Magic Multiverse 2 (Patreon)

“… close one. That lucky triple-twenty saved your ass,” Dudley complained as Sam sank the last eight points, earning his victory.

[Casual Darts Game Victory, +1 Darts]

[Minor Special Character Defeated, Dudley Dursley]

[+1 Boxing]

Sam was happy to see the reward, even though repeated exposure reduced the boxing reward from five to one.

It had been about three weeks since he met Dudley, and after repeatedly playing darts, he realized how the bonus worked. After every three victories, the bonus dropped one point.

Either permanently, or it had too long a cooldown.

Still, every victory gave him another point as long as Dudley took the game seriously, and it was played by official rules. Unfortunately, darts and poker were the only sports he was able to convince Dudley to play, and a poker game lasted far longer than darts, so he focused on the latter.

Also, trying to make money from the cards was always dangerous. Win the money from the wrong guy, and one might end up with broken knees.

“Come on, Big D,” Sam said as he took the twenty-pound note Dudley passed grudgingly. “You have to accept that this is not a boxing ring, and I’m better than you here.”

“Not even close. I’m merely two games behind,” he argued as they walked back to their table.

Sam shrugged. At this point, he was used to managing Dudley. He was unpleasant, but easy to deal with as long as one knew when to pamper him, and when to push back. “So, how’s everything with the family after the latest fight?”

“Annoying as usual,” Dudley responded. “My father is insistent that I join him at Grunnings. I’m too good for a boring desk job, selling drills,” he complained.

Sam shrugged, aware that in fact, Dudley was not too good for the said job. But, he also knew that it didn’t matter. Dudley’s father was a senior executive, meaning once graduated, Dudley would either join Grunnings, or his father would call a favor for him to start somewhere else. In five years, Dudley would get an MBA from a third-rate school, and slowly rise until his incompetency surpassed the nepotism effect.

Knowing how the world worked, in ten years Dudley would be earning six figures.

The world was unfair, which would have annoyed him much more…

… but then, he had his own unfair edge, which was developing nicely.

[Soccer - Advanced 51/250 (Midfielder)

Darts - Intermediate 7/100

Boxing - Basic 43/50

Poker Basic 7/50]

At this point, his boxing was good enough to survive sparring with Dudley without too much pain, though winning was still impossible even if he exerted himself. Even in pure skills, Dudley was better than him.

He estimated Dudley’s proficiency as low intermediate, which meant while he was considerably better than a hobbyist, he had no hope for the professional scene. Not even the lower rungs. Boxing was easier to enter than football, but only to a degree.

However, while earning easy points was nice, he was still trying to understand why Dudley, rather than anyone else, provided him with extra points. For the moment, he had no clue. For all intents and purposes, Dudley was normal.

Almost aggressively normal.

“No chance of them taking your ambitions seriously, then,” he responded, playing to Dudley’s ego, which, as he realized, was the only way to stay close to Dudley.

“Yeah,” he growled. “It’s annoying that they don’t trust me to be as famous as that freak,” he responded.

“The freak?” Sam asked, not expecting much.

“Nothing,” Dudley responded, immediately clamping down. “How about I get the next round?”

Sam nodded, letting Dudley pull back, but he noted his reaction. It was an outlier, meaning he needed to check. Especially since Dudley, with his personality, would have bragged about knowing anyone famous, regardless of the circumstances.

It might be his first real clue about what was going on. However, it would require some work, as Dudley seemed to be scared of talking about the ‘freak’.

Luckily, there was an easy solution to that problem.

Alcohol. Lots of it.

He let Dudley forget the mention, and soon, he invited him to the dart board again, though this time, betting on shots rather than their usual twenty quids, with them calling a number, challenging the other to hit, and with every success, the other one forced to drink a shot.

For the first few, he acted like things were equal, but a chain of ‘lucky’ shots later, Dudley was plastered.

“… let me help you to your house, big oaf,” Sam said while he helped him to a cab, giving the address to Dudley’s flat, which he lived alone, though he made sure to act just as drunk, in case Dudley remembered.

“So, who’s this freak?” he asked once they were safely inside.

“My bitch of a cousin,” Dudley slurred, his anger apparent. “With her even freakier friends. One of them even gave me a pig’s tail. I had to have it removed,” he growled.

Sam was surprised. Any other time, he would have just dismissed it out of hand, but after his own system, he was more open-minded. “Your cousin? What’s her name?” Sam asked.

“Holly, Holly Potter,” Dudley muttered in frustration. “A wand-waving freak that’s too good for us normal folks now that she’s a big, important witch. She’s a bitch, if you ask me.”

Sam hummed. He was tempted to write the mention of the witch as an insult, but his system was weird enough that he had to be open-minded. “What do you mean, a witch?” he asked.

“One of the wand-waving freaks—“ he started, then froze despite his dozed state. “No talking. If you talk, they come and erase your memories.”

