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Notes: Dudley dreams. (Written for Abaddon, fellow Dudley enthusiast.)
When he was eight years old, Dudley had a very strange dream. He dreamt that his mother held his hand very close to the stove, turning the flame right up, until the little hairs on the backs of his fingers started to singe and his skin heated up painfully. Please, he wanted to say to her, please, but he was afraid, so he just kept silent, and when she let him go he went and put his hand under the basin in the cool, cool water. The backs of his hands were a raw lobster-red. The water became warmer as he ran his hands under it, and then he woke up and realised that his hands were jammed between his legs, and that the air around him was thick with the scent of piss.
I'm sorry, he kept thinking, I'm sorry, and flinched from Mum's hand when she came to wake him up in the morning.
But she was kind. Of course she was. She took away his dirty sheets and helped him brush his teeth and knelt on the floor in front of him when she did up his shoe laces. Her thin mouth no longer looked cruel, and her eyes no longer looked like stone. She smelled like talcum powder.
So Dudley felt like eating after all, when he went downstairs for breakfast. Harry was already awake, laying the plates, and Dudley felt a strange sense of disappointment that he didn't get to stomp on the stairs and wake Harry up as he sometimes did.
Dad was still out on his business trip, so Harry looked more relaxed. Dudley watched him with narrow eyes, hating him as he slid quietly into a chair at the other end of the table.
'More toast, Duddykins?' Mum called from behind the counter, tying on her apron. It had red frills on it. It made her look like a thin, red-feathered bird.
'Yeah, Mum,' he said through a mouthful of egg, then smirked at Harry, who only had a bowl of porridge.
For a moment something vicious flared in Harry's eyes, something like what Dudley himself felt when he was angry--but then Harry's face was quiet again, and he pushed his chair back as he stood up.
'I'm done,' Harry mumbled, but no one answered, and Harry took his empty bowl of porridge to the sink, where he washed it while Mum buttered more toast. Dudley noticed that Harry kept glancing at the toast, but then Dudley was eating it and it was warm and salt and good, soft butter melting into crisp bread just the way Dudley liked it, and Harry's hand jerked when it put the porridge bowl down on the dish rack. Suddenly Dudley felt a lot better about the sink. He didn't think he'd have to be afraid of washing his hands there.
'Don't forget to hang the clothes out,' Mum said to Harry.
'Yes, Aunt Petunia,' said Harry, voice monotone, like Mister Hawkins' was in Maths. There were circles under Harry's eyes. It was only when Harry had left, and Dudley heard the lid of the washing machine creak open from the laundry, that he realised that they looked like Dudley's eyes this morning. Dark. Wide.
Dudley felt his stomach twist. Did Harry dream about the sink too? About Mum? About burning his hands?
'More toast, Duddykins?' came Mum's voice again, and suddenly Dudley hated it.
'No,' he snapped, and then almost said piss off, because that was the sort of thing big boys said, but now Dudley could remember how raw his hands had felt under the cool water, and perhaps he did feel a little afraid.
'Are you all right, pet?' Soft. Mum's voice was soft, and she came forward with another plate of toast anyway.
But Dudley got up and backed away. 'I said I didn't want any!'
Then he ran upstairs to his room, huffing, and slammed the door behind him.
Harry was hanging the clothes out in the backyard. Dudley could see him, from his window, Harry in Dudley's old red T-shirt that looked more like a dull brown now. He kept watching Harry until Mum came upstairs, saying she was sorry, saying she didn't mean to force him to eat when he didn't want to, and helped him get ready before he was late for school.
* * *
When he was twelve years old, Dudley had a very strange dream. He was in the drawing room downstairs, at night, and the TV was on. (This was how he knew it was a dream--Dad never let him watch TV at night, because Dad had his own videos to see.) Dudley dreamed that the carpet was like cool, stiff fur under his bare feet, and that he switched the TV off and walked to the stairs. He was going to go upstairs to sleep, he was sure of it, but somehow his feet went to the little door under the stairs instead, and his hands opened it.
