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Before Harry could read more from Dudley's eyes, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia—who had just been staring at each other—turned on Dudley as if they'd seen a clown at an amusement park and were shooing him onto the stage to perform.
"But Harry gets to stay!" Dudley looked at Harry sitting calmly in the kitchen, his own eyes wide with innocent confusion, as if asking, "Why is he allowed to be here?"
"Go back to your room!"
What Dudley received in return were stern glares from both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, their hands pointing unmistakably toward the upstairs.
"Fine! I'm going! I'm going right now!"
Dudley turned and stomped upstairs, making his displeasure known with every step. He deliberately made his footsteps thunderous, as if the person ascending wasn't a slightly overweight boy but a full-grown ogre. A moment later, a loud "BANG!" echoed from upstairs as his bedroom door slammed shut.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other again. With a heavy sigh, Uncle Vernon rapped his knuckles on the table.
"Alright, we'll tell him everything. But I'm going to need some of that tequila to get me to say all these... crazy things."
Aunt Petunia went to the cupboard and fetched a glass and a bottle with some kind of plant floating inside it. She placed the glass on the table, poured a generous measure of tequila for Uncle Vernon, and handed it to him.
At Uncle Vernon's prompting "Hey!", Aunt Petunia picked up the bottle herself, tilted her head back, and took a large swig. She thumped the bottle back down onto the table and pulled out a chair to sit at the dining table.
"Alright, Harry, listen! We lied to you when we told you your parents died in a car accident..."
003 I Need a Sword
Oh, wonderful.
There was nothing worse than learning your parents were murdered.
And the even better news? The murderer might be preparing to murder him now.
Harry, shirtless with a red bandana tied around his head, swung the hammer down upon the red-hot sword blank held fast in the tongs before him. The Oath of Vengeance sang within him, its power seeping into the glowing steel with every resonant blow.
That day in the kitchen, after Aunt Petunia had drunk half a bottle of tequila, her face had become nearly as red as his companion Karlach's—a Tiefling with infernal blood. As if venting a lifetime of suppressed emotion, she had told Harry everything. She confessed about the letter she had taken from the doorstep over a decade ago.
Harry had stood up and thanked Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon with the most serious and formal bow of his life. Even though they hadn't liked him much, and even though they had treated him poorly, he now understood their motive: they had been trying to protect him. So, Harry forgave them for everything they had done in the past.
As if sensing the finality in Harry's solemn gesture, Aunt Petunia had stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Knowing all this, are you still going to go to that... that Hogwarts?!"
Looking into her distressed face, Harry nodded, his resolve firm, though it pained him. "They were my parents. This is what I must do."
"Get out! Get out of here this instant!"
This time, facing Aunt Petunia's raw outburst, Harry obediently left the house.
Standing in the garden of Number Four, Privet Drive, Harry pulled a one-pound coin from his pocket. He placed it on his right palm and clenched his fist. When he opened his hand again, the Queen's profile had transformed into the holy symbol of Waukeen, the Goddess of Wealth.
Harry knelt on one knee in the grass, one hand resting on his knee, the other holding the coin aloft.
"With my blood, with my sword, I will be the blade of vengeance. I will be the death knell of the wicked. I will have no other thoughts, I will have no mercy, until justice is done."
As Harry recited the Oath of Vengeance he had sworn when he became a Paladin, the pound coin in his hand began to glow as if placed in a furnace. A radiant force surged from the coin into his body, and his eyes ignited with a golden light, like two molten orbs of iron.
When the ritual ended, the coin returned to its normal appearance. Harry stood up from the lawn, blinking his eyes, which always felt sore after the ceremony. He stood outside the house, beginning to plan the preparations needed for his quest for vengeance.
As Harry stood deep in thought, Uncle Vernon opened the door and stepped out, standing a little behind him. He stared at the neighbor's house across the street, speaking to Harry as if talking to himself.
"So, you're determined to go?"
"Yes. As their son, it's what I must do."
As Harry spoke, the power gathered within him from the Oath of Vengeance surged again like a wolf scenting blood. The Oath could not wait. It demanded blood for blood, a tooth for a tooth. It demanded... justice.
"Well, boy, since you've been carrying yourself like a man all this year..." Uncle Vernon coughed lightly, shifting his gaze from the neighbor's roof to a dark cloud drifting in the sky, his tone conversational, as if remarking on the weather. "We can't very well stand by and watch you, a fool, go running off to that insane asylum unprepared..."
Here, Uncle Vernon paused.
"So... if you need anything, tell me. I'll... see what I can do."
Harry turned and looked at Uncle Vernon, who stood there looking profoundly uncomfortable. Harry brought his right hand to his chest and bowed his head in a formal salute.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Dursley."
"What are you thanking me for? You're my nephew, you little..." Vernon turned, opened the door, and walked back inside without another glance at Harry. But Harry maintained his salute until the door was shut.
That evening, Harry found Uncle Vernon and told him he needed a sword.
So, over the next few days, Uncle Vernon drove Harry to every shop and market in London that sold swords, trying to find a suitable one. However, in Harry's seasoned view, none of the longswords on the market were worthy of carrying his Oath of Vengeance.
Finally, after Uncle Vernon spent two days haggling with the owner of a blacksmith forge that specialized in handicrafts, they struck a deal. Harry was granted permission to use the forge's facilities for the next month, provided he didn't disturb the regular work.
Now, seeing the sword blank had taken its final shape, Harry gripped it with the tongs and carried it to the oil quench tank nearby, plunging the glowing steel into the oil.
"In the name of vengeance, this sword shall slay the evildoers, drink their blood, and uphold justice."
As Harry whispered the invocation, the sword blank glowed within the oil. The divine magic channeled by his Oath surged from his hand into the steel. A puff of green smoke rose from the tank. When the light faded, Harry lifted the newly quenched blade. Wiping the oil away with a cloth, he inspected the blank to see if the blade had warped during the quench. Despite using unfamiliar modern materials, this blade, forged with his Oath, was as straight and true as any longsword he had made in the church forges of Waukeen.
The owner of the blacksmith shop, a bald man with a long beard, had stood watching the entire process with his arms crossed. As Harry, satisfied, wrapped the sword blank in cloth to take it away, the man stroked his beard and asked, "Are you really only ten years old?"
Harry pulled his grey shirt back on, turned, and offered a small smile. "How old do I look?"
The bearded man shrugged. "Watching you work that forge, I'd believe you if you said you'd been smithing for ten years."
"Then you can think of me as someone with ten years of experience."
The man gave a skeptical curl of his lip. "Leaving so early today?"
Harry carefully tied the cloth-wrapped sword blank with rope and slung it over his back. "A professor is visiting my home today. I can't be late."
"Well, good luck to you, then."
"And a good day to you, too."
After leaving the blacksmith shop, Harry got on his bicycle and headed for home. He had originally planned to run the distance, but things had changed. It turned out that after slamming his door that fateful day, Dudley hadn't stayed in his room. He had crept back to the kitchen door and overheard everything. After two weeks of a self-imposed, sullen lockdown, Dudley had quietly handed Harry the keys to his bike.