Sam hummed. He wanted to push for more, but he could see that Dudley had reached his limit. “You are delusional when you’re drunk, Big D. Let me get you a beer so you can sober up.” Meanwhile, his aim was to get Dudley even more drunk, both to loosen his lips more and to make sure he wouldn’t have any memories.

Unfortunately, while it loosened his lips, his descriptions got even choppier. There were mentions of blue wigs, being chased by snakes, sudden disappearances, and soul-sucking invisible monsters.

He didn’t know how much of it was accurate. Still, it was something to be explored. Once he put Dudley in the bathroom so he could vomit in peace, he started digging around his house, hoping to find something about this mysterious cousin.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to find much. A bachelor pad wasn’t exactly filled with family photos in the first place. There were only a few pictures, and none had a girl near Dudley’s age.

But, digging through Dudley’s cellphone, a new Nokia that he bragged about for half a day when he first got, he found a number that had been saved as Holly.

Luckily, he also found a few text messages from the same number, and one of them had Holly’s home address, highlighted as emergency only. Reading the sparse texts, it was clear that they were not close.

Stealing a girl’s address was a bit too stalkerish for his comfort, but the mentions of weird events were too compelling for him to ignore.

He needed to take risk for more points.

Even if it came with a warning of memory wipes.

&&&

He didn’t try to approach Dudley’s cousin immediately. For one, he had no idea how she looked, meaning he couldn’t ‘accidentally’ come across her. Also, the warnings about possible memory wipes had been scary enough that he didn’t knock the door acting like a postman.

He tried to probe Dudley about it, but failed. A few times, he opened the talk about extended families. Dudley talked about most of his extended family, including his unpleasant Aunt Marge, but he didn’t even acknowledge the existence of a female cousin.

Luckily, Dudley had completely forgotten what they had talked about, so they continued hanging together, continuing their regular gym-pub meetups, allowing him to improve his skills.

He slowly improved in the process, enough compensation to deal with Dudley’s general unpleasantness.

[Boxing +14]

[Boxing Basic -> Intermediate]

[Soccer +2]

[Darts +12]

[Poker +2]

Seeing that Dudley had no intention of talking about Holly, he decided to make some big moves.

First, he changed his job, starting to work in a pub on the same street as Holly’s flat, which took a week to arrange. It paid more than the corner shop, but the commute was longer, and cleaning up after drunks was always unpleasant. Also, his shift overlappsed with football, so he took a break from the team.

It was a lot of work, but it was the only safe way for him to approach.

The second thing he did was to check the name on the doorbell, as well as the phonebook, which was registered to someone else. Hermione Granger. Luckily, stalking the entrance while chatting about football with the old cashier of a nearby shop solved the issue.

As a young local waiter, it was practically expected of him to be curious about the beautiful girls around. And, Hermione was certainly pretty, even though she dressed like a divorced librarian.

Not his usual type.

He usually got along well with more outgoing girls that put out, where his fit body and reasonably good-looking face did most of the work. His fitness was one lingering benefit of his obsession with football.

Hermione was bookish, the understated, loose jeans and top, roughly tied bushy brown hair, and very little makeup. It was the kind of woman that he skipped any other time. Especially since she was wearing an engagement ring.

Admittedly, the engagement ring affected only because of the time it would require to seduce rather than moral issues. Compared to that, the loose clothing was a bit more of a problem, because it meant the body underneath was too much of a surprise. However, watching Hermione from a distance, he suspected she was fit enough.

Good.

He might be barely surviving, but he had no intention of slumming when it came to his bed partners.

Of course, he didn’t need to seduce Hermione. He just needed to build rapport until he could goad her to a game of darts. That way, he could see if he got the Minor Character Bonus, just like the one he got from Dudley.

It would be far better if he did, because he much rather hang with a pretty girl rather than a blowhard with his very inflated sense of self.

It was why, once he identified Hermione, he mentioned to Dudley that he would be traveling for a few weeks, playing it vogue.

After all, more boxing points were useful, but he wanted to see if he could get other points.

All he needed was an opportunity to talk with Hermione.

&&&

The opportunity came sooner than expected. It was a rainy day, the kind that was persistent and annoying, when he noticed Hermione across the street, without an umbrella, holding her bag over her head with one hand, while desperately fishing for her key with the other.

She seemed careless enough.

So, he decided to walk out of the street with an umbrella in hand, his back deliberately turned. He was betting that she wouldn’t see her until it was too late. He was right, even more than he had expected. She didn’t just hit his back, but practically tackled him.

He could have easily ignored it, but he threw himself on the ground. Flopping realistically was a core football skill, something he could do with ease, hitting the ground with a yelp of pain.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” she gasped in shock, forgetting that her keys had slipped from her hands. His football skills came useful once more when he used his heel to subtly kick them into the nearest grate while he groaned in pain.

“Don’t worry, I’m alright,” he said, even though he let out a groan as he stood up, making sure to rub his left hand to scratch badly, enough to bleed. He didn’t ask for her help, but a realistic stumble later, she held his arm and helped him back to the entrance of the pub, and then grabbed his discarded umbrella, which was broken.

