Title: So Wrong

Author: Anne Phoenix

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Harry/Dudley

Summary: “I imagine the water running down his scrawny frame, drawing skin-coloured lines into the suds. Hearing and imagining is suddenly no longer enough. I tiptoe to the bathroom and bend over to peek through the keyhole.”


Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Beta: Professor Mary/Waxbean

 ***

So Wrong


We’ve got him this time and he knows it. His eyes widen as I crack my knuckles right in front of his face. I swear my fist is bigger than his face! Last week, the skinny little runt gave us the slip by dodging between the broken planks of an old fence. He should have taken his beating like a man instead of running. He must have known we’d catch up with him sooner or later. Guess it was sooner.

I glance left and right to Piers and Gordon, who are standing guard at either side of the alley. They both give me the thumbs up signals: no adults in sight. It’s not that we’re scared or anything, but tongue waggling is rife in this neighbourhood and it’s probably better if my mum doesn’t find out about my little gang. Turning back to the runt, I let swing a right hook that makes him squeal like a piglet. He looks like he’s thinking of dodging under my arm and making a runner, so I quickly jab him in the abdomen. I’m not a boxing champ for nothing: the runt goes down, clutching his belly and wailing. God, could he be any louder?

I’m about to punch him again – just to make him shut up – but Gordon suddenly calls out from my right. My arm quickly falls to my side and I do my best to look innocent, stepping in front of the runt to at least partially hide him from the eyes of any nosy grown-up passing our alleyway. But there is no grown-up. Gordon dodges out of sight for an instant before reappearing, dragging my cousin behind him.

Shit.

Although Harry looks pretty pissed off, he doesn’t put up much resistance and allows himself to be pulled towards me. He and I both know that he’ll leave whenever he feels like it. We both know he can make me look stupid in front of my mates.

Harry stops short when he catches sight of Evans cowering against the wall behind me. He yanks his arm out of Gordon’s grip and struts towards me with a slight scowl.

“What’s this, Diddykins?”

Evans gasps at Harry’s cheek and looks frantically between Gordon and Piers, who are approaching Harry from either side. But, of course, Harry takes no notice; on the contrary, his face twists into a challenging sneer. Please don’t be difficult, Harry! Every single week this summer, I’ve been making up new excuses to make my gang leave Harry alone. I already know today’s encounter will make me look stupid. There are no better targets here to distract my mates… Harry’s trapped. And I’m trapped.

“Evans ratted on us. Said we smashed the park swings.”

“I never!” the runt immediately squeaks. And he’s not even lying; I just said that to try and justify the fact that I’m beating up a kid less than half my size. Something in Harry’s condescending scowl makes me suddenly feel as though I actually need a reason.

Harry smirks knowingly. Our eyes meet and I blush, looking away. Why did he have to come this way tonight?

Gordon’s obviously had enough of the pleasant chitchat, because he unexpectedly grabs the old, oversized t-shirt Harry’s wearing, using it to swing Harry around and slam him into the wall next to Evans. Harry grunts at the impact. Both he and Evans are dwarfed by Gordon’s shadow, but whereas Evans starts sniffling like a girl, Harry doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated.

He ignores the fact that Gordon’s hand is still clenched threateningly in his t-shirt, turning to the runt instead, and asking him if he’s okay.

Evans nods his red face. It’s a lie. He’s terrified and hurt. But he’s also terrified of Harry, who is, after all, the publicly acknowledged neighbourhood delinquent. The kids don’t mess with Harry; they avoid him with even more diligence that they avoid my gang. Harry smiles sympathetically at Evans, but then his expression hardens as he turns back to me.

“Mark and I are leaving now.”

Evans shrinks back at the sound of his name and whimpers a little when Gordon scoffs nastily. But, again, Harry completely ignores Gordon; he’s entirely focused on me and I feel a thrill of fear at the unspoken threat. I haven’t forgotten the last time Harry got angry with me and made everything go so cold and horrible. 

Harry grabs the runt by the upper arm and starts stepping past me, pulling along the runt, who’s looking like he’d rather stay here and get beaten up by my gang than go with Harry.