Moonlight flooded the small cupboard. Harry lay on his stomach, on his rickety cot. Dudley could hear him breathing. His legs looked ridiculously long hanging off the edge of the cot, and Dudley was suddenly reminded of the very young horses he'd seen on the Smeltings field trip last week. The foals could barely stand.
'You can barely stand,' said Dudley to Harry, somehow sure that Harry wouldn't wake up.
Harry's large T-shirt was rucked up, baring a smooth back that shone like stone in the moonlight. The nape of Harry's neck was pale and soft under dark curls of hair, and looking at it made something tingle under Dudley's skin. He knew Harry wouldn't wake up, so he slowly reached out with one hand to touch Harry's back, and suddenly his blood jerked inside him, and his heart started beating loudly.
Warm. Harry's back was warm. It was smooth, too, so smooth that Dudley felt as though his hand might sink right into it, as though Harry's skin was nothing but warm, white milk.
'Let me in,' he said quietly to Harry. 'Let me in.' But Harry only made a little noise, a sleepy sort of noise, and shifted under his hands.
Dudley's blood felt hot under his skin. As though he were one of Mum's pots, boiling on the stove. Dudley let his hand move in circles and found it difficult to breathe, as though he'd been running up the stairs--but somehow everything seemed to be moving down, down, down, and Dudley lifted his head to see the black walls of Harry's cupboard melt down like wax.
He felt Harry begin to turn over, so he took his hand away quickly. He stared as Harry settled on his back, arms flung out as gangly as his legs, black hair messy and green eyes closed.
The walls kept melting. Maybe he should wake Harry up, maybe they should go somewhere.
But Dudley only stepped back out of the cupboard and closed the door--because if the walls melted in there they wouldn't melt out here, and Mum and Dad would be safe.
'Let me in,' he said to the closed cupboard, which made no sense, and then he woke up in his bed, heart pounding, and realised that his cock was hard.
* * *
Dudley had no strange dreams when he was fifteen. He'd even managed to forget, mostly, what had happened that night--that horrible coldness, eating away at his mind, and how he'd barely escaped. It was all Harry's fault, Harry and his magic--the freak, the fucking freak, the faggot calling out Cedric in his sleep.
Only Harry called out another name now, and more often--Sirius, Sirius, Sirius--and Dudley got sick of hearing it. He got sick of seeing Harry have those wide, dark eyes again, sunken and strange--he got sick of the fact that Harry didn't feel jealous of him anymore, that Harry didn't even bother eating whatever he was given to eat. He got sick of the fact that Harry ignored everything at the dinner table, ignored everyone, and sipped his water slowly, face pale and faraway, as if he were all alone.
Dudley hated him. And watched him, sometimes, Harry hanging out clothes in the backyard--only Harry took off his shirt if it got too hot, and Dudley watched that too. Sometimes he thought Harry turned around and caught him watching, and then Dudley quickly shoved the curtains closed and sat in front of his desk, pulse racing, and went back to his computer game.
'Fuck this,' Piers said, kicking gravel aside from the road.
Dudley snapped to attention. 'What?'
'I said, fuck this.' Piers scowled. 'We haven't done anything since you got back, Dud. We don't even go after--'
'Are you saying you want to fight me, Polkiss?' It was easy to put the menace in his voice, to hunch his shoulders up and glower at Piers until Piers paled again. Dudley was the boxing champion, after all.
'N-no, of course not.'
Huh. See if anyone challenged his leadership. His Smeltings cane was slick with sweat under his palm, and he swung it back and forth, back and forth, like a gentleman.
'Say,' Piers said, 'there's a party tonight at Gordon's. Are you--'
'Yeah,' Dudley said. And he did go that night too, and he watched Piers' girlfriend--Jan--suck Piers off, and Dudley wondered why he couldn't be bothered looking for a girlfriend. Too much trouble at your age, women, said his father's voice in his head. But watching a drunk Piers get sucked off made him hard anyhow. Dudley finally left long before the party ended, and when he got home Mum called him a good boy for not coming back late, for not worrying her.
