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Chapter Text

Chapter One—In the Hut on the Rock

The world of one Mr. Dudley Dursley of number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was about to be turned wholly upside-down. Such an occurrence had only happened to him once before, when—at fourteen months old—his slightly younger cousin had been abandoned on the doorstep of his home. Despite the abrupt nature of Harry’s arrival, however, Dudley was now entirely used to his cousin.

He was not prepared at all for the giant man to smash down the door of the looney hellhole his father had dragged him to without warning or explanation.

They were out on the sea. There was a hut, sort of…smashed against a rock barely higher than a sandbar. Dudley’s father, Vernon, had dragged them all out there for reasons unexplained. Dudley had been left a couch that stank of mold and dust, a blanket that smelled inexplicably of horses, and a terror in his heart that Daddy was, in fact, losing his mind.

There was a part of him—small, after years of seeing Harry neglected by his, Dudley’s, parents—but nonetheless a part of Dudley that considered offering Harry the couch. At the very least, Dudley might have shared the cold floor with Harry. But the truth was, his Mum and Dad treated nothing about Dudley with harshness unless he reached out to his cousin. It was as though Harry had some horrible contagion, he thought, that he himself might catch. Better—safer—to stay on Mum and Dad’s good side. Better to treat Harry with a distancing disdain.

Big thoughts for an eleven-year-old, but Dudley couldn’t sleep. He did have the sense to pretend to snore, so that everyone would leave him alone with his panic.

More than anything, Dudley wanted something to eat. He’d have preferred something sweet to calm his nerves, but even another bag of crisps would have helped. He sniffled slightly; so rarely in his life had he actually been hungry, it frightened him to—

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM!

The loudest knock Dudley had ever heard in his life sounded against the tiny, haphazard shack. With a final crash, the entire door slammed down to the ground, and a giant strode into the little room. Sanity apparently having fled, Daddy came running out a moment later with a long, thin gun in his hands and pointed it at the man.

Daddy’s going to murder him! Dudley thought, thoroughly terrified. He curled into a ball on the end of the couch. Head down, eyes shut, maybe I managed to fall asleep after all and this is just a—

“Put it away, Dursley, I didn’t come for you,” the giant’s voice growled. Dudley peered out; Mum was trembling too, but her face was full of a fiery rage that Dudley had only ever seen aimed at Harry, directed at the giant.

The giant, who reached out and bent the rifle with his hands before throwing it away.

Dudley began whispering curse words to himself, though it didn’t particularly help. Whatever was happening here, he was not enjoying it one bit.

The giant turned and surveyed Dudley and then, it seemed, took in Harry as well. He looked back and forth between the two for a moment.

“Well, i can’t say as you two look much like each other, but you each look a great deal like your dads, I guess. Same eyes, though, except maybe the color. Hard to tell in this dark, innit?

Dudley only gulped, uncertain how to respond.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” He bellowed. “‘Pologies, Dudley—I know ya didn’t get your letter on your birthday. Only, when your parents destroyed the first few, Dumbledore thought it’d be best to wait for Harry’s birthday and round you blokes up together. Not Dumbledore’s fault, of course—I don’t know as we’ve ever had a case like this at Hogwarts.”

Dudley was still staring at the bent rifle. How in the world?

“It is Dudley, innit?” The giant asked, his voice a bit softer. “I remember you, of course, Harry, but your cousin’ ere—“

“STOP TALKING TO MY SON!”

Dudley looked around; he’d never heard Mum’s voice in that tone before. It was almost inhuman, too frightened to be something natural.

“Mum—?” Dudley began, and his mother sent the boy the most severe glance he’d ever seen from those green eyes.

“Get out ,” Mum snarled at the giant. Dad was looking at her with a mix of fear and pride.

“Who are you?” Harry asked eagerly from his corner. Dudley took a breath, nervous to defy Mum.

“What’s going on?” He added.

“Everybody just shu’ up and I’ll explain,” the giant said. Roared might’ve been a more accurate description, but Dudley got the idea that the man was holding himself, and his volume, back.

The giant glared at Dudley’s parents for a long moment. Then he sidled across to the couch where Dudley crouched, still wrapped in his smelly blanket.

“Budge up, there,” the giant said, not unkindly. Dudley rushed to the arm of the sofa, leaving the whole seat to be filled by the giant’s girth. The cushions sagged, squashing together, and Dudley thought he heard a spring inside trill under the sudden pressure.

He wished he had something to eat. His stomach was rumbling, more with fear than genuine hunger, but a snack might take care of both problems.

“You two,” the giant was saying, “are interesting. Usually we don’t see muggleborns and their cousins at Hogwarts, though I’m not sure why.”

“Um—“ Dudley began. “What’s a—“

“A’course, yer aunt, yer mum, Dudley— she nearly made the list for school, so—“ the giant broke off, looking at the Dursley parents. Both were ghost-white; Dad looked outraged. “Er, pretend I didn’t say that. Sorry, I’m not usually the one ta do this orientation, but Professor McGonagall thought yer guardians here might need extra persuading.

“The thing is, you two, you’re not like others your age. Well, not most others, there’s others like you, a’course! That’s what we have Hogwarts for.”

Dudley turned to look at Harry, entirely perplexed. His cousin shrugged, most of his attention fixed on the giant.

“My name’s Hagrid, and I’m ‘ere to get you two ready for Hogwarts—Wizard school.

Chapter Text

Harry seemed to be adjusting to the idea of magic quite readily. Maybe that was fair—Dudley had never gotten the impression that Harry’s life was exactly enjoyable. A change this drastic must seem fun and exciting to a skinny, unhappy boy for his birthday.

To Dudley, everything Hagrid had said had added a new layer of terror.

He’d only just been coming around to the idea of a school where he stayed weeknights; the thought of seeing Mummy and Daddy only on weekends was privately frightening. Hogwarts—a name more absurd even than Smeltings—was a full-on boarding school. No family days, either; apparently Mum and Dad wouldn’t even be able to see the school.

Which was insanity of a whole other level.

Dudley reached into the bag of sweets he’d bought that morning. Something to settle his very frayed nerves.

Harry and Hagrid were chattering away happily about the sights of this strange place, this Diagon Alley, where bricks moved of their own accord and heavy iron cauldrons levitated and Dudley had seen a child flying on a broomstick and—and—

More sweets. 

“Tha’s Gringotts. Run by goblins,” Hagrid was saying.

What.

No one had said anything about goblins.

“Goblins?” Harry asked, his tone simply curious and surprised. Inside, Dudley was screaming.

“Oh, yeah. Never cross a goblin, boys—they can be vindictive.”

Screaming and mentally kicking the walls.

More sweets.

“So I’ve got the key to Harry’s vault, Dumbledore trusted me—great man, Dumbledore—and your Muggle money for the exchanger, Dudley.”

The exchange made some sense to Dudley. But—

“Harry’s got money?”

“He does,” Hagrid said. There was laughter in his voice, as though Dudley was missing something quite obvious.

“From where? From who?” Dudley continued. He wasn’t trying to be rude or anything, but Mum had always said Harry was a drain. Where had he gotten money?

“Potter name is… well, actually, we should probably talk about this, boys. Harry’s a bit… famous in our world.”

What?

Hagrid was explaining very quickly, as though he didn’t like talking about it. Harry’s parents had apparently been murdered, not died in a car crash? Harry was some famed dark wizard killer as a baby?

Dark magic existed?

Harry was obscenely wealthy from family money?

By the time Dudley actually saw a goblin, his mind was too full of other impossible things to care. Pointy ears, greenish skin, tiny frame—sure, why not have fairy-tale villains running the bank?

I’m going to need more sweets. I wonder if wizards have good candy.

Chapter Text

“But they were our sort, weren’t they?” The pale, blonde, snooty-looking boy being measured for robes asked.

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean,” Harry answered him.

“Hmm. And you?” The stranger asked Dudley.

Dudley froze.

He’d never been a minority before—not really. Actually, he wasn’t sure he was a minority, having Muggle parents, but it might make him—what was the word? Disadvantaged.

Besides that, he could practically hear the echoes of Dad’s voice from the hut on the rock, shouting at Hagrid.

“I’M NOT PAYING FOR MY SON TO LEARN SOME STUPID WITCHCRAFT THAT WON’T HELP HIM IN THE REAL WORLD! AS FOR THAT ONE—“ he’d indicated Harry— “IF YOU THINK IM WASTING HARD-EARNED MONEY ON THE SON OF TWO WASTRELS, YOU—“

Hagrid had thundered back at that, louder than the storm outside, that Harry’s parents had been good people, which had made Mum cackle cruelly.

Mum never talked about her sister, but a sort of word explosion had poured out of her. How magic had ruined Lily. How James had ruined Lily.

“My son will not be part of that world. He won’t!”

“If your son don’t get training, his magic will explode out and more’n likely kill ‘im!” Hagrid had shouted.

Crickets. Actually, the sound of the sea on the rock. Dudley had reached for snacks, only to remember that he had none. He’d whimpered, and Mum had rushed to his side, crushing him to her.

All this flashed through Dudley’s mind as the pale boy stared at him. Glared at him.

“What’s your surname?” The boy demanded. Dudley glanced at Harry. 

“Potter,” he said. Hiccupped, more like. Dudley knew Harry had no experience dropping his name to impress.

The boy’s face flashed from a calculated boredom, to surprise, to astonishment, and he leaned toward Harry to scrutinize his forehead where his apparently-famous scar sat. Harry looked very uncomfortable.

“And this is my cousin,” he said, gesturing to Dudley. “We grew up together. What with my parents’ murder—do you know about—?”

The pale boy had no time to answer, because a forceful tapping on the window of the robe shop interrupted the three boys; Hagrid was waiting with ice cream. Dudley breathed a sigh of relief.