That part wasn’t planned, but it still worked to his benefit.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “It’s my fault. I was distracted by trying to get out of my keys and —“ she started, then her eyes widened when she realized her keys were gone. She looked at the ground, then her gaze fell on the grate. “Oh, no.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“My keys, I think they fell on the grate,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I can get them out with a wire. Just give me a minute,” he said.

She was still panicky. “You don’t have to help me. I’m the one that injured you in the middle of the road.”

He gave his best smile. “Don’t worry about it; I’m tough. Just give me a minute to catch my breath. I wasn’t expecting to be tackled.” But, as he said that, he turned his hand, letting her see it.

“You’re not fine. You need first aid,” she said, then looked at the nearest door, which was the pub. “I’m sure they have a first aid kit,” she said, looking inside, which was empty. “Hello?” she called. “Isn’t there anyone?”

“That would be me,” he said. “It’s afternoon, so it’s practically a graveyard shift, we only have me and a cook.”

“Fine, where’s the first-aid kit?” she asked.

“Behind the bar,” he said, surprised by her attitude. He expected someone more hesitant and shy. However, she was not only bossy, but she immediately took over during the crisis. Admittedly, a minor one, but still, not a common reaction.

Interesting.

He didn’t argue with her as he sat inside. Luckily, as it was almost three in the afternoon on a weekday, which meant the pub was empty after the lunch crowd had already left.

He didn’t say anything when she arrived with the kit and ordered him. “Hand.” He complied because it was clear she expected her words to be followed. Another unexpected detail.

“I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Hermione,” she answered, her focus on his hand, her voice still manic. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe how careless I had been. I should have watched where I was—“

“Don’t worry,” he responded. “It’s not even the worst tackle I had endured this week.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yep. At least this time it wasn’t an aggressive bloke wearing studs,” he said, and she looked questioningly. “I play football in the amateur league,” he said. He didn’t brag about being amazing, because amazing footballers didn’t work at a pub.

“Really?”

“Yep, trying to make it as a semi-pro, but it’s tough,” he said, but seeing her lack of interest, he decided not to push that angle. “But maybe I should stop working and obediently go to the university if I can be brought down by a pretty girl.”

She looked up, her eyes wide. For a moment, he expected it to be about his compliment. “You skipped university,” she gasped, as if he had admitted being a serial killer.

He wasn’t expecting her intense reaction. “Not skipped, but delayed,” he said immediately, which was a lie. “I can’t work, study, and play football at the same time. So, the university has to wait until my chances of going pro is over,” he said. His chances of going professional would have been over if it hadn’t been for the system, but he saw no issue in bending the truth a little.

That mollified her. She nodded seriously. “Good, education is important. I know firsthand that balancing work and study can be a challenge.”

“So, what do you study?” he asked.

“Political science.”

“Let me guess, either Cambridge or Oxford?”

She blushed slightly. “Oxford,” she admitted with a shy yet proud tone.

“Impressive,” he said, then looked at her bag, which was very heavy. “And, looking at the size of your bag, also the top of your class.” She blushed more. “I almost got killed by a beautiful genius. I take that as a positive,” he teased her.

She said nothing, but she blushed thick enough to suggest that she wasn’t familiar with compliments. Another interesting detail to note.

He was about to continue flirting with her, but her reaction suggested that it might not be the best idea. Luckily, her reaction to his lack of university education gave him a good angle. “Too bad I have terrible A-levels, and I have no idea how to improve them.”

“That’s easy,” she said, and the moment she finished fixing his hand, she pulled a notebook from her bag.

“You don’t have to ruin your notebook for me.”

“Don’t worry, it’s a spare one. I carry a few extra just in case.” He failed to see the reason for it, but it was clear that she took studying far more than he did. “Tell me your A-levels,” she asked. He did, and her expression grew more pensive. “It’s hopeless, right?” he admitted.

“Not really,” she said.

“You don’t have to coddle me,” he said. “I was so sure that I could be a professional footballer until an idiot tackled me the wrong way, which cost me more than a year of training time,” he said, making his supposed athletic career worse than it seemed. “And, by then, it was too late to save my classes.”

“Not with that attitude. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a perfect schedule. As long as you work hard, it’ll be enough.”

“It’ll be difficult, unless you’re willing to tutor me,” he said, then his eyes widened. “Actually, can you? I’ll pay back. DO you need a private trainer?” he promised, immediately jumping at the opportunity.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“How about a trial period?” he said. “We can do two weeks, and see if it works,” he said.

“You don’t have to be my private trainer, I’m happy to help,” she replied.

“Nonsense. It’s the least I can do if you’re willing to give up your time,” he steamrolled her. For some reason, she was far too enthusiastic to help him study, but he couldn’t rely on it continuing.

If he was her trainer, it would be easy to arrange an introduction to her mysterious roommate.

Though, an hour later, he revised that opinion. Not only did she created a study schedule with the determination of a drill sergeant, but she also immediately started helping him revise the basics, starting from math.

He was impressed and overwhelmed at the same time.

Studying with her might not be as easy as he thought.