Piers stays put. He knows I’m afraid of Harry for some reason, although he’ll never understand why. Piers is my best friend, so he respects my orders to leave Harry alone. He’s long ago given up on questioning me about what Harry did to get him sent to St Brutus’ – he knows it is a taboo topic in my family and therefore must be pretty bad. The only other guy from Little Whinging that ever went to St Brutus’ got arrested and sent to prison the moment he turned eighteen for spiking girls’ drinks with a date rape drug. As far as Piers, or anyone else knows, Harry might have even killed someone.

Gordon, on the other hand, is less understanding. Furthermore, he’s been desperate for a shot at Harry for a while now; he doesn’t believe my diminutive cousin deserves the respect of the other kids. Gordon moves to block Harry’s escape. Without missing a beat, Harry growls – like a fucking dog! He lets go of the runt and his hand creeps towards his back pocket, where I know he keeps his thing.

“Let him go, Gordon,” I order sharply. “We’ll catch Evans again, later…”

I trail off, hating the mutiny in Gordon’s eye. A small part of me wants Gordon to pick a fight with Harry, just so that I can step back and watch them. I have a feeling Harry will let himself be pushed around a bit and then fight back, even if it gets him in trouble with the freak people. They’ll send owls and then appear out of nowhere in their fancy-dress costumes. And then they’ll do their memory loss thing on everyone. Except for me. Because I’m allowed to know… even though sometimes I wish I wasn’t.

I don’t get to find out how many punches Harry can take before using freaky stuff because Gordon does listen to me after a few moments of hesitation; Harry wastes no time to brush rudely past us. Once clear, he turns to the runt.

“Well, do you want to stay here?”

Evans snivels unhappily. He definitely looks like he’d rather stay, but he doesn’t dare to be seen ungrateful or anything, so he follows Harry, taking great care not to come in contact with Gordon or me as he passes.

I watch them turn round the corner of the alley and disappear, and then inform my friends that I’ve had enough and am going home. Every time I’m near Harry, I end up feeling completely drained. Must be the tension or something. Also, it won’t take long for Gordon to challenge my leadership, and that’s not an issue I want to deal with today. He’s a tougher opponent then my usual targets.


***

I decide to mope around in my room for the remainder of the afternoon. Mum and dad have gone out, and I’m glad for the silence their absence brings. Harry came home shortly after me; he probably walked Evans home, or something equally pathetic. I can hear him in the room next mine – he must be writing letters to the freaks, because I can hear the faint scratching of that infernal quill. Harry never uses a normal pen. Oh no, he has to have a ridiculously huge feather that he dips periodically into an inkpot. I know, because I’ve watched him through the keyhole often enough. It looks very old-fashioned and unpractical to me.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the scratching finally stops, but my aggravation quickly returns when I realise Harry’s heading to the bathroom, which is across the hall by my parents’ room. It annoys me when he showers, because it’s very distracting. The hot water pipe in the wall flares up noisily and I hear the water spray from the shower. It’s also distracting because it makes bad images dance around in my mind: Harry, naked, under the shower, rubbing himself all over and-

My gut twists a little as I think of him stroking himself. That’s so wrong…

I turn off the telly so that I can hear him wash himself more clearly. I imagine the water running down his scrawny frame, drawing skin-coloured lines into the suds. Hearing and imagining is suddenly no longer enough. I tiptoe to the bathroom and bend over to peek through the keyhole.

Just them, the water stops and there is a bright movement just behind the door. I’m angry at having waited too long before coming out here, thereby missing the best bit of the show. I also suddenly feel a bit queasy – what if Harry ever catches me out here? But as soon as that worry enters my mind, it drifts away again. On impulse, I turn the knob and step into the hot and steamy room.

Harry doesn’t notice me immediately. He’s wiped a little window into the condensation on the mirror and is critically examining a yellowing bruise on the arc of his cheek. His body is bruised all over, I notice, but don’t dwell on the issue, because Harry suddenly turns to stare at me. My mouth feels very dry – I know I shouldn’t have come in; I should have stayed outside and watched, like I usually do.

I’m way too interested in the way the towels rides on Harry’s skinny hips. This can’t be right.

But it is right, a little voice insists in my head.

Gulping, I look up and catch Harry’s gaze. I think it might be the first time I’ve ever seen him without his glasses; his eyes look unnaturally green… enticing. His glasses are lying on top of the clean towels, right beside his-

We both jump for it at the same time, but I’m nearer and I’m not barefooted on slippery tiles. Within seconds, I’m holding his thing, whereas he’s steadying himself by holding onto the washbasin.