“I found something near your size, young man!”

A second interruption, in the shape of the proprietress, bustled in. Harry and Dudley looked at each other.

“And you’re finished, Mr. Malfoy,” she added. The pale boy all but ripped his robes off and ran to pay.

Harry was waving at Hagrid.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dudley said.

“Do what?” Harry asked.

Dudley eyed his cousin. Oblivious to the last, he thought. Harry was good at dodging trouble, but bad at reading a social situation.

“Stick up for me. With that kid.”

“Stick up for you?” Harry looked at Dudley blankly. “I guess I sort of did. Well, it’s not like you know more than I do about all this.” He shrugged as if that explained anything at all, and turned to stare at the needle and thread that were hemming his robes of their own accord.

Chapter Text

Dudley hadn’t been home before the world had switched seats. That’s how he was thinking of it, privately: the world was the same, but totally, completely different. Nothing, and everything, had changed.

Harry got quieter as Hagrid walked with the boys to the house. Dudley felt as though he should be feeling better; the playground they passed was familiar. There was his friend Piers’ house; there was the corner market where Piers had convinced Dudley to steal more than a few candy bars over the years. There was the corner by Mrs. Figgs’ house where Dudley had first broken Harry’s glasses with his fist.

I wonder if wizards need glasses, Dudley wondered.

Hagrid watched Dudley and his cousin approach their house from the corner. Dudley realized that was probably wise.

“You have any more of those chocolate frogs?” He asked Harry gruffly as they approached the house; Dudley had finished his Wizard sweets on the train. The frogs had been his favorite, though Harry had been concerned about them being alive somehow. Hagrid had told the boys that it was just a spell, which was good enough for Dudley. Even compared to high-end British chocolate, the frogs were delicious. Then again, treats were always better on a bad day.

Mum was peering out the bay window in the front of the house. She dashed out as Dudley crossed the street, then paused at the end of the walk. Dudley made as effort to smile at her, though he was holding back a tide of fear and apologies for something he knew, logically, wasn’t his fault.

I’m sorry I’m magic, Mum, he thought.

Mum seized Dudley, squeezing him tightly. When Dudley finally pulled back, he saw her glance critically at Harry. She gave him a curt nod. To Dudley’s surprise, she directed her question to Harry.

“When do you boys have to leave?”

Harry blinked, fishing in his jeans for his ticket. He forgot? Such a Harry thing to do.

“September first, at eleven,” Dudley supplied.

Mum nodded, still looking sideways at her son, as if he were an overbright light.

“You got all your things, then?” She asked. Mum looked for the first time at the bags Dudley and Harry carried—lightened, thankfully, by the shopkeeper’s spells. A cauldron alone was frightfully heavy. 

Dudley braced, knowing she was about to notice—there it was.

“Hagrid got her for our birthdays. I know you hate animals, but it’s how they do mail—“

“Well, we must have letters, of course. And photos, hmm?” She looked properly at Dudley and chucked his chin. “We’ll explain to… Dad.”

Something about Mum’s hesitation, the way she rushed suddenly toward the house again, made Dudley very nervous indeed. He followed, Harry trailing, as he always did when they got home.

They walked through the front door, and Dudley dropped his bags on the mud room bench. Harry clung to his.

“…Dad?” Dudley called. “I’m home!”

Mum was in the living room, not looking at Dudley again.

“Dad’s at work, Dudders.”

Dudley thought for a moment.

“It’s Sunday.”

“Yes, but they needed—he needed to go in.” There was a finality to her tone.

“Will he be there to drop me—drop us—at the train in London?”

“I hope so, darling.”

Dudley looked around the room as the owl hooted sleepily in her cage behind him. There were the hundred or so photos of himself and his parents. None of Harry, unless you counted the one where he stood blurrily in the background by the carousel at the zoo. That had never bothered Dudley much before.

The under-smell of ammonia told Dudley that Mum had been cleaning, and the scent of vanilla and raspberry testified to his favorite cupcakes waiting in the kitchen.

Yes, everything was the same. Home was home. Yet somehow, everything was different

Chapter Text

Dudley had never been on the receiving end of Dad’s… the right word was disgust. He’d watched Harry get blasted by it for years, of course; and even he, Dudley, had been in trouble with Dad before.

But those were times I did something wrong, the boy thought. He was sitting on the bench in the back garden, nibbling at some Nacho Cheese crisps he’d sneaked from the pantry. Idly, he wondered if he’d be able to sneak food from anywhere at school. Hogwarts, he thought. Still a dumb name.

The fact of the matter was (nibble, nibble,) that Dad still loved him (nibble, nibble.) It was magic that he couldn’t stand (nibble, chomp.) Dudley thought back to all the boring, stupid (nibble, chomp, nibble) meetings he’d had to have with the school’s counselor (nibble, nibble, chomp, chomp) about “bullying” Harry—as she put it—which (chomp, nibble, chomp, chomp) Dudley had never found entirely fair. Anyway, (chomp, chomp) the counselor often insisted that Dudley’s “misplaced aggression” (chomp, chomp) was “due to something lacking within himself,” whatever that (chompchomp) meant. And maybe (chompchompchomp) what Daddy didn’t like about (chompchompchomp) magic was the fact that he didn’t have any (chompchompchewchewswallowchompchew.)

Because, Dudley had to admit it—magic was pretty cool, and for the first time ever, he was looking forward to the end of summer and the beginning of school.

Getting away from Daddy’s bad mood might have been part of that. Dudley felt bad, realizing it.

Dudley thought he might know how Harry had always felt, and the bag of crisps was empty.

He squinted at the back door. Mum always kept the sliding glass perfectly clean, and behind it, Daddy was snitching at dinner around Mum’s elbow. He looked happy.

Maybe if I go inside now, it’ll be better. Normal again, Dudley thought. He stood slowly, cautiously, almost trying to sneak up on the moment. Softly, he slid across the grass—not lumbering as he usually felt he should. He slid the back door open and slid off his shoes.

Dad turned to look at Dudley, and an aura of irritation overtook him. Dudley almost stepped back reflexively.

“How was work, Dad?” He asked.

Dad said nothing for a minute, only looked Dudley over. His eyes caught on the empty crisps bag.

“Where did you get that?” Daddy demanded.

“The—the pantry,” Dudley stuttered in reply.

“You just… took it?”

“I—“

“Your mother is making dinner!”

“Dad, I always—“

“Not anymore! Dudley, go to your room.”

“Vernon, dinner is ready,” Mum tried.

“He can learn. He’s been disrespectful, and he should learn. No dinner for you tonight, Dudley. Go to your room.”

Dudley hesitated. No meals was a punishment for Harry. He, Dudley, had never once missed out on food.

“NOW!”

Dudley missed whatever Mum was trying to say to Dad; the boy ran up the stairs, where no one could hear his sobs break through.

Chapter Text

While Harry had been in the loo, Dudley had tasted the owl’s treat pellets. He had then, unsurprisingly, choked—spraying bits of owl treat everywhere. He was still spluttering when Harry returned.

“I should have warned you,” Dudley’s cousin said, not unkindly. “The last time Aunt Marge brought Ripper, her dog, and I was forbidden meals, I tried a dog biscuit and, well—“ Harry gestured at Dudley, still coughing. “Try this,” Harry said. Harry lifted a floorboard, passed Dudley a small bag of nuts—prepared for people. Gratefully nodding, Dudley tore in.

“We really ought to name her, you know—“ Dudley said, too embarrassed to thank Harry overmuch.

“Who, the owl?”

Dudley nodded. Of course, the owl. Who else?

“What about… Shawn?”

“Er—“ Dudley paused. His instinct, born of years of habit, was to clobber Harry on the side of his head and call him an idiot, especially because the owl was female. But Dudley was beginning to wonder if that was really the right response. “What about a magical name?”

Dudley’s mum stuck her head into the room an hour later to send Dudley to bed, and found the boys lying on the floor, laughing about the most ridiculous names they’d found in their textbooks.

“Ulric!” Harry yelped, and lost himself giggling.

“How about—about—Pernelle?”

“What are you two doing?” Mum asked. She seemed to be suppressing a small smile. Then it faded. “Dudders, you don’t want Daddy to catch you in here with—well. It’s bedtime.”

Dudley glanced at Harry.

“…Right,” he said. He looked at Mum. “I haven’t practiced yet,” he said. Dudley had meant to get to his violin quickly, but—well.

“Better skip tonight, son,” Mum said. Dudley stared at her, aghast now. Mum never let him skip practice.

“Why?” Dudley asked, getting up. 

Mum tugged at her ear.

“Daddy wants you in bed.” She glanced at Harry. “And you.”

Dudley caught Harry’s eye; Harry seemed to understand, because he hopped up.

“‘Night, Dudley,” Harry grunted, not looking at his cousin. Dudley, who hadn’t wished Harry a good night since the bedtime incident when they were three years old, paused.

“Sleep well, Harry. Thanks for the—“

Harry looked at Mum in panic.

“What about Morganna?” Dudley’s cousin blurted. “Or Hedwig?”

“Wha—oh! Yeah. Let’s call her Morganna, I like that.”

Dudley shuffled off to get his pajamas; Harry, who didn’t have any, went to brush his teeth.

“Mum?” Dudley asked, approaching the steps behind her.

“Yes?” She asked.

“Are you still up?” Called Dad’s voice.

“Uh, good night,” he said quietly. Then he turned to get dressed.