But Dudley only climbed the stairs to his room and unbuttoned his jeans, tugging them off before getting into bed. Then he curled his hand around his cock and jerked himself off, imagining what Jan's mouth would feel like--but suddenly he saw soft, dark curls at the nape of a pale neck and he was coming, coming, wet and hot and dirty and striping the sheets.
* * *
When Dudley was sixteen years old, he had a very strange dream. It happened after he met a woman on a school day, the last day before his holidays.
He was walking home with Piers and Malcolm, laughing, when Dudley nearly walked into someone. Someone tall and dark and soft.
He backed away quickly--but then he heard Piers whistle and saw that it was a woman he'd walked into, a lovely woman, with long black hair and deep, sleepy eyes. Her mouth was very red, and Dudley found himself staring at it, and then at the woman's eyes, and found that he couldn't look away. He felt that he should--he felt that there was something strange about this woman, something dangerous, that made his pulse thready with fear.
The woman didn't say anything, for a long, long time--and then she finally stepped away, smiling, and said: 'I know what you want.'
He only laughed about it later, and Piers made rude jokes, saying that Big D was a hit with the birds now--and Dudley joked with him, even though he felt oddly shaken, even though the woman had seemed slightly mad, her dark eyes fixed upon his unblinkingly. Like a cat's.
When he got home he could hear Harry unpacking in his room, because Harry was here for the holidays, but Dudley didn't bother saying hello to him. Bad enough the freak was back. Bad enough he had to tolerate him as much as he did.
Instead Dudley climbed up the stairs to his room, feeling oddly dizzy, oddly confused, and sat down heavily on the edge of his bed.
Why was he so tired? Maybe he needed to sleep--just for a little while, just a little while--until Mum called him down for supper.
He wasn't sure how long he slept, but the knocking at his door woke him up.
'Wake up, angel!' came his mother's voice from outside the door. 'Supper's ready! Make sure to bring Harry down with you!'
Dudley frowned. Why the fuck couldn't she call Harry herself? And shouldn't Harry already be downstairs, as he always was, setting the table?
He heaved himself off the bed, feeling it creak under his weight, and padded out of his room. The light seemed a little too bright in the hallway, brighter than he was used to. Dudley walked to Harry's room and rapped on it with his knuckles, twice, but Harry didn't open.
'Open up, freak!' he called--and then to his surprise the door did open, although there was no one on the other side to open it.
Magic, Dudley thought, but somehow it didn't worry him as much as it should have done. Harry was only sitting at the edge of his own bed, smiling.
He was also, Dudley noticed belatedly, wearing nothing but a T-shirt. The same old T-shirt, red turned to rusty brown--but somehow it fit Harry even now, and that didn't make any sense, but Dudley couldn't be bothered figuring it out. Because Harry was naked, under that T-shirt, no jeans and no underwear, and his T-shirt was tented as though his dick was hard.
Dudley found himself stumbling back hurriedly, but the door was closed at his back--when had he closed the door? He hadn't closed the door. He hadn't.
'Let me out,' Dudley said, but somehow his voice sounded too calm, like he was just saying what he was expected to.
Harry's smile widened. 'Why?' He lifted the hem of his T-shirt until Dudley could see... it, oh God, Harry's cock, short and heavy and thick and so hard it looked like it might break. It looked flushed, wet-tipped, angry. 'I know what you want.' Harry brought one hand to his cock and started stroking, and Dudley could see pre-come shining at the tip. 'I know what you want, Dudley.'
You're crazy, Dudley wanted to say, stop it, let me out, let me-- But then Harry's green eyes closed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he jerked himself off, twisting at the end, starting to raise his hips a little into his own hand. He didn't moan once, didn't make a single sound--but he was panting loudly, doing this just as if Dudley wasn't in the room, wasn't watching him, wasn't hard as well.
