Chương 6: The Dursley's

The following morning, the Headmistress's office was uncomfortably crowded. Pomona sat behind her desk, her bun slightly wilted, the expression on her face hovering somewhere between exasperation and outright despair. Arrayed before her were the students involved in yesterday's brawl and their respective guardians. On one side, Tyson and his father. On the other, the four boys he had beaten up. Behind them stood their parents. Tyson's eyes darted to the Dursley couple.

Vernon was still a massive slab of a man, broad and beefy, his face flushed a shade of crimson. The glare he directed at him suggested he would happily set him ablaze through sheer hatred if given the chance. Petunia stood rigidly beside her husband, thin as a fence rail, with a very long neck. But the same cold fury burned in her eyes. Yet despite everything Tyson knew about them, neither appeared monstrous at first glance. To an outside observer, they would have seemed perfectly ordinary. Not abusive.

Just ordinary.

"He has agreed to apologize," Headmistress Pomona announced, looking around the room. Tyson's father sat beside him, posture rigid and expression stern.

"And he's assured me he'll conduct himself more appropriately moving forward."

"Apologize?" Vernon bellowed, glaring at him even harder.

"Have you seen what he's done to our children!?" Piers whimpered on cue, touching his bandaged nose. The other two boys, whose names he hadn't bothered to remember, wore matching expressions. Dudley Dursley sat in the largest chair available, his sheer size overflowing the armrests. His arm was wrapped in a cast. His neck was encased in a brace. One leg was elevated, swaddled in bandages that looked suspiciously theatrical. Tyson looked at him in amusement.

He was sure he hadn't touched the boy's neck or even his leg.

"I completely understand where you are coming from," Roemmele said, her harried gaze flickering toward Vernon as the large man rounded on her.

"But you must understand, Mr. Stewart was outnumbered and likely frightened. This is all just boys being boys. Surely we can—""Boys being boys?" Vernon roared. The phrase seemed to offend him more than the fight itself.

"Yes," Tyson said, his voice calm and clear.

"It was exactly that." Vernon's head snapped toward him, the sheer audacity of the interruption momentarily overriding his fury. Tyson met his gaze without flinching.

"It was just a small skirmish, and it won't happen again. I don't attack people unless someone I care about—or I myself—is being threatened." Something about the way Tyson spoke seemed to unnerve Vernon as the man narrowed his eyes. Maybe it was the wording or his composure. It definitely wasn't the American accent, though. He turned sharply toward his father.

"I should drag your family into court," Vernon growled.

"Your son nearly killed mine." Mike blinked, then leaned back in his chair and said calmly, "... Okay. Go ahead." Vernon's momentum hit an invisible wall. Roemmele looked between the two men, her horror deepening. The other parents shifted uneasily. Vernon's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed, "What?"

"If you would like to sue my family, that is up to you." Mike leaned forward, his voice steady.

"But it wouldn't go well. My son was, as Ms. Pomona said, outnumbered. Several students have clearly stated that that one"—he pointed at Piers—"attacked first. My son defended himself. Beyond that, sue for what?" The question hung in the air. Tyson felt a sharp pang of guilt, watching his father navigate a confrontation he hadn't asked for and didn't deserve. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Mike had already docked his allowance for the next year as punishment. But that was an internal debt. Tyson intended to repay his father eventually, in ways that went far beyond pocket money. Mike continued, his gaze narrowing.

"As of now, this is just a dispute between children. It's not right, and my son is being disciplined for it. But if you wish to escalate the matter any further, know that I will defend my family." Vernon glared at him.

"Do you know who you are talking to?" Mike shrugged.

"A father, like myself. As I said, my son will apologize. And I'm sure all of our children have learned that violence isn't a productive method of communication, mate. Beyond that, it's up to you what happens next." A long, tense silence followed. Vernon's jaw worked, grinding against some internal frustration. Finally, he sneered, "You'd better keep that boy away from my Dudley." The statement carried the unmistakable tone of someone convinced he'd won.

"I'm sure we can keep things civil now," his father replied. Then he glanced at him.

"Tyson." Tyson nodded. He changed his expression into what he hoped resembled genuine remorse and then looked each boy directly in the eye.

"Dudley. Piers. And you two as well. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry the fight happened. And I promise I will never be the one to start a fight with any of you again." Dudley's face immediately brightened. The boy looked delighted. He had heard an apology and interpreted it.

