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Surrey County, Little Whinging, Privet Drive, Number 4.
The sun had already risen above the neatly kept garden in front of the house, illuminating the copper number four fixed to the Dursleys' front door. Morning light quietly slipped into the living room, reflecting off Mr. Dursley's naturally round and prominent backside, while Mrs. Dursley hummed a tune that clearly didn't belong to this era as she carefully prepared breakfast in the kitchen.
On the mantelpiece above the fireplace, countless photographs were displayed, proudly showing the members of the family to any visitor. A big-faced boy riding his first bicycle, playing on a carousel at a fair, gaming with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother—everything painted the picture of a happy family of three.
However, tucked away in one corner of the mantelpiece, there was another photo.
It made it clear that this household wasn't made up of only three people.
In the picture, the same large, sturdy boy had his arm wrapped tightly around a skinny child wearing clothes of the same style. Both were smiling—simple, genuine smiles.
"One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four… one more time."
Dudley supported his entire body weight on a single thumb, moving up and down repeatedly on the front lawn. Large beads of sweat dripped onto the green grass, soaking his back completely.
Beneath him, the grass had been utterly flattened, as if it had been mercilessly trampled.
Harry sat on the front steps, resting his chin in his hands, quietly watching Dudley exercise while counting in his head.
"One hundred five… one hundred six…"
Although he seemed afraid of his cousin, Harry actually liked staying near Dudley. Being around him made Harry feel safe—and more importantly, he wasn't treated like he didn't exist.
When Harry's count finally reached three hundred, Dudley stopped and dropped onto the grass with a thud.
"That feels great."
He wiped the sweat from his face, a satisfied expression spreading across his flushed, slightly chubby cheeks.
Without wasting any time, he picked up two dumbbells resting nearby and started training his biceps, one in each hand.
Each iron weight was thirty kilograms, yet in Dudley's hands they felt no heavier than plastic toys.
Whether or not he could ever learn magic, having a strong and healthy body was extremely important.
The story of the great white-robed wizard Gandalf had already taught that lesson well: to become a powerful mage, you first had to know how to hold a sword, be strong enough to cut down a massive orc… only then could you start learning flashy spells.
"Harry, you should work out too. You're way too skinny and short. You look like a malnourished puppy."
Even while training, Dudley didn't forget to lecture his cousin.
"I'll let you in on a secret… busty blondes really love muscular guys like me."
To be fair, there was nothing wrong with Harry aside from being a bit thin. Dudley only said that because he was comparing Harry to himself.
"Okay, Big D."
Harry replied absentmindedly. It was hard to tell whether he actually understood… or not.
His bright green eyes remained fixed on Dudley, empty and unfocused, as if he were lost in thought.
"Funny… movie Harry didn't seem this slow. He was actually pretty sharp."
My cousin might be a little dumb. What do I do? Urgent answers needed.
At this rate, how is he supposed to deal with that noseless guy in the future?
"Dudley Dursley! You've got a letter!"
The mailman's voice snapped Dudley out of his thoughts.
He handed Dudley a thick envelope and shot an unmistakably jealous glance at the boy's already well-defined abs.
Truth be told, Dudley still had something left unsaid: muscles didn't just attract blond girls… they also attracted a lot of attention from other men.
As a great thinker once said:
"Working out attracts the opposite sex. Overworking out attracts the same sex."
Dudley glanced at the seal on the envelope.
It was from Bloomsbury Publishing.
When he opened it, he found a densely written letter along with a check worth ten thousand pounds.
He quickly looked around. Noticing that no one except Harry was paying attention, Dudley carefully slipped the check into his pocket before unfolding the letter.
"Dear Professor Jerry…"
The opening was a long, formal string of excessive praise.
Jerry.
That was Dudley's pen name.
After arriving in this world, the first thing Dudley wanted to do was make money.
"With money, you can go anywhere. Without it, you can't take a single step."
That truth applied no matter the world—especially for someone planning to become a mage, a profession notorious for burning money at an alarming rate.
Combined with the Dursley family's tight financial situation at the time, Dudley panicked.
And chose a path with no return.
Writing books.
Although he knew the classic saying, "Master math, physics, and chemistry, and you'll conquer the world," Dudley hadn't learned those subjects well in his previous life—and found them too troublesome anyway. Writing books was simple, fast, and low-risk.
The letter read:
"The payment for the first volume of The Lord of the Rings has been included in the envelope. We hope to meet you this Saturday at ten o'clock to discuss the publication of the second volume.— Robert, Bloomsbury Publishing."
The author of the most popular fantasy novel of the year, The Lord of the Rings…
Was Dudley himself.
This world was very different from the one he had known. Perhaps because of the existence of wizards, the fantasy and fiction genres barely existed at all.
No major works.
None.
So Dudley simply… borrowed them.
Of course, it wasn't an exact copy. He adapted the story, adding popular elements from online fiction—dramatic one-liners, exaggerated conflicts, intense rivalries.
After all, books needed to appeal to both young and old readers.
And so, The Lord of the Rings sold even better than it had in the original world.
Ten thousand pounds in 1980s England was an absurd amount of money.
Given the current popularity, Dudley should have earned far more. But he was a newcomer—this was already more than enough.
Besides, this was only the first volume.
Short-term profit wasn't as important as steady long-term gains.
After all, he hadn't even published half of the original story yet.
And as a certain noseless guy once said, seven was a magical number.
So Dudley decided to split the trilogy into seven books.
And now, the publisher had come knocking.
The name "Jerry" was already synonymous with money.
Even if the next book turned out to be complete garbage, it would still sell millions.
If Bloomsbury didn't offer a satisfactory price, other publishers would happily line up.
Dudley already had plans.
After finishing all seven books, he'd write a Hobbit spin-off… sell adaptation rights…
Enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
A direct leap into financial freedom.
And if that still wasn't enough to support a future mage…
He could always write a few more books.
The Dragonlance Chronicles sounded like a great idea.
In high spirits, Dudley patted Harry's messy, bird's-nest-like hair.
"Harry, stick with your cousin. Today, I'm buying you ice cream."
"Okay, Big D."
Before they even left the garden, Mrs. Dursley's voice rang out from the window.
"Oh, my dear Dudley darling, where do you think you're going? Come eat your breakfast first."
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