I don’t think I’ve ever touched it before. It’s sleek and polished… very normal. It’s also wet and a little soapy, as though Harry forgot to put it down before stepping under the shower. I point it at Harry, glancing at my reflection in the mirror behind his back. I’m big and strong. Without his wand, Harry is nothing.

“Could I kill you with this?”

He shakes his head, water spraying off his shaggy hair like off a dog. Then he lets go of the washbasin and readjusts the towel around his waist. He takes a small step forward.

“Could I make you do whatever I wanted?”

He shudders a little, and maybe I’m imaging it, but I think there’s a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. I must have imagined it, because he’s looking nervous again, now.

“Come on, Dudley. Leave me alone.”

I sneer and place my hands at either extremity of his wand, bending the wood slightly. It seems very flexible, and I don’t apply much pressure, but the flicker of fear in Harry’s eye is very real.

“Don’t!” he pleads, taking another tentative step forward.

He is nothing, helpless... I bend the wand a little more, just to see the expression on his face. I would never dare to really break it – the mere thought of snapping that wood is inconceivable – but Harry doesn’t need to know that. He probably thinks I’m stupid enough to do it. But I have a feeling that what Harry did to Aunt Marge was just the tip of the iceberg of his abilities. I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing really could kill people and make them do whatever the bearer wanted.

Such power…

I smirk at Harry. The steam is clearing and he’s starting to look bedraggled and cold rather than freshly washed. Something about that vulnerable stray look sends shivers up my spine.

“What’s it worth to you?”

I hold my breath as I watch him considering his options. Finally, he sighs despondently. “You know I haven’t got anything to give you.”

I can hear the anxiety creeping into his voice. I know he’ll beg if I want him to. If I make him. My smirk never falters when I whisper, “You could offer me yourself?”

The expression on his face is priceless! He looks a little fearful, but mostly bewildered – comically so!

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. Get on your knees.”

I can’t believe I said that!

For a split-second, I’m sure he’ll call my bluff, but he hesitates only an instant before falling to his knees. They make a frightful cracking sound when they hit the tiles, but Harry doesn’t even seem to notice.

I did not anticipate the degree of my body’s reaction to Harry’s compliance, although, I suppose I should have expected it, considering the number of times I’ve fantasised about this exact kind of thing! I’m painfully aroused, my dick pressing against my jeans, straining to escape.

He stares up at me, looking utterly innocent. Has he always been this pretty? He’s certainly not handsome, like a man should be, like I am; but his fine bone structure, pale skin and helplessness make him very striking in an effeminate sort of way.

“You’re not much to look at, are you?” I mock.

The whole idea of this is to humiliate him, not me, and I don’t want him knowing my thoughts… although I have a vague feeling that he might be able to read my mind, or something.

Harry cringes a little – deliciously – and looks up at me beseechingly. “Can I have my wand back, now?”

“Only if you lick my boots!”

His eyes leave mine and his gaze wanders down my body. I hope he doesn’t notice my hard-on! His eyes don’t linger, though, so I guess my secret is safe for now – thank God!

Harry stares at my Doc Martin’s with disgust. I don’t blame him. The last time I let mum clean them must have been right at the start of the summer, so they’re pretty filthy. He looks back up at me with a guarded expression.

“You can’t be serious?”

“Well… do you want your thing back?”

He doesn’t answer; merely dips his head down and gives the leather a first, uncertain lick. Impossibly, even more blood rushes to my dick – I swear, the buttons on my jeans are going to pop any moment now.

“This is really gross, Dudley,” he mutters.

I make sure that he can see my hand tighten around his wand, just to make sure he doesn’t try to cheek me… and then he’s doing it! Harry Potter is licking my boots. A rush of power flows through my veins and I rock my hips a little. I am going to have the best wank ever after this!

And just as I’m thinking of stepping away and running to my room to complete the fantasy, Harry looks up at his again. He’s slightly flushed – hopefully with embarrassment – and his lips are a little grubby from the dirt he’s been licking… I want them around my-

I berate myself for even considering the idea… but then it abruptly seems to make more and more sense in my mind, as though someone else is in control of my brain – probably my dick – and making everything seem all right.

