Gloria in the Potterverse
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...She giggles, quietly, where none of them can hear.

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

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...Does he really think it's going to stop, at this point?

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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.

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Then he's not as stupid as he could be, she supposes.

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There are twelve letters the next morning.

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Pffffffft. Maybe she should be ashamed of how much she's enjoying Uncle Vernon's suffering. She isn't.

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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.

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...This is not going to end well.

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He returns from the garage carrying some planks of wood, nails, and a hammer.

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Dorea should probably be making herself unobtrusive but really this is too much of a trainwreck to look away from.

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He starts working on something in the living room.

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He seems to be trying to nail the mail slot shut.

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She gets way the hell out of earshot before breaking down into helpless giggles.

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

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"See," Dorea 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."

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

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"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.

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It is true that they sent her these letters with no way for her to respond but she's not sure why Uncle Vernon thinks they'll be crazy in a way convenient to him.

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On Saturday there are twenty-four letters rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs the milkman brings. Vernon spends the day calling the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to.

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"Who on Earth wants to talk to you this badly?"

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"Someone with more aesthetic discernment than you, clearly."

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On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sits down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy. "No post on Sundays," he reminds them cheerfully as he spreads marmalade on his newspapers, "no damn letters today—"

Something comes whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he speaks and catches him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters come pelting out of the fireplace like bullets.

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