Chapter Text

“Um—“ Mum said, looking embarrassed. “It was here; I know it was. She—she used to leave between platforms. Only, I can’t remember—“

A family, Dudley assumed—they had the same longish noses, freckly faces, and screaming red hair— of six people crowded around a few heaping trolleys pushed past. On top of one of the piles of luggage was an owl in a cage. Well that’s probably wizards, then, Dudley thought. Mum, following his gaze, seemed to draw the same conclusion. She braced herself—Dudley saw her bristle—and stepped toward the heavyset mum of the group. 

Their Dad isn’t here either, Dudley thought, trying not to feel bitter. 

Then one of the boys—it was all boys except one small girl, maybe Dudley’s and Harry’s age— turned his trolley and started running toward the brick wall between the platforms.

Dudley yelped. Funny as a collision might be under some circumstances, this redheaded boy (really, it was such bright hair) was going to hurt himself. Dudley stated, feeling his eyes bulge.

The boy vanished through the wall and Dudley was suddenly dizzy.

“ Cool, ” Harry whispered.

Mum, who had stopped walking to watch, shook herself. Her expression was sour for a moment, then she looked at the boys.

“That’s right,” she said, forcing a smile. “I forgot. Probably because we couldn’t go with. You—you run through the wall, boys.”

Harry smiled.

“That’s amazing,” he said.

Dudley swallowed.

“What if—what if something goes wrong? What if I get hurt?”

Mum looked at him uncertainly. She doesn’t know, Dudley realized. This is magic stuff. Mum only knows the tiny bit that she learned from her sister.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. Dudley turned to see a boy, roughly his own age, eyeing him with the awkwardness of abruptly greeting a stranger.

“Uh-huh?” Dudley asked. Mum and Harry were facing the conversation.

“It won’t go wrong,” said the youngest of the redheads. “Fred—my idiot of a brother—he likes pulling pranks and stuff. He told me if I didn’t believe it would work, it wouldn’t. Dad says Fred was just messing with me. The barrier always works—as long as you aren’t a muggle.”

He said muggle with a bit of derision, and Dudley saw Mum’s nose wrinkle out of the corner of his eye. Still, he was fixated on the boy’s words.

“You’re sure? I’m—my parents are muggles.”

“I’ll be fine, dear,” the red haired mum said, leaning around her much skinnier son. “I promise. In the two hundred years or so the train’s been running, I’ve never heard of a wizard or witch not getting in.” She paused, looking at Mum and smiling. “I can stay out here with you, until they’re in, and see them onto the train if you like.”

Mum’s anxious, annoyed expression melted.

“Thank you, that would be great. I’m Petunia, Petunia Dursley. This is my son, Dudley—“ she ruffled Dudley’s hair. “And that’s my nephew,” she said, jerking her thumb at Harry. “Harry Potter.”

The redheaded family all froze.

“Harry Potter?”

“ The Harry Potter?”

Mum blinked, confused. Dudley hadn’t told her Harry was famous.

The red haired mum recovered first, maybe seeing how Harry was shrinking into himself nervously.

“Lovely to meet you, boys. I’m Molly Weasley. This is Ron; he’s in first year, too.”

She gestured to the boy who’d approached Dudley.

“Hi,” Dudley and Harry muttered. Ron nodded, staring intermittently at Harry like he was trying not to look too hard.

“You’d better move, boys,” Mrs. Weasley said. “It’s ten 'til, and you’ll have to find a compartment.”

Dudley glanced nervously at the wall again.

Harry, in an uncharacteristic fit of understanding, caught Dudley’s expression.

“Mrs. Weasley, excuse me, can two people go together?” He asked. “Through the wall?”

“Yes, dear; would you like to go with Ron?”

“Er—“ Harry paused. “Er— I’ll go first,” he offered, turning red. “Then Dudley—you go with Ron.”

Dudley stared at Harry, shocked.

It wasn’t as though Harry had ever been mean to Dudley—quite the other way around, Dudley had to admit. But Dudley had always assumed that his cousin hated him.

“Th—thanks, Harry,” he stuttered. Mum was looking at Harry in equivalent surprise. Then something even crazier happened.

Mum took a small step toward Harry. She sized him up with her eyes.

“Look out for your cousin, Harry,” she said.

“I will, Aunt Petunia.” 

Then she pulled him into a hug.

It was not a long squeeze. Honestly, it was probably the shortest hug on record.

But it happened.

Dudley goggled.

“Er—yeah. Yeah, I will,” he muttered. His face was redder than the Weasleys’ hair.

Harry grabbed the trolley, overflowing with trunks and Dudley’s train treats and violin case and Morganna the owl, and dashed toward—and through—the barrier.

Dudley blinked.

Nutty day, this, he thought.

He gave Mum a long hug, and she kissed his cheek and hair, tears in her eyes.

“Ready?” Ron asked, oblivious to the madness that had occurred before him.

“I guess," Dudley said. He squared his shoulders—so did Ron—and the two began to sprint, each pushing a cart.

Dudley tried not to blink. He wanted to see the inside of the wall, the transition between spaces. But it was like sneezing; his eyes closed against his will.

Before him sat an enormous, bright scarlet steam engine. Dudley hadn’t ridden too many trains, but he was pretty sure this was larger than his last one. Maybe wizards are just show offs, he thought.

“C’mon, Dudley,” Ron said. “There’s Harry. Let’s go get on the train. Wanna all sit together?”

“Might as well,” Dudley said. He grinned, walking toward his cousin.

The twin Weasleys had cornered Harry.

“So, do you remember what You-Know-Who looks like?” One was asking.

“Huh?” Harry asked.

“You know! He Who Must Not Be Named! What does he look like?”

“Who?”

Dudley suddenly remembered how uncomfortable Hagrid had been saying “Voldemort” in Diagon Alley; it was as though the name had been a particularly ugly swear.

He thought quickly.

“Fred—George—“ Ron was saying. “Don’t.”

“Oh, shut it, Ron,” one twin said.

“But—“ Ron began.

“I think they mean— er— that guy, Moldy Shorts, Harry,” Dudley interrupted.

You’d think they announced a bomb threat, Dudley thought, or I insulted their mother. Fred and George looked horrified. Then, as what Dudley had actually said sunk in, the twin on the right started to chuckle.

“Did—did you just say ‘Moldy Shorts’?” He demanded. Wondering suddenly if there were a real reason he shouldn’t have said it, Dudley nodded hesitantly. Harry was looking sideways at him with dawning understanding.

“You don’t say his name?” Harry asked the twins.

“Nah,” the one with the slightly bonier cheeks said. “George here did, once—Dad nearly exploded. It’s not actually cursed or anything,” he added hastily. “Just a rum thing to do. People don’t like it.”

“But Moldy Shorts,” George continued as though he’d started the discussion. “Now, that’s gold. Real Gryffindor thing to say. You gonna be in Gryffindor, er—?“ he looked at Dudley.

“This is my cousin. Dudley.” Harry said.

“Your cousin?” George asked.

“Thought Harry Potter lived with muggles somewhere,” Fred added.

“I—“ 

“My parents are muggles,” Dudley said.

“Ah,” the twins said in unison.

“Boys!” Molly squwaked behind them. All five turned to look at her. “Get your arses on that train before it leaves! Imagine!” She kissed her three sons quickly. “Be good,” she said. Her daughter was beginning to tear up. “Be safe. Fred and George, no Howlers this year, I mean it. Ron, if you need anything, for heaven’s sake ask Percy first.” She pulled out a handkerchief and licked the corner. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, here—“

“Gotta go, Mum!” Ron yelled, dodging the handkerchief. Fred and George gave each other, and the handkerchief, squirmy looks.

“See you, Mum!” They paused. “Love you, Gin,” George said. Fred patted the sister’s head.

“Don’t cry,” he added. “But be careful! Can’t blame us for your shenanigans until June!” The sister grinned through shining eyes.

Fred and George shuffled off after Ron. Ron, Dudley noticed, was lingering at the train doors, watching him and Harry.

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said. He looked expectantly at Dudley.

“Tell my mum I’ll be alright,” Dudley said suddenly. It had hurt, he realized, that Mrs. Weasley could see them onto the train, but Mum couldn’t.

“I will,” the lady said, smiling.

She led her daughter away.

“Let’s get a move on,” Dudley said to Harry, pretending he wasn’t as teary as the Weasley girl. Dad had given him a very terse goodbye, and his final “be good, then,” was ringing in Dudley’s ears. “Let’s see if this train has a food car, yeah?”

And he led Harry toward Ron and the waiting train.

Chapter Text

Ron and Harry were both skinny boys—Ron, because of genetics, Dudley assumed, because he shared that lanky look with his brothers. Harry, Dudley knew, was so thin partly because he never got much to eat. Dudley himself had often enjoyed taking Harry’s tastiest pieces from meals just to watch his younger cousin’s expression. Either way, Dudley took the seat opposite the other two.

“So what’s it like?” Ron was asking Harry.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Living with Muggles!”

“You mean you don’t know?” Harry asked. He had sneaked a glance at Dudley, and Dudley wondered if Harry was stalling for some reason. “I mean,” Harry continued, “obviously your family is all magical, but don’t you have Muggle neighbors and stuff?”

“Nah,” Ron said. “Mum teaches us at home. Says there’s no point getting us on the muggle records just to learn things she can teach us, and draw unwanted attention besides. We stand out in my family.” Ron pointed to the beacon that was his hair. “And imagine, seven times that.”

“Seven? There are seven kids in your family?” Harry didn’t sound appalled, just curious, but Dudley could practically feel Mum roll her eyes, wherever she was. Seven was a lot, even if they were nice enough.

“Five brothers, and my sister. Ginny, you saw her. Why?” Ron squinted. “I guess I know you’re an only child, but Dudley, you don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

Dudley shook his head.