'How cute,' Tyson mused. Apparently, one specific word had sailed right over his head. Start. He hadn't promised he wouldn't end the fight. Or defend himself. He had only promised not to throw the first punch. The distinction was, in his view, perfectly reasonable. Tyson didn't hold a grudge against Dudley. He was a pathetic creature, yes, a bully molded by parental indulgence and his own unchecked appetites. But he was also nine years old. Eventually, according to canon, he would mature into a decent person.

The capacity for growth existed, buried somewhere beneath the layers of fat and cruelty. But that was for the future. Right now, Tyson had no intention of becoming a convenient target. Pathetic or not, bullies only pushed as far as they were allowed. That lesson applied whether someone was nine or ninety. He had more pressing matters that demanded his attention. His thoughts went back to last night, and his chest tightened with frustration. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't replicate the feat.

He had spent hours experimenting. He tried entering a similar mindset to the one he'd been in at the time. The concentration, intent, belief, and the absolute certainty he had radiated. But nothing worked. The pillow didn't budge again! Now he was starting to wonder if it had all been just a fluke..... When classes began, Tyson dropped into the seat beside Harry Potter. The room slowly filled as students shuffled in, dragging chairs, muttering to one another, the usual morning noise settling into place.

Harry, however, wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was staring at Tyson, his expression a mix of wariness and curiosity. Tyson turned his head, catching him in the act.

"You good?" Harry blinked. The question seemed to catch him off guard, as though concern from a stranger was a foreign language he had never been taught to interpret.

"M-Me? Yeah. What about you?" Tyson smirked faintly.

"What, you thought your cousin was coming after me?" Harry stiffened.

"You knew Dudley was my cousin? How?"

"Family resemblance." The utter disgust that crossed Harry's face was, in Tyson's opinion, the most hilarious thing he had seen today. The boy's nose wrinkled. His mouth twisted as though he'd bitten into something rotten.

"Relax," Tyson said, stifling a laugh.

"I heard it around school. You lot are quite famous. How often do those brats chase after you, though?" Harry stared at him like he was trying to understand what his deal was. His green eyes, hidden behind his round glasses, searched Tyson's face for the angle, the hidden motive, the inevitable trap. Tyson couldn't blame him. A lifetime of the Dursleys had clearly taught the kid that kindness from strangers was about as common as a unicorn and roughly as trustworthy.

"All the time," Harry replied at last. Tyson grunted. There it was. The rational part of him reminded him that Harry Potter was a magnet for danger, that attaching himself to the Boy Who Lived was an excellent way to get dragged into exactly the kind of nonsense he'd been planning to avoid. But the other part... Tyson sighed inwardly. He was really going to do it, wasn't he?

"Yeah. Okay," he said, making the decision.

"Then you can hang with me from now on." Harry's brow furrowed so hard it nearly met in the middle.

"Why should I?" he demanded, and Tyson could hear genuine steel in that tiny voice.

"I don't even know you!" Then his expression shifted, becoming even more guarded.

"If you're expecting me to pay you or something, you'll have to wait a long time for the money." Tyson almost laughed.

"You can be rest assured about that. I just don't like bullies," Tyson said, dropping the teasing edge. His voice turned into something more sincere.

"I'm Tyson by the way. Tyson Steward." He extended his hand. Harry eyed the offered hand like Tyson might have hidden a snake in his sleeve. Then, with the air of someone making a decision he wasn't entirely certain about, he reached out and grabbed it. Tyson looked at him with surprise. His grip was firmer than his thin frame suggested.

"Harry Potter." Tyson grinned.

"Nice meeting you, kid." Harry frowned instantly.

"Kid? We're the same age." Tyson scoffed.

"Technically." He released Harry's hand and settled back into his seat, saying in a low voice, "Anyways, you want to learn how to fight? So those idiots can't mess with you as easily?" Harry's eyes went wide. For just a moment, a flicker of something dark surfaced behind those green irises. Not malice. Nothing so simple or so petty. It was resentment. It burned deep inside him. Years of neglect and humiliation packed tightly beneath the surface. Then Harry blinked, and the fire retreated behind its usual walls.

But Tyson had seen it. And honestly? Yeah. He was definitely going to like this kid.