“Harry,” I mutter huskily, “I’ve got something else for you to lick.”

Oh my God. I said it. But instead of flipping his top, Harry sits back on his heels with an almost expectant expression on his face. In a daze, I button my jeans, fingers fumbling in my haste. I can’t pull them, and my boxers, down fast enough and almost trip over. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this excited before! Finally my erection is liberated from its former confinement. It bobs eagerly up against my belly. The head is really wet. I bet there’s a great big smudge on the inside of my boxers.

“Suck me, you whore,” I order. I’m not sure where those words came from, but they feel so right.

Harry shudders, but rises back up on his knees and leans forward to take me into his mouth. I’m shocked at how familiar the sensation is, hot and wet and a little gritty from the dirt in his mouth, but I’m sure I’d remember if I’d ever felt anything so heavenly before.

I regain my breath sufficiently to focus on Harry. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are even more flushed, camouflaging the bruise he was examining earlier on. His hands are placed on his thighs, fingers splayed wide on the towel. He looks submissive and focused and delicious. Could anything ever be more erotic than this? Even as I study my cousin, I realise I need more, I want to go deeper.

Clenching his wand in my right hand – the stronger one that could snap it in a heartbeat – I bring my left hand around the back of his hand, twisting my fingers around a handful of damp hair. And then I hold his head steady as I thrust into his mouth with slow controlled movements. His lips are cherry-red around my dick; his eyes remain closed. If he objects to deep-throating me, he does not attempt to complain.

“Fucking little slut,” I moan between gasps of pleasure, and in return, Harry gives me a particularly strong suck. The pressure is almost unbearable, bordering that fine line between pain and pleasure. My hips buck automatically towards him and he captures my dick greedily, his tongue doing God knows what that makes me whimper with need. It takes all of my self-restraint not to spray my seed into his mouth… even though I’d love to see his delicate throat work to swallow my come without gagging. But I know I mustn’t come in his mouth. That’s very wrong.

Reluctantly, I drag him away by the hair. He sinks back down onto his heels, his parted lips glistening with saliva. The smell of sex is almost overwhelming; I can’t think straight. I’m in a frenzy. To save myself from the temptation of yanking Harry up and forcing my dick back through his lips, I bring my knee up into his jaw, sending him and his sinful mouth sprawling backwards… away from me.

Harry yelps out reflexively, but his eyes are glowing and- Fuck, is the towel tented around his groin? Fuck, yeah… It doesn’t leave much to the imagination… I know I’m staring, but it’s hard not to.

“Is that all you want?” Harry suddenly whispers. “Or would you like to fuck me?”

The images swarm into my mind unbidden. I can’t help but imagine how his arse would feel, tight around my dick. It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. Dad would be so disappointed in me…. But even as I’m making the decision to get out whilst the going is good, my head start nodding as though of its own accord. More precome gathers on my dick in expectation. It’s all I can do to not throw myself at my cousin.

Harry rises slowly, glancing at his wand only briefly before making his way to the shower cubicle. He steps into it and, with a knowing smirk, he makes a show of letting the towel drop from his waist to the floor of the cubicle. Then he turns to face the wall, bracing his hands against it as he spreads his legs.

Oh fuck.

I could probably come from the sight alone. I struggle to pull my jeans and pants over my Doc Martin’s. How ridiculous I must look, standing there in nothing but a t-shirt and my boots. I really don’t care. It takes me only several seconds to join Harry in the shower, grabbing my mum’s Vaseline pot from the side of the washbasin on my way in. It was a reflexive action – I didn’t even know that I needed it! But apparently I do; my fingers slop the sticky substance onto my dick of their own accord and before I know it, I’m positioned behind Harry, my dick straining towards his proffered hole with a mind of its own.

Harry waggles slightly, invitingly. I can’t wait a second more and with a single thrust, I press into his tight entrance, pushing past the slight resistance of his muscles and burying myself to the hilt. It hurts a little, but in a good way, so I stand still, letting the heat wash over me.

Harry whimpers. “Make me beg…”

Something clenches in my gut, shooting sparks of desire up my spine. Fuck, Harry’s hot! How could I not have noticed it before?