He knew, of course, that there was more than one reason his parents had never had more kids, and that it had less to do with Mum and Dad’s opinion on big families than they would admit. Dudley remembered clear as day the afternoon Mum had sat him down, crying, and told him his little sister wasn’t going to be born after all. After that, the subject of babies had become very touchy with Mum and Dad, and Dudley had had even more love heaped on him.

“So you two grew up—”

“Just the two of us, yeah,” Harry finished. He glanced furtively at Dudley again.

“Ah. Well, at least you had each other,” Ron said after a stunned second’s silence.

“Um, sure,” Harry said, not meeting Ron’s eyes. Ron must’ve noticed Harry’s awkward reaction, because he frowned at Harry.

“What?” He asked.

Harry darted a third glance in Dudley’s direction and mumbled something Dudley didn’t hear.

“What, you two don’t get along?”

The silence pressed uncomfortably in the compartment.

“Not really,” Harry said at last.

“Your aunt and uncle don’t, I dunno, make you? My mum and dad hate it when we fight, we have to do all sorts—”

“Ha!” Harry had exclaimed. “No. No, my aunt and uncle, well…” he paused. Ron looked thoroughly perplexed now, and Harry was positively squirming in his spot.

“What?”

“They don’t like me, much,” Harry said, a little too loudly. He looked at Dudley, as though challenging him to argue.

“Oh, c’moff it,” Ron said. “Don’t like you? You’re a nice enough bloke, and they’re family. Family is—”

“Not my family.” Harry had interrupted Ron with a severity that seemed to shock the other boy.

“But—that’s, like, child abuse—”

Harry made a face. Dudley wasn’t sure what expression he’d label it with, but it wasn’t denial.

“Hey!” He all but shouted at Harry. “My parents aren’t— they aren’t —”

“Drop it, Dudley,” Harry said, a certain amount of pleading in his tone, which Dudley ignored.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Dudley said. “You keep your nasty opinions and rumors to yourself, Potter. Maybe my parents are a bit nicer to me, but I wasn’t dumped on their doorstep by a bunch of—” Dudley cut himself off. He’d been about to call wizards “lunatics,” as Dad usually referred to Harry’s abandoners, but reality was smacking him in the face in waves. Without waiting for either Ron or the flabbergasted-looking Harry to respond, Dudley stood and slid the door to the compartment open. He all but slammed it behind him, and marched a little ways away.

He breathed heavily, feeling strangely shaky. All his life, nearly, he’d heard the story of “lunatics” leaving baby Harry on the Dursleys’ step told as though Harry had somehow been at fault. He’d never wanted to poke at that reality too much, examine it too closely. Now he felt close to tears, gazing back the way he had come. Harry must be furious, he thought. And that Ron, I’m sure he’s disgusted with Mum and Dad, and me, too.

Dudley sank slowly onto the train hallway floor and sat staring at his hands for a minute or so.

“Ope!” A voice exclaimed behind him. “‘Scuse me, dear.”

Dudley turned his head to stare at a small trolley absolutely loaded with treats.

Thank you, he thought to no one in particular.

He bought as many cauldron cakes, licorice wands, chocolate frogs, and pumpkin pasties as he could reasonably justify (thankfully, the prices weren’t too inflated here) and gathered them in his shirt, realizing for the first time that he’d left all of his things in with Harry.  He stumbled forward, sliding open the first door he reached, and dropped several pasties on the floor.

“If you grab those for me, you can have one,” he grunted at the grubby-faced boy who stared at him from the seat. The boy, hands wrapped tightly around a toad, looked puzzled.

“Oh, I’ll help you,” said a girl’s voice, and Dudley turned to see a poofy bunch of hair. There was a girl under it all, it seemed, because her hands pushed it back from her face and she gave him a polite smile. The hair immediately fell back in her face as she knelt, picking up the treats and setting them on the seat by the boy.

“Thanks,” Dudley said, and dumped the rest of his haul on top of those pasties.

“I’m Hermione,” the hair-bush girl said, and held out a hand. Dudley shook it. 

“Dudley.”

“Neville,” said the boy, and he reached out to shake too.

This turned out to be a mistake. The toad, with an enormous croak, hopped away from Neville with an unbelievable vehemence and speed, and out through the compartment door, which Dudley had left open.

Neville gave a loud groan.

“Not again,” he sighed.

“Er—sorry,” Dudley said, and made to sit on the bench seat.

“Dudley!” The girl, Hermione, said in such an adult tone that, for a second, Dudley felt as though Mum had said it.

“Wh—what?” he asked. It had been such a horrible half hour, and all Dudley wanted was to sit and eat until his blood sugar felt a little more normal.

“We’ll help you find your toad, Neville, right ?” Hermione said, really addressing Dudley.

“His name is Trevor,” Nevill said, choking up. 

Does he come when he’s called? Dudley wondered, half irritable, half genuinely curious. Magic was awfully strange, after all.

“We’ll help you look for Trevor,” Hermione promised. She glared at Dudley until he stood up.

“Alright,” Dudley said. “Yeah. Let’s go find a toad.”

Hermione led the way out of the train compartment, and Dudley blundered along behind.

Chapter Text

As Hermione stood with Neville in the doorway of Harry and Ron’s compartment, listening to Ron attempt a rhyming spell to turn his rat yellow—something Dudley found puzzling, since the peeks he’d sneaked around Dad at his spellbooks had shown one-word spells—Dudley skulked out of sight. Then he heard Hermione say,

“Oh! Which of you plays the violin?”

Without thinking, Dudley muttered,

“Me.”

Harry jumped up.

“Dudley?” He asked. Dudley poked his head forward a few inches.

“Hi,” he mumbled.

“You two know each other?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Cousins,” the two boys grunted.

“Hmm,” said Hermione, gazing between the two boys. Dudley watched her fixedly, avoiding Harry’s eyes.

Harry must’ve been doing something similar, because Hermione gave an exasperated sort of sigh.

“Look, I don’t know what happened here—“ she began.

Harry, it seemed, wanted to discuss the matter even less than Dudley did. He blurted:

“Dudley’s brilliant on the violin. You should hear him.”

Dudley felt himself flush. Does this mean I’m forgiven for storming out?

“Oh! Yes! Play something, please,” Hermione said.

“What about Trevor?” Neville pled. “My toad—“

“I only just realized, we can ask that witch who does the food trolley if she’ll Summon him, Neville.”

“Oh… alright,” Neville said, voice worried.

Harry pulled Dudley’s violin case out of the pile of luggage and gently offered it to Dudley. Dudley, for his part, took it with trepidation. He didn’t usually play for strangers. He certainly had never played for kids his own age.

Without looking at anyone’s eyes, Dudley checked over his bow and the violin itself. He tuned it as quickly and quietly as he knew how. Then he looked to Harry.

“Music,” he muttered. “Please?” Harry, understanding after years of this task falling to him, stood and grabbed the sheet music tucked in the lid of the case. Harry held it carefully, supporting the pages against his own chest.

Dudley thought about backing out. Rieding’s “Violin Concerto in B Minor” was a new piece for him. Unfortunately, right at that moment, Neville spoke up.

“Draco!” 

Dudley turned, nearly whacking Hermione with the end of the violin. There in the doorway of the compartment stood the pale boy from the robe shop in Diagon Alley, flanked by two boys more muscular than Dudley himself.

“Longbottom,” the boy sneered. He looked into the compartment. “I heard—“ Draco Malfoy’s eyes caught first Harry and the music, then Dudley and the violin.

“How talented you must be, Potter,” he spat. “Doing music stands.”

In what felt like another life, Dudley might’ve laughed at the joke. Actually, he might’ve made the joke. But Malfoy’s tone was exactly as derisive as it had been interrogating Dudley about his family in the robe shop. That reminded him of how Harry had stuck up for him, and Dudley suddenly wanted to prove something to this Malfoy kid.

“Harry’s not too proud to help me is all,” Dudley snorted. “Ready, Harry?”

“Ready,” Harry said, looking at Dudley. He nodded encouragingly, apparently as sick of Malfoy already as Dudley was.

Dudley pulled the bow across the strings, easing his way through the piece. He added a few small flourishes, and at first he wondered if Harry would laugh at him for showing off, but Harry just grinned.

The piece wound down, and as Dudley finished the final note, Harry dropped the music and began to applaud. Hermione, Neville, and one of Malfoy’s cronies joined in—though the large boy stopped at a glare from Malfoy.

“Beautiful!” Squealed Hermione.

“Alright, alright,” Malfoy said. He glared at his large friend, who still bore a stunned-and-impressed expression. Probably trying to seize control of the situation, Malfoy strolled into the compartment and sat beside a pile of trolley snacks. He swept them to the floor, waving his two friends over.

“This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle,” he said as they sat. The one who had clapped, the boy called Goyle, glanced at the treats on the floor with a slightly guilty expression while he sat. “ We’ll be in Slytherin.”

This was said as if to impress, but Dudley and Harry exchanged puzzled looks, and Neville and Ron both looked disgusted.

“But—how can you know?” Hermione asked.

“What’s a Slytherine?” Harry asked.

“Slytherin,” Ron corrected. “Hogwarts students are split into four houses based on the traits they most embody,” he said.

“Or the traits they value most, some think,” Hermione added. “There’s an argument for that in Hogwarts: A History.”

Malfoy gazed at her.

“Who are you?”

“Hermione, Hermione Granger.”

“Granger?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t know that name,” Malfoy drawled. “Mudblood, are you?”

Neville choked. Ron, who had been staring at the food on the floor hungrily, whipped his head up.

“Watch your mouth,” he snarled.

“Huh?” Harry said.

Dudley shrugged.

“I’m muggle-born, and not ashamed,” Hermione said staunchly. 

Dudley looked from her to Malfoy. The latter was glaring at the girl.

