Days had passed since the system's cruel joke had saddled him with the "constitution" of Shinji Matou. After the initial wave of bitter disappointment, Dudley had forced himself to move on. Life, after all, had to continue. Complaining about his lot in life was pointless; it was far better to focus on self-improvement.
And so, Dudley threw himself back into his rigorous physical training, practicing his Ripple Breathing with renewed determination.
At St. George's Primary School, a group of burly boys in rugby uniforms ambled over to Dudley, slinging their arms around his thick neck in a casual, friendly manner.
"Hey, Dudley," one of them said. "I heard you were an exchange student at Oxford Bridge Primary last week. How was it?"
Not all the students at St. George's were terrified of Dudley. He wasn't some mindless brawler looking for a fight. As he often said, he hated trouble. As long as you didn't cross one of his lines, he was actually quite gentle and easygoing.
Of course, these boys weren't students from St. George's. They were graduating members of the boxing team from the neighboring Smeltings Secondary School.
"Boring," Dudley grunted, taking a large bite of a hot dog. "They're all just a bunch of nerds over there."
A familiar notification chimed in his mind: Ate one complete hot dog. Experience +1.
The simple message sent a wave of satisfaction through him. Besides the occasional quest, the Mage Cultivation System replenished its energy reserves through the consumption of food, allowing him to use experience points to unlock various life skills. None of them, of course, had anything to do with magic. According to the system's stingy explanations, they were all mundane, daily-life abilities: English, mathematics, physics, chemistry, firearms, boxing, archery, and so on.
The so-called "Mage Cultivation System" was remarkably generous with everything except magic. So, he ate. He ate a lot. It was the entire reason he'd earned the nickname "The Food Protector." Messing with his food was like signing your own death warrant.
"I heard the students at that school are brilliant," another boy chimed in. "Did our Mr. Dudley feel a bit out of his league?"
"Brilliant?" Dudley scoffed, waving a dismissive hand as he downed a cup of soda. "They're just slightly above average. All they do is study. There's nothing special about them."
Drank one complete cup of soda. Experience +1.
He couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered his time at Oxford Bridge. He had thoroughly trounced those bookworms, not just in sports but in academics as well. The memory of their tear-streaked faces and snotty noses as they ran crying from the field was genuinely amusing. Oxford Dragon Primary, a co-ed private school, proudly billed itself as a preparatory school for Oxford University. A "preparatory university," as everyone knew, was just a fancy way of saying "not really."
With Dudley's grades and abilities, he shouldn't have been at a place like St. George's in the first place. The Dursleys had sent both him and Harry here for one simple reason: it was a public school, which meant it was cheap. They had to cover not only Dudley's expenses but Harry's as well. A quick glance at their clothing told the whole story. Harry was always dressed in Dudley's old, oversized hand-me-downs. And while Dudley's clothes were new, they were made of the most basic, inexpensive materials. Add to that Dudley's voracious appetite, and their financial situation was more strained than one might think.
It wasn't until two months ago that their circumstances had improved. Dudley's father, Vernon, thanks to a recommendation from his sister Marge, had landed a new job at a drill manufacturing company called Grunnings. He'd immediately closed a massive order, and their fortunes had finally started to turn. Now, they were even discussing transferring Dudley to a more prestigious school, which was the reason for his exchange trip in the first place.
Dudley, however, had no intention of leaving. If he transferred, Harry wouldn't be there, and Dudley wouldn't be able to "fleece the sheep," as he liked to call it. With the steep tuition of a private school, the Dursleys could never afford to send both boys. And even if they could, they wouldn't send Harry. His mother, Petunia, and his father, Vernon, harbored a deep-seated dislike for the boy. The reasons for that were a long and complicated story.
After swallowing the last of his food, Dudley spotted Harry emerging from the school building, his bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to his friends from the Smeltings boxing team. "It's been a while since I've really stretched my muscles," he said with a grin. "Anyone up for a little practice?"
A strange, awkward silence fell over the group. They exchanged nervous glances, and then the excuses started pouring out.
"Ah, I've got something I need to do today."
"My mum told me to be home early."
"I think I forgot to lock my front door."
In moments, Dudley was standing alone. It was precisely because they knew him so well that they understood how terrifying he could be. Sparring with Dudley wasn't practice; it was asking for a beating.
Dudley pouted. "Tsk. How boring."
With light steps, he jogged over to his dear cousin, slinging an arm around Harry's neck. "Let's go home together," he said affectionately.
As the two of them walked away, a collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the remaining students of St. George's.
"Oh my god... poor little Harry. He's going to get bullied by that wicked cousin of his again."
"So, are you going to save him?"
"Are you kidding? Do you want me to get myself killed?"
And that's how rumours are born.
In reality, Dudley and Harry got along quite well. At least, that's what Dudley thought.
Their home, Number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, was only a twenty-minute walk from the school. Seeing Harry walking with his head down, lost in his own world, Dudley decided to break the silence. He pulled a few crumpled banknotes from his pocket.
"Harry, this is the nine pounds and fifteen pence those guys paid for your glasses," he said. "I don't think it's safe with you. I'll hold onto it for you. You can use it when you get married."
"Okay," Harry mumbled, having heard this exact speech so many times he could recite it from memory.
Satisfied, Dudley tucked the money back into his pocket, momentarily transforming into a young Ebenezer Scrooge. It wasn't that he was greedy; he kept a meticulous record of every penny that belonged to Harry. The truth was, he needed the extra cash to fuel his system's energy requirements. Thankfully, his Ripple training converted most of the food he consumed into solid muscle. Otherwise, with his eating habits, he would have long since become the round, bloated Dudley of the original story.
He pushed open the door to their two-story house, and the rich aroma of dinner instantly hit him, his appetite surging. It was a well-known joke that the four thinnest books in the world were The History of America, German Jokes, Italian War Heroes, and English Cookbooks. England wasn't exactly famous for its cuisine. Beyond the fish and chips every housewife could make, there wasn't much else to speak of.
But no one ever said an Englishwoman had to cook English food. Petunia Dursley, as it turned out, was remarkably skilled at German cuisine. Tonight, the air was filled with the savory scent of crispy pork knuckle.
***
(End of Chapter)
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