'Yes,' said Dudley, although he'd meant to say No--and the moment he said that Harry's eyes snapped open, only they weren't green anymore.
Red. They were red.
The sight sent an echoing shock through Dudley's veins, a snap freezing of his blood--but he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as though his feet weren't his own.
'I know what you want,' Harry hissed, stroking himself faster and faster. 'Won't you do what I tell you to? Aren't you a good boy? Aren't you my little angel?' Those red eyes glittered, as vicious as Harry's had been across the breakfast table all those years ago--and Harry's mouth said, smiling: 'Let me in, Dudley. Let me in.'
No, Dudley wanted to say, no--but then he gasped and felt his knees give way, and then he was waking up in his own bed again, his hand wrapped around his own cock, his come staining the sheets.
Yes, Dudley's mind kept saying, yes.
'Duddykins?' His mother's voice, his mother's hand knocking at the door. 'Supper's ready, come on downstairs!'
But Dudley only lay there, sweating, not daring to go outside. He heard the clock on his bedside table ticking away.
Eventually he got up, cleaned himself off, and pulled up his jeans--and he opened the door carefully, but the hallway wasn't too bright, and his feet did exactly what he wanted them to, and when he went downstairs for supper Harry was laying the plates, as usual, his face pale and sullen--and Dad was folding a newspaper, and Mum was tying on her apron again, the one with the frills, that made her look like a thin, red-feathered bird.
* * *
When Dudley was seventeen years old, he had a very strange dream. He was standing in the drawing room, near the mantelpiece, and looking at the photographs Dad had taken last summer. The light from the yellow bulbs shone on the glass frames so that Dudley could barely make out his own face next to his smiling Mum's, but somehow he kept looking anyway. The heavy glass statue Mum had bought last year, carved in the shape of a dog, gleamed at one end of the mantel. The TV was on behind him, some woman talking about cake mixers.
Just then he heard footsteps, and he turned around. Harry was standing there. His face looked very white, and his hands were shaking.
He walked forward unsteadily--almost stumbled--and his eyes were wide and dark when they met Dudley's--as wide and dark as they'd been all those years ago, when Dudley was only eight.
'Dudley... did you see... burnt... in the kitchen...'
He was going to ask Harry what that meant, but then Harry's eyes landed on Dudley's hands, and his eyes widened.
'Oh my God,' Harry said shakily, and took one step backwards. 'No.'
Dudley looked down at his hands. They looked raw, lobster-red, and they felt very, very wet. 'What's wrong?' Dudley asked.
Harry's legs looked like they were going to buckle; he looked sick.
'You can barely stand,' Dudley said, and his voice was warm, as warm as the dark-haired lady's had been.
'Wh-what did you do... to Aunt Petunia and Uncle... Vernon...'
Dudley thought about how smooth and soft Harry would be with that white shirt off, so he stepped forward with his hands stretched out.
'Stay away from me!' Harry was scrabbling in his back pocket, looking for that stick of wood, and suddenly Dudley was terrified of it, of what Harry might do with it, the freak, the fucking freak, so he grabbed the heavy glass statue from the mantelpiece and he lunged forward, thinking that he'd only keep Harry quiet for a while, only for a little while, and brought the statue down on Harry's head.
There was a dull sound as the statue struck Harry's skull, a blunt, cracking sound, and Harry swayed for an instant, eyes wide with shock, so Dudley had to swing again.
Harry dropped like a stone. There was another dull sound as he hit the carpet and lay there, arms flung out and legs as gangly as always, looking like a young colt once more.
There was blood on the glass statue. Dudley put it quietly back on the mantelpiece, and realised that his hands were shaking.
It didn't matter. It didn't matter. The carpet was cool, stiff fur under his bare feet. He was in the drawing room, at night, and the TV was on. That was how he knew it was a dream. Dad never let him watch TV at night, because Dad had his own videos to see.
He'd just go and sit on a sofa, over there, and wait until he woke up.