“Me too, Hermione,” he said. He thought quickly. “Hey—how ‘bout that Jim Carrey?”

Hermione smiled slightly.

“Hilarious!” Harry commented, laughing a little too hard. Nobody else reacted, but the three who had been raised by muggles gave a shared chuckle. As Dudley had hoped, the smile slid off of Malfoy’s face.

“Anyway, I guess none of you will make it into Slytherin,” Malfoy said.

“As if we’d want to?” Ron asked.

“What are the houses?” Dudley asked, both genuinely curious and determined not to let Malfoy rule the conversation. “And the traits?”

Malfoy began,

“Slytherin—“

But Hermione was faster. She gave a little bounce and started speaking.

“Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and Slytherin,” she said. “Named for the four founders of Hogwarts.”

“And the houses are based on what the founders were like?” Dudley guessed.

“What they thought made the best students,” Hermione corrected. Malfoy opened his mouth to speak again, but Hermione was too tenacious.

“Ravenclaw valued knowledge and wisdom. You know—common sense, book learning, any form of enthusiasm for education. That’s the house I’d like to be in, I think.”

I can see that, Dudley thought.

“Hufflepuff—“

Malfoy finally got a word in.

“Hufflepuff was a softie who didn’t care who she got,” he said. His cronies guffawed.

“Actually, that’s not true,” Hermione said. “Helga Hufflepuff valued loyalty, hard work, patience, and friendship. She and Rowena Ravenclaw had a rather famous argument for a long time about whether brains or determination would get a witch or wizard farther.”

Malfoy wrinkled his nose in disgust, but Hermione ignored him.

“Gryffindor valued courage. He—Godric Gryffindor, the guy—he sided with Hufflepuff and said hard work mattered more. And Salazar Slytherin liked ambition and pure focus, and he sided with Ravenclaw. To this day they say that Hufflepuff and Slytherin are almost as opposite as Slytherin and Gryffindor—which, of course, was a different historical tiff.”

That was a lot of information to digest quickly. Bet she’s like this in class. Still, Dudley enjoyed Malfoy’s slightly slack jawed expression, and his buddy Goyle looked stunned.

“There’s a point to Hufflepuff?” Goyle asked, apparently astonished. Hermione nodded; everyone else ignored the question.

“Bet those still taste good,” Ron grunted after a pause. He knelt to rescue the snacks from the floor, and Harry went to help him.

“You want the last chocolate frog, Dudley?” Harry asked, and Dudley wondered if he was trying to make up for their fight, or simply remembering that he liked the candies. Either way, Dudley accepted it with a smile and thanks.

“Wha—“ Crabbe began suddenly, and then he screamed, a surprisingly girly sound from such a large and swaggering young man. Crabbe jumped to his feet, with Goyle and Malfoy a split second behind.

“Rat!!” Crabbe screamed, pointing at the place where his hand had been. Indeed, Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers, lay there.

Before anyone could explain, Crabbe had sprinted from the compartment, with Malfoy following at a jog. Goyle took up the rear, but paused in the doorway.

“It’s Gregory Goyle, by the way. Draco doesn’t always remember.”

And, blushing, the boy followed the others out the door.

Chapter Text

Dudley shivered, staring at Professor McGonagall. He was shivering because he was cold—the wet air from the lake had seeped in under his skin, and the massive hall he and the other first-years stood in was a bit drafty.

He was staring because there was something familiar about the Professor, and for the life of him, he couldn’t decide what it was.

He thought about elbowing Harry, on the other side of Ron, and asking if he knew. But there was a severeness to the Professor’s gaze that kept Dudley’s feet glued down. Besides, he realized with a glance at his cousin, Harry was busy glowering at Malloy.

Dudley returned to staring at the Professor.

She was explaining about the four Hogwarts houses Hermione had described, and how there was an inter-house competition for points. Smeltings had something similar, although Dudley was fairly sure that here, the sticks they had were to be used to cast spells, not hit each other. Glancing at Malfoy, Dudley thought, pity, that.

Maybe I can cast some nasty spells on him. Though, not while Professor McGonagall is looking. She didn’t seem the type to let such things slide.

That’s it!

He realized in a rush why she seemed familiar. Something about her face—both inherently stern and reasonably kind—reminded him of the expression his grandmother, his Mum’s Mum, had had when he’d met her just before she died. It was such a faint memory, and certainly held up by photos and videos of the lady.

She’d been in a home, too weak and sick to live on her own. Dudley had long suspected that she would’ve stayed with them, except she didn’t get on with Dad very well.

Dudley, maybe three years old, had been repeatedly poking Harry—just over two—in the back of the head. Grammy had gone from talking happily at the two boys to scolding Dudley for bothering Harry. The look on her face had been so similar to the look on Professor McGonagall’s face a moment before—caught, Dudley noticed, on Neville’s mid-buttoned robes—that it was no wonder he’d felt she was familiar.

Maybe she’ll be like Grammy. The woman had died shortly after that visit, but the videos and Mum’s stories showed a good-hearted woman who loved children.

Professor McGonagall stepped out of the hall, easing through a door with considerable noise on the other side. Dudley and a few others craned their necks to see, but the door clicked shut too quickly.

Dudley nudged Hermione, who stood in front of him.

“What’s the deal with the Sorting? Is it magic?” He asked her. 

“Ooh, yes,” she began. “There’s a—AHHHH!” She ended in a scream. Dudley turned to see what she was looking at, and nearly screamed, himself.

Gliding out of—no, through— the wall were eight or nine pearly-white people.

People.

Traveling through the wall.

“What are you doing?” He yelped. The people—floating in the air, his lagging brain pointed out—stopped chattering at one another and looked down at Dudley and the others.

“What are we doing? I say!” Scolded one with an enormous ruff around his neck. “What are you all doing? Shouldn’t you be at the feast? Surely you’re not all in trouble?”

“They’re the first-years, Sir Nicholas,” a heavyset translucent person said. Dudley realized that he was looking at the speaker through the fellow who’d questioned them. He fumbled in his pockets, searching for a chocolate frog or something. He found only wrappers. He felt dizzy.

“What—“ he whispered as the pearlescent people discussed the students.

“They’re ghosts,” Hermione whispered, seemingly past the worst of her shock—though she was white as a sheet.

Dudley’s head began to swim. His vision blurred slightly.

Ghosts?

Ghosts?!

GHOSTS?!?!?!

He was hyperventilating when Harry put a hand on his shoulder.

“Here,” he said, offering Dudley something—actually, pushing it into his hands.

Dudley stared at the licorice wand as his vision seemed to swim, coming in and out of focus.

“Ghosts, Harry?” He whispered, choking on the words. Unconsciously, he unwrapped the licorice and bit into it. The sugar calmed his vision, at least.

The ghosts— ghosts!— glided through the wall opposite where they’d entered. Dudley’s knees shook.

“I dunno,” Harry said, watching them fade through the wall. Dimly, Dudley wondered if Harry was thinking of all the family he’d lost.

To his surprise, Harry began to hum. His tone wasn’t great, but it was recognizable as the “Concerto in B Minor” Dudley had played on the train. That, to Dudley’s surprise, put some air back into his lungs.

“Do you think we’ll be okay here?” Dudley whispered.

“I hope so,” Harry whispered back.

Chapter Text

The Sorting Hat was filthy, dusty, ragged, patched, and singing. There wasn’t a chance on God’s green Earth that Mum would’ve let Dudley put it on his head, if she’d been there. She’d probably think it had some magical form of lice.

“I’ll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me ,” the Hat sang. Dudley quaked where he stood, praying to anything that the words were only an expression. A Hat that sang was weird, but he suspected he’d get used to weird. A Hat that ate things, and the other things that might imply, was simply terrifying.

He tuned back into the lyrics, only to hear something far worse:

“ There’s nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can’t see,” came the cheerful tune. Dudley suddenly felt he knew how Harry had felt all the times he, Dudley, had punched him in the stomach.

“ So try me on…”

The Hat continued singing, describing the Houses of Hogwarts. Dudley slid his feet carefully back, elbowing past Ron at his left and a Scottish girl he’d noticed earlier on his right.

“Where are you going?” Whispered Harry’s voice in Dudley’s ear.

“Harry, that Hat can read minds. I’m not putting it anywhere near me. Not a chance.”

“What, like you have dark secrets to hide? Dudley, you’re a kid.”

He hadn’t even thought of that. Now that Harry mentioned it, he wasn’t sure exactly what about the Hat scared him. He just didn’t like the idea of someThing looking and poking around in his brain.

Also, a tiny part of him admitted, there’s no way of knowing if the Hat will tell people about… what Ron said on the train about Mum and Dad.

The Hat finished its song—calling itself a “Thinking Cap” (ha, ha.) Dudley was still hoping to dash away, though it was dawning on him that he had no idea where to go, when Professor McGonagall stood up with a scroll and caught his eye.

She gave a tiny shake of her head, and a barely-perceptible smile that Dudley found oddly comforting. There was something inherently trustworthy about the Professor. Well, I suppose if this is the only way to be Sorted, I’ll have to go through it sooner or later. Maybe the Hat will keep its mouth shut about the stickier stuff.

He breathed deeply, thinking about the plates in front of the students seated in the Great Hall before him, hoping the food would be good and arrive soon. He couldn’t remember the official etiquette on how many people had to be served before you could start eating, but then, this was a school filled with teenagers. Would anyone care?

“Abbott, Hannah!” Professor McGonagall read from her scroll. All of the first-years looked shiftily at one another for a moment. Then a blonde girl gave a tiny squeak, and the stout boy next to her pushed her forward gently. She stumbled in her first step, took a breath, and marched forward to the stool whereupon the Hat sat, now quite still. Dudley felt sorry for her; going first would have made him sick .

