He emerges immediately. "Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"...so, Victor, about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you're really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

What.

"All right. I'll move all my things there," he says as soon as he recovers from his surprise. "Thank you, Uncle Vernon."

"Yes, good, go do that," he says, then turns around and goes off somewhere.

From upstairs comes the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want him in there... I need that room... make him get out..."

Well.

He gets all his things, and makes sure the letter is hidden securely, and moves everything up to Dudley's second bedroom, and tries to disturb as few of the broken toys as possible.

He screams, whacks his father with his Smelting stick, is sick on purpose, kicks his mother, and throws his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, all to no avail; his parents don't budge.

In a way it's sort of comforting to know that no matter what other bizarre things might be going on, Dudley is still fundamentally Dudley. The dudliest of them all.

Sleeping outside of his cupboard makes him a little nervous, though. They said he's allowed, but it still doesn't quite feel like it.

They don't bother him, and are somewhat subdued the next morning. When mail arrives, Vernon tells Dudley to go get it, and he goes without complaining...

...only to cry, "There's three letters for him now! 'Mr. V. Evans, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive—"

Vernon yelps and leaps from his seat to run down the hall after Dudley.

Oh dear. Victor stays put.

There is a brief sound of a scuffle, but Vernon emerges victorious, holding the three letters in his hand. He cuts it up in little pieces and throws them all away, with a self-satisfied smile.

Well, as long as Uncle Vernon is happy...

Something tells Victor that's not going to last, though.

Perhaps not; he spends the rest of the morning looking frazzled and even a day at work complaining about everyone else isn't enough to lift his spirits.

Victor keeps out of his way as much as possible.

Are there more letters the next morning?

Twelve of them.

Oh dear.

"Maybe we should write back and tell them to stop?" he suggests tentatively.

"No! We do not engage with these people." And then he adopts that look on his face he gets when he makes up his mind about something. "Petunia, I'm not going to work today." And he saunters off to the garage without giving anyone explanations for this behaviour.

...this seems bad.

Victor decides he will clean the kitchen.

So he will witness his uncle returning from the garage carrying some planks of wood, nails, and a hammer.

Is he going to... nail a plank of wood to something...?

Not Victor's business. This kitchen is going to be so clean.

So clean!

Shortly before he's done, his aunt grabs some fruitcake to bring to her husband, who's been at it for a while.

"See," Victor can hear him explaining to Petunia when she wonders what on Earth he's doing, "if they can't deliver them they'll just give up."

"...I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they're not like you and me," he says, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia has just brought him.