had come from. Perhaps it was because of the wizards, but there were hardly any Western fantasy books to be found. None of the great works Dudley remembered existed here. So, he decided to "borrow" a bit of a story and make it his own.
He didn't just copy it, of course. He added a few of his own touches, like a "never look down on a Hobbit" attitude and "thirty years east of the river, thirty years west." After all, a story everyone could enjoy was the key to success. And so, The Lord of the Rings became even more popular than it was in his old world.
Ten thousand pounds in the 1980s was an absurd amount of money, a true Galleon hoard. The way the book was selling, Dudley knew he deserved more, but he was new to the game. This was just for the first volume, anyway. There was no need to rush for a quick bit of profit when he could play the long game.
And besides, what he sent in was only about half of the first book of the original trilogy. The noseless bloke himself once said that seven was a magical number, so Dudley figured he would split the trilogy into a seven-part series.
The publishers were already begging for more. Dudley was now a name that meant money. Even if his next book was terrible, it would still sell over a million copies on name alone.
The so-called "meeting" was just a way for them to raise his royalty rates. He knew if his publisher didn't meet his demands, someone else would happily pay a small fortune. The name "Jerry" now meant gold.
Dudley already had a whole plan mapped out: after the seven-book saga was complete, he'd write a Hobbit spin-off to make even more money, then sell the movie rights... Wow! That would be enough money for him to live a life of luxury, all without lifting a finger. He'd gone from zero to financial freedom in one stroke.
He just hoped it would be enough to pay for all the magical supplies he'd need down the road. If not, he'd just write a few more books. Maybe something like Dragonlance Chronicles would be a good choice.
With ten thousand pounds in his pocket, Dudley was in a grand mood. He ruffled Harry's messy, bird's-nest hair. "Harry, come on, big cousin's treat! I'm getting us some ice cream."
"Okay, D-man."
But before they could even leave the garden, Mrs. Dursley's voice rang out from the kitchen window.
"Oh, my dearest baby Dudley, where are you going? Come eat your breakfast first!"