He watched as the brim of the Hat split open as it had while singing. This is it, Dudley thought. That thing is going to tell the whole Hall what "Abbott, Hannah" is thinking. What a horrible, horrible way to start sch—

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The Hat roared, and a table full of students, plus most of the staff, began to clap and cheer madly.

… That’s it? Dudley thought. He started clapping too as the blonde girl hustled to join the table where people now waved her over. They looked like a friendly lot, at least. The table on the far left, whichever those were, held a number of students that looked bored at best, and disgusted at worst. 

“Bones, Susan!”

There was a faint rustling among the students at the table on the far right at this name. Dudley wondered if wizards had nobility or royal bloodlines or something, or whether the non-muggleborns all knew each other, because there seemed to be a different set of emotions set in the faces of some of the older students as they stared at “Bones, Susan.” Was that pity?

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The Hat yelled again, more quickly this time, Dudley thought. What changes the speed of the announcement?

The table that had cheered Hannah Abbott burst into even louder shouts, and someone yelled, “Take that, Gryfindor!”

Professor McGonagall scowled slightly, then read the next name.

“Boot, Terry!”

Ravenclaw.

“Brocklehurst, Mandy!”

Ravenclaw. Do they always go in pairs? No, can’t be. It’s alphabetical.

“Brown, Lavender!”

Gryffindor. Dudley was starting to wish that he hadn’t scarfed down the whole licorice wand Harry had given him; he needed something to eat.

“Bullstrode, Millicent!”

Slytherin. So the House Malfoy likes is the one where people look cranky.

“Cornfoot, Stephen!”

Ravenclaw. Dudley was feeling very very nervous and very very hungry. He glanced at Harry; rarely had his cousin looked so terrified.

“Crabbe, Vincent!”

Slytherin. Dudley wasn’t really surprised, and he was shaking from top to toe now.

“Dursley, Dudley!”

There were a few sniggers in the crowd of students, though most had no obvious reaction to Dudley’s alliterative name. Dudley ignored them anyway; growing up with “double D” as his initials, he’d learned it wasn’t worth the trouble he got in punching everyone who laughed. Besides, he was fixated on the Hat.

He felt he could make out every frayed thread in every patch, see every speckled stain of dirt. How does a Hat get this filthy? He wondered. They must use it for all kinds of things at the school.

He lifted the Hat by the tip of its pointed top, hoping he wouldn’t do it any more damage. Gingerly, he perched on the stool and set the Hat on his head. 

“Hmm,” a small, nasally voice buzzed in his ears. Dudley thought for a moment that he’d jumped clean out of his billowing robes because he was quite certain that the Hat had spoken to him telepathically.

“You’re not really Ravenclaw material, I’d say,” the voice said, sending shivers down Dudley’s spine. “Not that you’ve no brains, mind; Ravenclaw would challenge those brains, too; you’d end up much smarter than you think you are, yes.”

Dudley gulped.

“And the way you’re shaking doesn’t really scream ‘Gryffindor,’ though I suppose you did face more fear than most, coming. The trouble is that I see your cousin in your mind, and if you went to Gryffindor—where I foresee him going, not that I should tell you—you’d end up overshadowed and hateful and that’s a fate we’d all like to avoid, now isn’t it?”

Can—can you see the future, then? Dudley asked in his thoughts.

“ Oh, dear me, child, I can do a great deal more than most wizards realize. Yes; your possible futures are all here. Ambition from your father, you’d do alright in Slytherin, but I’m afraid, with your history of bullying—“

I’d rather not be in Slytherin, if you don’t mind, Dudley thought suddenly. 

“Why’s that?” The Hat asked. “The reason matters."

The Slytherins look the least happy out of anyone in the Hall. If I’m going to be magic, and maybe lose Daddy in the process, I should like to at least enjoy the magic.

“Hmm. Well reasoned; perhaps Ravenclaw would be the House for you. If you apply yourself, Ravenclaw could shape you into a great wizard in your own right—“

Mr. Hat, Sir? Dudley thought nervously. Where will I be happiest?

The Hat paused for a moment.

“I don’t often get that question, though I should,” It said. “Well, if it’s true happiness you’re after—

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The Hat yelled to the Hall.

Wait! Dudley thought. I have so many questions!

Professor McGonagall plucked the hat from his head and, with a tight smile, pointed him toward the table that was cheering for him to join them.

Chapter Text

Dudley had found a seat by Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones—the other first-year Hufflepuffs. It didn’t matter very much, though, as they were all still watching the Sorting.

He’d spent the Sorting after his own (Entwhistle, Kevin, who went to Hufflepuff as well but sat with a girl Dudley guessed was his sister) sort of shaking off the feeling that the Hat had given him. There was a lot to think about there, and he knew this wasn’t the moment. He pushed the Hat far back into his own mind, for now.

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Good haul this year!” A boy maybe a year or two older than Dudley shouted. Apparently, three in a row was a good statistic. Dudley suddenly remembered watching players from various sports teams move around on television with his dad. Yeah, except I don’t think there’s switching from here on in, he thought. It was at once disturbing and comforting.

“Finnegan, Seamus!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Granger, Hermione!”

Dudley sat a little straighter, watching Hermione pull lightly on the hat, trying to squash her wild curls with it and failing. He knew she’d wanted to be sent to Ravenclaw, and was dumbfounded when the hat shouted instead,

“GRYFFINDOR!”

He cheered Hermione in spite of the surprise, and waved to her as she walked toward the very loud Gryffindor table. I hope she doesn’t regret that, Dudley considered.

“Goyle, Gregory!”

Dudley watched with vague interest, waiting for the Hat to scream “Slytherin!” as rapidly as it had done for “Crabbe, Vincent.”

The student in the Great Hall stared expectantly. Malfoy, Dudley noticed, was looking increasingly puzzled as the Hat took its time.

Then, with what Dudley could only describe as trepidation, the Hat seemed to question as it screamed,

“HUFFLEPUFF?”

Malfoy’s face turned from his natural pallor to a sick-looking green. His eyes bulged. His expression jumped from surprise, to glowering, to barely controlled rage. Seeing this, Dudley smiled widely and waved at Goyle, who looked completely stunned and a bit ill himself, as the other boy ran to the Hufflepuff table as though being chased by a monster. He leaped over the bench, pushing Hannah Abbott slightly in his rush, and landed next to Dudley, shaking madly.

“Are you alright?” Dudley asked the other boy, who had laid his head on the table and continued to tremble.

“Muh fu-duh gnn kll muh,” came the garbled reply.

“What?” Dudley asked, leaning even closer.

“My father is going to kill me," Goyle whispered. "That is, if Draco doesn’t manage it first.”

“Why?” Dudley asked. “Is there some kind of family trad—”

“Right; you’re a mudb— muggleborn. You wouldn’t get it. My father…” Gregory Goyle looked around the table; he’d attracted a fair number of concerned stares from his fellow Hufflepuffs. “I’ll… tell you about it later, maybe,” he said. 

“Alright,” Dudley answered, even though he was desperately confused and curious. “Well, if it makes you feel better, Goyle—” 

“Oh, Merlin, no,” the other boy groaned. “Don’t call me by my last name. Draco does that, especially when he’s ordering me around, and I hate it. Call me Greg.”

“Alright—sorry. Greg, then.”

“What was supposed to make me feel better?” Greg asked.

“Well, it just seems to me that between you and me, we can take Draco in a fight.”

Greg chortled, though he was still trembling.

“Maybe, but what about Vince?”

Dudley raised an eyebrow.

“Crabbe.”

“Oh. Well, there’s two of us, mate, and I’m strong, and so are you.”

“And if they try to jinx us?”

Hannah, who had been shamelessly listening along, piped up.

“You’re a Hufflepuff now, Greg. Loyalty is down in the description. Trust me; even your father couldn’t take on the whole House.”

Greg’s smile brightened considerably, and he and the others turned back to watching the Sorting.

Chapter Text

Ordinarily, if sumptuous food was put in Dudley’s reach, he stuffed himself. He was not a thin boy, and his love of food had more to do with this than genetics.

At the moment, however, he was simply goggling at the meal laid before him.

It had appeared—suddenly, with a small pop. And so much of it! Dudley was sure there was at least one thing from each of his top favorite fifteen meals, and they all smelled incredible.

“Where does this come from?” He asked, at last scooping loaded mashed potatoes onto his plate.

Greg shrugged.

“I dunno. House Elves, probly.”

“House whats, now?”

“Oh, they’re these little guys that have giant ears and just live to serve wizardkind.”

Dudley froze, his spoon inches from his mouth.

“Wizards have a servant class?”

Greg chewed noisily.

“Nah, not like that.” He chewed more. “It’s not, like, indentured wizards and witches. Not in hundreds of years.” He swallowed at last.

“Then what—like, creatures? Like the goblins at the bank?”

“Not quite,” said Susan Bones. “House Elves are—well, you know, Elves. I’d be terrified to boss a goblin around. It’s not the same with House Elves.”

Dudley considered that for a moment.

“Are they expensive?”

“Expensive?” Greg chuckled. “No, mate. Hard to come by—usually House Elves are tied to one of the old families. But it’s not like they’re paid.”

Dudley, who had taken a fork and knife to a pork chop, dropped his cutlery. It clattered, though the sound didn’t carry far in the noisy Great Hall.

“What, like—like slaves?”

“Well, it’s like I said, Dudley, it’s not like wizards. They like working for people, and they’re, you know, not human.”

“But are they, like, smart?”

“Oh, yeah! Ours practically raised me,” Greg laughed.

Dudley pushed his plate away, feeling suddenly sick.

He stared at his plate, trying to figure out what to do. He didn’t want to starve, obviously, but it seemed wrong to eat food made by slaves.