I slide my bulky arms around his skinny waist, pulling him back flush against me. The pressure is overwhelming, but I don’t move until he repeats his plea. With a ragged sigh, I pull my hips back just a little and then thrust forcefully forward, knocking Harry into the tiled wall and pinning him there. I know he’ll be bruised all over, knees, hips, torso, face… but he doesn’t seem to care. Hell, he’s always bruised all over, so he probably doesn’t even notice. It’s really fucking sexy, anyway.

Harry groans and I repeat the movement, pulling us both back and then slamming us forwards again. His head rolls back onto my shoulder. I should be disgusted at the familiarity of the act, but I’m not. I sink my teeth into the tender side of his offered neck and relish the feeling of him squirming against me. I’d never have guessed him to be such a wanton slut, but judging from the faint criss-cross of bite scars on his neck and shoulders, he likes it as rough as I do.

I start pounding him in earnest, clamping my teeth into his skin in rhythm with my thrusts. He pushes back against me, driving my dick deeper inside him and I hold him there, clawed fingers digging into his torso, between his protruding ribs. I can feel the blood dribbling down my chin and open my teeth only to bite down in a new location, forcing him to arch his back a little to give me better access to his throat. His responding moan makes me lose whatever was left of my self-discipline.

I am unable to control the rutting of my hips and I fuck him brutally into the wall. I let go of my hold on his neck and his hands reach out to claw at the tiles above his head. He’s moaning     and stretching out like a cat, pinned between the wall and my larger body.

It’s too much! I can feel hot fire spreading from my groin through my whole body and my balls are tightening painfully. My finger clutch at Harry as I come with a wail, pumping into him as though my life depends on it. Harry must be coming too, because he’s suddenly stiff and screaming and coming and-

He goes limp and falls breathlessly back against me; his arse is hot and wet, but it no longer feels as tight, so I pull my dick out of his hole, observing the semen dribbling out of that intimate area with disbelief. I just fucked my cousin up the arse! Oh my God, please don’t let Piers ever find out about this!

But the worry is gone almost as quickly as it arose.

Harry twists around in front of me and for a split-second I’m terrified that he wants to kiss me; but he sinks to his knees once more, letting a single hand trail over the fleshy muscle of my hip. Then he laps at my limp dick again to clean me.

“Fuck, you really love this, don’t you?” I whimper.

He doesn’t answer. He caresses my oversensitive balls, making me shudder and shut up. Once I’m clean, Harry uses the towel on himself before fastening it back around his tiny waist. He leaves the shower. Only one instant later I’m faced with the tip of his wand. I must have dropped it onto my jeans when I undressed.

Terror floods through me, almost, but not quite, annihilating the afterglow of my pleasure. I suddenly don’t even remember quite how I got into this situation! I just wanted to humiliate Harry a bit. What if I misunderstood?

“Harry, I’m sorry! I thought you wanted…” I stammer; my voice sounds pathetic even to my own ears.

His bruised face twists into a smug smile. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look angry at all. “Oh, I wanted, all right,” he drawls. “Get dressed”.

I hurry to obey, my eyes glued to his wand. My fingers feel numb and I have trouble fastening the buttons of my jeans, but I get there in the end. Harry smirks, then licks his lips. “Next time, you’ll have to tie me to the bed,” he announces, but before I can make sense of his words, he motions me towards the door, twirling his wand expertly.

He hisses a quick succession of words. “Finity Cacatem Oblivate”

They’re magic words and I cringe as two jets of light leave his wand and hit me in the chest. I know I’m going to die now…

Harry is standing in front of the mirror, critically examining a bruise on his jaw. He has so many bruises; it’s really quite… nice to look at. I gasp at the wrongness of my thoughts, drawing Harry’s attention to me.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps.

I hesitate. In truth, I don’t quite remember coming into the bathroom. The last thing I remember is watching him through the keyhole, like I always do. I feel a little woozy and frown.

“Get out, Dudley.”

I leave the bathroom, confused, but quickly shake my head of the feeling. It must be the weather; I’ve been feeling faint and confused a lot, lately. I make my way back to my bedroom, embarrassed and angry with myself. I think of my cousin’s lithe body, strangely dry for a boy who’d just taken a shower, marred by so many bruises and scars, and sigh deeply. I need to sleep this off; I really am tired…

As I enter my room, I look down and frown. Were my boots already this clean when I put them on this morning?

THE END

©Anne Phoenix

25 May 2005