Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Dudley Dursley Harry Potter
Genres:
Angst
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 04/02/2004
Updated: 04/02/2004
Words: 1,319
Chapters: 1
Hits: 552

Remembering Dementors

mariet

Story Summary:
After the Dementor attack in the summer after Voldemort's return, Dudley is reflecting on what happened and the implications for the future. Explores the relationship between Dudley and Harry, from Dudley's point of view.

Posted:
04/02/2004
Hits:
552

Remembering Dementors



by Mariet



Dudley sat on the edge of his bed, eyes unfocused on the floor. He couldn't go to sleep yet though his mother had tenderly tucked him in an hour before. He didn't really want to think about the events of tonight either but they kept unspooling in his mind, replaying over and over. He shook himself. Maybe if he had something to eat- no, some of the Scotch in the living room was much more likely to make him feel better. His parents had gone to bed ages ago. They'd never hear him and as for his cousin- well, he'd just love Harry to interfere.

Dudley trod quietly across the room and opened his door. He listened careful for a moment- nothing was stirring. He walked across the landing and eased down the stairs, avoiding the damp patches in the hall where sick had been wiped up a few hours earlier. He picked up the decanter- but no, better not. If he took half- he could make it up with water, Dad wouldn't notice- or if he did, he could probably be made to believe Harry had drunk it. Dudley's hands curled into fists. He carried the decanter into the kitchen, poured half into a large glass and filled the decanter at the tap; replaced it and silently trod up the stairs to his room. He set the glass down on his bedside table, sat down and resumed his study of the floor. He picked up the glass, took a large gulp and gasped as the liquor burned his throat. Hurriedly putting the glass down, he took some deep breaths and blinked rapidly. The back of his head was feeling awfully funny and he remembered hazily that he had not eaten dinner- nothing since lunch, in fact. He took a smaller sip. Warmth spread along his limbs, making his fingers tingle. He swayed, sitting on the bed. This was better.

As his will weakened, the events of the night rose up in his mind- he remembered with some satisfaction the young kid backing away from him, being caught by Piers- held with hands hard behind his back- the fear in his eyes; he, Dudley, had not even had to touch him, the kid had dissolved into tears and begged to be let go. They had let him go, too, tonight. Unpredictability was always more intimidatory than simple violence. He grunted a stifled laugh. But then the pictures continued: Harry needling him, teasing him- Harry, whom he was unable to punish like he deserved, who had that unfair advantage- Dudley's hands were curled into fists again. He knew about Harry's abnormality; knew it and hated it. He had always hated Harry. Before, it had been enough that he was there, in Dudley's house, taking attention- meagre attention but some- from Dudley. Now it was more, worse, more deadly.

He took another sip and another. Harry. Mum and Dad said it was a disgusting abnormality and of course it was but it was so unfair- why should Harry be able to do magic? To have a wand- to be able to cast spells- to ride a broomstick- Dudley had broken into the cupboard under the stairs several summers before; he knew what Harry possessed. He'd even read parts of some of the textbooks. Harry was learning to change- stuff- into other stuff, to do charms- to make things fly and disappear; Dudley had no doubt that at some point Harry would learn to make gold if he wanted to, he would never have to work; he would be rich. He would be able to make people like him- curse people he disliked- have girls hanging off him- it was so bloody unfair- The injustice burned in his mind.

As he took another sip, the memory of the Dementor attack returned. Dementors. Dudley shuddered. That was worse than unfair. In Dudley’s view, placing his cousin at risk of such an attack was worse than anything else Harry had ever done. In all his life, Dudley had never known anything so dreadful. He had felt his life was at an end, remembered every horrible thing in his career, recalled the mortification of seeing and hearing nurses and surgeon snigger at his tail; the early times at Smeltings when he'd not had the power or status to face down the older bully boys; his private misery when he had overheard comments about his size and unimpressive academic achievements. His parents could try to soothe and explain away his results but Dudley knew the truth. Even there, Harry beat him.

Dudley knew Harry had never seen his own school reports. As his guardians, the reports were addressed to Mr and Mrs Dursley. His parents threw them out before Harry knew they had come- he might not even be aware that they were sent, Dudley did not know. But Dudley had retrieved them from the dustbin and looked through them. Harry achieved far better marks for his weirdo subjects than Dudley managed in his own- he shook his head, he did not want to think about school at all.

No matter how many times he, Dudley had tried to get the upper hand, tried to squash his cousin down, somehow Harry always managed to wriggle out of it.

He sipped again and his mind returned to the alley. He writhed to remember that, when the aching cold and ghastly memories had receded, he had stayed lying curled up on the ground. That mad old woman had kicked at him to get up but, sick and faint, he had been incapable. Harry had helped him up and supported him home. His face burned as he remembered vomiting in front of his parents and cousin. Even though Harry looked like being in all kinds of trouble with those in charge of his weird, deviant lot, Dudley was still covered with shame at the thought that he had witnessed Dudley’s reaction to magic. It was unbearable that Harry should have seen him like that. Dudley felt sick again with the knowledge of his inability to hurt Harry when Harry had ruined his life, simply by being there and moving year by year towards autonomy and privilege.

Now he realized, with ferocious anger, Harry's autonomy came at the cost of his own safety. His, his mother's and his father's. Whatever mess and rubbish his- his aunt, and the low-life she‘d married had been involved in- it had cost the life of herself and her husband, orphaned her son and put at risk her sister and her sister's family. No facile ability to create gold or popularity was worth it, Dudley decided. His father was right. Magic was a delusion and a snare, an abnormality that lured decent people into a revolting, base and sordid way of life where nothing could be depended upon, everything was twisted and- and wrong.

It was more horrifying than anything else that had happened to have heard his mother giving legitimacy- credence- to those creatures and to have seen her in some kind of- wordless appreciation of the rubbish Harry had been saying. As he finished off the glass and fell back onto the bed there flashed briefly into his mind the shocking memory of his mother receiving an owl post- a personal communication from one of them. It must have been a threat, he realized hazily. His mother would never voluntarily have contact with them; no doubt she had to go along with their demands and keep her nephew here, or there would be some kind of revenge on her or her family. On him, Dudley. Through increasing dizziness, he knew his security demanded the eviction of his cousin from his house and his life. As he turned over and darkness blanketed his mind, he grimly vowed that somehow, somehow he would get rid of him, somehow Harry would pay.