What do I do?

Without a plan, without any idea at all what he was going to do, Dudley stood up. Tall as a few of the older students were, even sitting, his head didn’t reach high enough to be noticed.

“Where are you going?” Greg asked, surprised.

“Er—gotta talk to my cousin,” Dudley said quickly.

Now that he’d said it, Dudley felt silly not following through. He walked quickly, head down, around to the Gryffindor table where Harry sat.

Harry was between Ron on one side, and a Black boy Dudley didn’t know on the other. His cousin was busily scarfing a plate full of delicious-looking food, and didn’t notice him until he glanced around furtively. When Harry saw Dudley, he reflexively grabbed his plate and slid it a few inches away from Dudley.

“I’m not gonna take anything,” Dudley said, though he had to admit to himself, at least, that Harry’s reaction wasn’t completely unreasonable. 

“Oh. What’dya want, then?” Harry asked.

Dudley wasn’t sure what to say. I heard something I didn’t like, so I ran to you like a scared puppy?   Not likely.

“Hermione,” Dudley said, addressing the girl, who sat a few seats down. “Have you heard of—of House Elves?”

Hermione looked puzzled, then annoyed.

“No, I haven’t,” she said.

“House Elves? Wish I had one,” Ron sighed.

“What are they?” Harry asked around a mouthful of food.

“Little helpers, with big old bat ears and eyes—like, quaffle big.” Ron said. Then he laughed to himself. “Well, not really. But bigger than a Snitch.”

“What are those ?” Harry asked. Dudley hesitated, as Ron dived with wild enthusiasm into describing something called “quidditch.”

He thought about interrupting, trying again. But in his mind’s eye, he could still see Harry sliding his plate to safety. Harry doesn’t owe me anything, he thought. A moment later, he tromped back the way he had come, and sat down heavily next to Greg. He managed a few more bites, but then the food disappeared. In its place, hundreds of desserts popped onto the table.

It’s magic, Dudley reminded himself. It can’t be all that terrible, if the Elves have magic. Maybe it’s better than it sounds.

It must be.

He reached for a cupcake, but it didn’t taste quite the same as it would have before the discussion.

Chapter Text

Dudley was drained. He’d eaten enough, but it had only made him sleepy. He watched, his cheek on his fist, as the Headmaster—Dumbledore—stood to address the students.

He’d said some weird, random words at the beginning of the feast. Dudley had wondered if they were some kind of spell. Now, though, it looked as if Dumbledore was going to make a real speech.

Dudley yawned.

The speech was mostly a list of warnings, things and places that students needed to stay away from.

And then Professor Dumbledore declared that they were to sing the school song.

A school song? Are we supposed to know the words? There was no brochure or anyth—

“Everyone pick their favorite tune,” the Professor continued, to Dudley’s utter bewilderment. “And off we go!”

We moved his wand, and a golden ribbon began to shape itself into what Dudley supposed were the lyrics, though he’d never heard a more absurd grouping of words in his life.

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy, Warty Hogwarts—”

What is my favorite tune? How am I meant to follow along? What in the world is this nonsense?

“Our heads could do with filling with some interesting stuff,

For now they’re bare and full of air, dead flies—” 

Ew, that’s disgusting. As if Mum would let me have dead flies in my head. Or on my head. I’m so tired. Dudley began to giggle quietly to himself.

Greg, who had been staring at the little golden ribbon with abhorrence, whispered,

“They say Dumbledore is a bit mad.”

“Mad?” Dudley whispered under the din of the singing. “But he runs the whole school, doesn’t he?”

“—and learn until our brains all rot!”

By now the disparate tunes had wound into a cacophony of pure chaos, and then two mildly familiar voices— Fred and George Weasley, Dudley discovered on twisting around— finished the lyrics to the tune of a funeral march while Dumbledore directed them with his wand.

He might be a little mad, I guess—whatever Hagrid says about him being a great man.

But surely the Ministry would… he paused his thoughts. Did the British Ministry know about wizards?

There was a horrible scraping, squealing sound as the dozens of benches were pushed back from the tables. Apparently, they’d all been dismissed to go to bed. Thank goodness. Greg jerked his head in the direction of a girl waving and shouting, 

“First-years! Hufflepuff first-years, over here! I’ll show you the way!”

Dudley lined up behind Susan.

“Come this way, first-years. Is that all of you? I hope so. If you get lost, ask a ghost or a portrait. Just, whatever you do, do not ask Peeves the poltergeist. He can fly, but he’s not all translucent and white like a ghost. Well, I hope that’s everyone, c’mon!”

She shepherded them along, and a boy—wearing a “P” badge that matched the one the girl sported—took up the rear of the line.

“Now, now, stay together,” he said. Then, as Dudley glanced back, the boy (Dudley gathered he must be a school prefect) stopped waving at the two boys who had made the line start to stray. 

“Fred! George! Get your butts back to Gryffindor tower!”

The twins burst out laughing. One—George, Dudley thought— leaped forward and paused beside Dudley, then ruffled his thick blond hair.

“Alright, Diddykins?” He asked.

How does he know what Mum used to call me? Dudley wondered, feeling himself frown.

“Harry says you’ll be lots of fun to have around,” Fred added. Then he and George took off running toward the huge main doors of the Great Hall.

Great. Harry has all kinds of time to get back at me for everything, I guess.

As he followed along in the little line of first-years, he tried to pay attention to the path—which was tricky, when they walked through a tapestry, and all of the suits of armor were pointing unhelpfully in different directions.

An image popped into Dudley’s mind as they slowed, of Harry shoving the licorice wand into his hand earlier that evening.

I can’t see that Harry will be too nasty to me. I hope. He thought. Then he had to pay attention, because the prefect girl had stopped before a pile of barrels.

What’s in those? Dudley wondered. His brain felt so sluggish and sleepy, he didn’t even really want to know.

“Alright, first-years. You know how the barrier at the train station worked?” Dudley realized he wasn’t the only one giving a slow, sleepy nod; a boy called Ernie looked ready to collapse into Susan, who stood behind him.

“This isn’t like that,” the prefect girl said. “Running won’t help you, and it’s not like there’s room to get a good start, anyway. What you want to do is—here, Q—” she paused, waving the boy prefect up to her.

“This is Quinn McLaggen, all. I’m Gemma Hopkins; we’re the Hufflepuff prefects this year. If you need anything, you can ask us. Q, will you demonstrate?”

Quinn—Q, apparently—nodded smartly to Gemma and approached the barrels. 

“Today I am…” he paused, looking at the first-years. “Does anyone know the Hufflepuff House traits?”

Dudley was too exhausted to answer, even though he could remember a couple. Ernie, however, raised his hand.

“Just shout it out, this isn’t class,” Q said with a smile.

“Hard working…ness?” Ernie said.

“Very good, that’s important,” Q answered. He addressed the barrels again. “Today I am hard-working.”

Instantly, the barrels faded. Not so that they were entirely invisible, but as though they’d been sitting in the sun for years and years on end, and all of the color had been sapped out of them. Q waved cheerfully at the first-years and reached out, pushing at the wall behind the barrels. It swung open into a door, and Q filed in. Gemma ushered the first-years through, then shut the door behind herself last.

Dudley looked around, curious in spite of his exhaustion. They were in a cozy room, oval-shaped, with a great big fire roaring in the grate at the back wall, and yellow-gold armchairs that called to his sleepy body. The room was decorated in yellow-gold and white, with touches of black to accent it. Mum would’ve hated it, would’ve called it overbright, but even she might’ve appreciated the dozens of potted plants sitting, standing, or hanging about the place. Dudley realized that the room was a comfortable temperature, rather than boiling hot (as the fire should’ve made it) or freezing (as he’d expect, since they were in a basement.)

“This is the Outer Common Room, or the Gathering Place,” Q said. “This is one of the few places in Hogwarts where students from all four Houses are welcome—so long as they’re civil. You can bring your friends from other Houses here, if you like. If they’re rude and asked to leave, that’s a strike. Three strikes per year, and then they can’t come back until the next school year. That, however, almost never happens.” He smiled at Gemma, who took over as seamlessly as if they had rehearsed the speech.

“Within these walls, Helga Hufflepuff, our House’s founder, wanted all wizarding kids to associate, celebrate differences, learn from each other—”

“Eat,” Q interjected.

“Eat, yes,” Gemma continued with a snort, “and forge connections that will last. The other Houses do not have a Gathering Place, as the other Founders didn’t have the same spirit of camaraderie that Helga Hufflepuff lived by, but we try not to hold that against them.” She chuckled.

“Our ghost, the Fat Friar—” she stopped, looking around. “Oh, he’s usually here for this. He must’ve been held up doing something important. Anyway, he’s the big fat ghost with the priest’s outfit on. He’ll help you out if you have questions about Hufflepuff; been around for centuries, and a nicer chap you’ll never find.”

“Alright, kiddos,” Q said, leading them toward a door in the back of the room. “I know you’re exhausted, but there’s one other thing.” He raised his hands at the door as though shaking his own hand in greeting. The door clicked open, and an inviting light spilled through the crack.

“In the spirit of inclusivity, our Inner Common Room passwords are given in British Sign Language. This—” he repeated the action he’d given the door— “is the Sign for “friend.” Dudley hurriedly copied the action, as did a few others in the group. Q nodded approvingly. “We do ask that you keep Hufflepuff passwords to Hufflepuffs. It’s important that we have a space just for us, too.”

Q pushed the door open, and the little crowd followed again, Gemma at the back this time.

They entered a much smaller version of the Gathering Place, with more doors leading out of it.

