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Notes: Dudley discovers himself. Written for the 'Fantasia' challenge on Pornish Pixies.

Freaks
by

He wanders into that dusty room sometimes, when Dad's out and Mum's gone shopping. His footsteps are heavy on the steps, louder than the sounds of the TV from the drawing room, louder even than his panting breaths. He hates how tired he becomes, how quickly sweat breaks out on his face. He hates that Harry can scamper up these stairs like a skinny goat, away from Piers or Dad--he hates that he's bigger, stronger, but Harry can level him with a single, angry green glance--that Harry only needs to touch that stupid wooden stick of his, lightly, for Dudley to feel a shiver of fear run down his spine.

He hates it that Harry has his old room--the room he enters now. Hates it that Harry gets to play with his old toy soldiers. (Although he's never seen Harry playing with them; he probably thinks he's too old for it, the bastard.) Hates it that Harry's fit, and slim, and that the girls at the local dairy giggle when he walks past.

It's good that the freak's gone for so much time during the year, because Dudley would have to pound him to pieces if he showed his face too often.

Dudley hates it that Harry's done nothing to deserve these special powers, his broom that supposedly flies--hates it that he's stuck playing computer games when the freak's off doing his freaky things, obviously having a lot more fun than Dudley ever will. Hates it that Harry can come back and look sad about it, as though he's got the burden of the world on his shoulders, as though he's got the right to be miserable when he's got so much--a white owl, a flying broomstick, a magic wand.

Dudley wanders into that dusty room sometimes. His old room. Harry's now. He stares at the bare walls, at the little bedside table with its broken leg, always unsteady if you touch it. He stares at the shape of Harry still left in the bed's untidy sheets--at the dusty floor, which Mum refuses to clean, because she says it's got magic on it and Harry'll have to clean it for himself when he comes back.

Clean. He hates Harry for that too. He'd never wanted to come to his old room, you know, he hadn't, he hadn't been the least interested in what the little four-eyed freak got up to in here.

Until.

Until that day.

He remembers it clearly--trudging to the bathroom, eager to pee and cock nearly half-hard with it--banging the door open only to--only to see--

--Harry. Caught like a deer in the headlights, whipping around, wide-eyed, naked, miles and miles of soft tan skin under droplets of glittering water.

And Dudley had found himself blushing--face burning as though slapped, T-shirt wet with the droplets Harry had shaken free when he turned.

Dudley hates it that he didn't push Harry out--nude and shivering--as he should have done. He hates that he's the one who fled, to his own room with its curtains closed, achingly hard and terrified and two strokes away from coming.

And then, later at dinner, Harry had acted like nothing had happened--and Dudley couldn't look at him, even though he knew it shouldn't bother him at all. Seeing Harry naked.

He's seen other blokes naked, hasn't he?

But that changes too. After seeing Harry everything changes. Dudley finds himself sneaking glances--finds himself getting hard when he walks into the dirty school toilet and overhears another boy wanking off. Finds himself thinking of strong feet planted apart, a slender cock rising hard and smooth, taste of pre-come bitter and salt and yes.

He hates Harry for this. Maybe being a freak is contagious. He should have known. Harry's always been a freak, waking up moaning that boy's name--Cedric Cedric Cedric--and Dudley knows now what makes his heart twist angrily when he hears that, and he hates that Harry's turning him into a freak too.

Dudley wanders into that dusty room sometimes, when no one else is around. Even the day before Harry's due back home--knowing that he shouldn't, but not being able to stop himself. He walks in, pulse racing, feet quiet--and sees Harry's bed, rumpled and smelling faintly of dust and sweat--and he settles down upon it, face in Harry's pillow, scent of shampoo and tears--groin pressing into the bed, imagining naked thighs there. The bed creaks dangerously under his weight, but Dudley ignores it, because it was his bed for years, after all, and it's not like it's going to break. He grows hard as he remembers--Harry getting out of the shower, sleek and wet as a fish, cock tender and soft in its nest of dark curls, face flushed with steam and embarrassment. Dudley starts moving--slowly at first, rocking the bed so that it creaks in time with his thrusts. He imagines it, Harry's cock getting harder as his slender hands run over it--he imagines Harry masturbating, making sounds like that boy at school had done--he imagines that soft pink cock hardening and darkening, turning from that quiet, sleeping creature to a vicious, angry one--getting wetter and slicker with each stroke, gathering pre-come as Harry throws his head back, moaning, voice hoarse and newly broken, but still young and yes and the tile hurts, doesn't it, bright white pain when Harry cracks his head against it--and his hands are moving faster faster a blur of movement pulling at it as if pulling it off, hard and fast and yes and Harry's moaning yes yes yes please yes and the bathroom echoes with his sounds, rough breaths and grunts and mewling painful noises, until he tenses--back arching, buttocks tightening, thighs pulling taut as he comes, a pure white flow arcing and smooth, cock pulsing, sperm hitting the shower wall with a muted slap. A pitiful whine of release rises from Harry's lips and his limbs suddenly weaken; cock limp and sore in his hands as his knees buckle. He slides wetly down to the shower floor, panting as though injured. Mouth open. Eyes closed and hot with tears.

The opening of the front door causes Dudley's eyes to snap open--shit, Mum's home--and he realizes, with a sudden dizzying wrench, that he's the one face-down on Harry's bed, tears leaking out of his eyes, come wetting his jeans. His mouth tastes foul, and he realizes he's bitten into Harry's pillow to keep himself quiet--and he knows he should move, and move quickly--should clean himself up before he gets found out.

He staggers off the bed, knees wobbly, and feels like his entire body's made of gum. His head feels dizzy and light. He stares down at his jeans, at the darkening patch of come there, and feels his own cock still tingling from the rub of the mattress. He can hear his mother walking to the drawing room, drawn by the sounds of the TV, calling: 'Where's my Duddykins?' And Dudley hates it--and opens Harry's door quietly as he hurries out, heading to the loo where he pretends to be busy, calling out: 'I'll be down soon, Mum!' And all the while he's quickly shedding his jeans, wiping them off, wetting the toilet paper to clean between his own sweaty thighs. 'I'll be down...'

Later, during dinner, he can't wait to be up in his room--he can't stop thinking about it, about how hard he came, and how he's a freak now, just like... just like...--but all he wants to do is wank off, all over again, because now it's started and Harry's coming home tomorrow and he can't stop, ever, ever, ever.

But Mum won't let him off until he's had all the dessert--and when Dad's home he wants to talk about the news, and every time Dudley tries to go upstairs Dad snaps: 'Where're you off to now? That blasted computer--' And his Mum's saying 'Oh, let him play when he wants to, he works so hard at school, don't you, Dudders?' And Dudley nods mutely, thinking he'll be home tomorrow, he'll be home, and wonders how long he can hide upstairs without ever coming down again.