“More bathrooms,” Q said, pointing toward doors at the sides. “This is where you'll keep your toothbrushes and stuff; the Gathering Place bathrooms are just for toilet business." He gestured toward the back of the room. "Dormitories. Boys, follow me; girls, follow Gemma, and a good night to you.”

Dudley, Greg, Justin, and Ernie followed Q. A boy whose name Dudley hadn’t caught yet stopped to hug Gemma before joining them.

Dudley gave him a puzzled look as they passed into the hall behind the door.

“My sister,” the boy said. “I’m Wayne Hopkins.”

“Ah,” Dudley said. “Cool. I’m Dudley; Dudley Dursley.”

“Do get to know each other, all of you,” Q advised. He pushed open the second door on the left. Then, before entering, he pointed across the hall. “Fifth year—that’s me—are in there. If there’s an emergency, you can come get me. But…” he grinned wryly. “Try not to have any emergencies. I’m a bear when I get woken up in the night.”

The boys all smiled or chuckled as Q stood back, letting them enter the room.

“This will be your room for seven years, boys. Take care of it,” he added. Dudley nodded, only half-hearing; the room had a four-poster bed for each of them (and one extra, it seemed,) and he was ready to collapse. Beside the head of each bed was a small curtained area with a miniature armoire inside it, for changing clothes in private, he assumed. At the foot of each was the owner’s trunks.

“Where’s my owl?” Dudley asked, really to himself, when he saw Morganna’s cage.

“Oh, it’ll be in the owlery. They like to go out at night, owls,” Q said. Dudley nodded, as this made sense.

“Good night, boys,” Q said. Ernie muttered, “good night,” and bent his head in something like a tiny bow, which caused Dudley to give a small laugh of derision. Everyone else waved to Q, cheerful but sleepy. The door shut.

“Just us,” Wayne commented. “No offense, guys, but I won’t mind if we don’t talk until tomorrow. I’m dreadful tired.”

Everyone else just kind of nodded along, and Dudley hurried to find his pajamas so that he could get some sleep.

Chapter Text

Dudley woke to the sound of crying.

He stared at the curtains around his bed for a moment in confusion; first, he had to remember where he was. Then he realized that someone must be crying into their pillow. Then, he had to decide what to do about it.

The crying got louder.

If it were me, I’d rather have one person come talk to me than wake everyone up and have to explain, he thought. He checked his gold wristwatch, pressing a little inner light; it was almost 2:00 am. Sighing slightly, Dudley slipped out of his four-poster. He immediately tripped over something on the floor, but caught himself on the post of the bed next to his.

The crying sound stopped, and in its absence, Dudley thought he could tell who had been making it.

“Greg?” He whispered.

There was a long silence, and then Greg’s voice, muddled through tears, gave a grunt.

“You alright, mate?” Dudley said, still in the quietest voice he could manage.

“...Yeah.” Well, that’s definitely a lie.

“Hey, you have any kind of light? I stood up and tripped, and now I’m stuck,” Dudley said. He was still grasping the post, hoping he wouldn’t fall again and more loudly.

“Er… no, sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’ll manag—oh, I’m stupid,” Dudley said. He pressed the light in his watch again, and it gave him just enough illumination to put his two feet together safely.

“What’s that?” Greg asked. Dudley looked up; just before his watch light blinked out, it showed him Greg’s teary face peering out between his bed curtains. He pressed the button again, and stepped closer to Greg’s bed.

“It’s my watch,” Dudley said, and Greg pulled the curtain open so that Dudley could sit on the edge of the bed. He did, then held the watch out to show Greg.

“Your… watch?” Greg asked. “Where are the planets? That’s just numbers.”

“Planets?” Dudley replied. He met Greg’s eyes. “Wizard thing?”

“Yeah, guess so.”

The light flicked off again.

“Here, I’ve got a torch in my trunk somewhere, I think,” Greg said. “It’s a muggle thing, but even my parents have to admit it’s better than fire, sometimes.”

Between the two of them and Dudley’s watch light, Greg and Dudley found the small, pocket torch in Greg’s trunk. He flipped the switch, turning it on, and Dudley blinked rapidly in the sudden brightness.

“Shame they don’t do the ceiling in here like they do the Great Hall,” Dudley muttered. “It’s so dark.”

“Scared?” Greg sneered.

“No,” Dudley said, though there was a little part of him that was relieved to have the torch out and steady. “Just don’t like tripping.” He thought about snarling back, homesick? Or otherwise teasing Greg about his tears a few minutes before, but he didn’t want to pick a fight. Not here, not now. Besides, despite being a wizard, Greg was a decent guy. Dudley was going to need a new gang here.

The two boys stared for a few seconds, groggy, but unwilling to turn the light off and try to go back to sleep.

“You want to talk about it?” Dudley asked finally.

“About what?” Greg asked. Dudley made a don’t be stupid face.

Greg didn’t say anything for a while, just gazed to the side of the torch light.

“It’s… I’m in Hufflepuff, ” he said.

“Is that bad?” Dudley asked. He was pretty sure this was a perspective thing, but there was still a nervous part of him. “Are Hufflepuffs, like—”

“Oh, Hufflepuffs are nice. Famously nice. Helga Hufflepuff founded St. Mungo’s and donated her whole personal fortune to the place, just because she thought she should.”

“Okay,” Dudley said, making a mental note to ask someone else what St. Mungo’s was. Orphanage? Hospital? Church? Are there wizard churches? “But what’s wrong with being a Hufflepuff?”

“I told you,” Greg said with a sigh. “Dad’s gonna kill me. And then Mum, and then Draco—”

“But why?” Dudley asked, adjusting his seat on the bed and making a loud creak that he hoped wouldn’t wake the others.

“I’m supposed to be in Slytherin ,” Greg said, a savage note in his tone.

“What’s so great about Slytherin?”

“Nothing,” Greg started, “except that it’s where my parents went, and my grandparents, and my great—”

“Who says they know what’s best for you?” Dudley demanded. He considered for a minute. “I mean, obviously they want what’s best for you because they’re your parents, but—well,” he paused. “The Hat, it sort of—sort of talked to me. In my head. About which House I should go to,” he finished. He decided never to tell Greg that he’d deliberately avoided Slytherin. “Did it do that with you?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, still not meeting Dudley’s eyes.

“And did you ask to go to Slytherin?”

Greg picked at something Dudley couldn’t see on his right foot.

“I asked to go where I’d have the best friends,” he whispered. “When it asked what I wanted. I was sure It would put me with Draco and Vince—we all grew up together, we’ve known each other our whole lives! I never thought I’d end up in Hufflepuff!”

“So?” Dudley asked slowly. “Are you sorry?”

“Of course I’m sorry! I should’ve—” Dudley was shaking his head.

“Not sorry that you’re not in Slytherin. Sorry that you’ll have good friends, here.”

Greg scowled, but not like he was angry—rather, like he was thinking that over.

“Maybe—” Dudley began.

“Will you two shut up and let me sleep?” growled a voice from somewhere else in the room. Dudley suddenly realized that there was a deeper silence than when Greg had first woken him—no snoring, no heavy breathing. Are they all listening?

“Sorry,” Dudley grunted. He put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “It’ll be alright, dude,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

And he hustled back to his own bed.

Chapter Text

Breakfast lacked the insane glory of the feast the night before, but was nevertheless more than enough for Dudley. As he sat at the Hufflepuff table with Greg and Susan—Greg because they’d been companionably silent all that morning, and Susan because she’d walked out of the girls’ dormitory the same time Dudley and Greg had left the boys’—Q and Gemma had appeared. They passed out schedules to each of the first-years.

“We’d better go wake the ones that are still asleep,” Gemma said. Q nodded, and the pair bounced off without explaining anything ont he schedules at all.

“Herbology first,” Susan sighed, inspecting the schedule. Dudley nodded, glancing at it around his scone. "I'll be useless there."

“Wha’s that?” He asked between mouthfuls, almost choking. He gave a throat-clearing type of cough.

“Herbology? It’s like gardening, you know. Plants.”

Dudley gave her his best befuddled look.

“They teach gardening here?” He looked at his schedule more carefully. “History of Magic—alright, I get that. Charms and Transfiguration sounds like… basic magics? Potions—is that like Chem? And, what on Earth, does that say ‘Astronomy’ at midnight on Wednesdays?”

“Yeah,” Susan said with a shrug. "That's Hogwarts for you, all the basic magical subjects first."

“But—but there’s no maths! No English! And what in the actual Hell itself is ‘Defense Against the Dark Arts’? We’re getting attacked? Is that military training?”

“It’s nutty, I know,” sighed a soft voice. Hannah Abbott slid onto the bench on the other side of Greg. “I’m a half blood—one magical parent, one muggle,” she added as Dudley gazed at her in consternation.

“So?” Dudley asked. Hannah reached for the basket of scones, but she was so short—and Greg so broad—that Dudley had to pass them to her.

“ So, I went to Muggle primary school, like you,” she said cheerfully. “Always knew I was coming here for secondary, though. Was it just awful finding out from Professor McGonagall?"

Dudley swallowed the last of his scone and reached toward Hannah and the basket for a second.

“Professor McGonagall? No, this enormous bloke called Hagrid came and told us about Hogwarts and magic and all,” Dudley replied. Hannah frowned, then shrugged.

“Oh. Well, either way, it must’ve been quite shocking.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Dudley said. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with not taking maths anymore.”

“Don’t worry,” Hannah said. She looked up and down the table. “Have you seen any raspberry jam? It’s my favorite, and Mum says Hogwarts has the best stuff.

“Point is, don’t bother asking this lot—” she indicated Susan and Greg— “about stuff that happens in the normal world. Watch this:” She paused, looking Greg up and down, apparently recognizing his enormity for the first time. “Who’s your favorite Spice Girl?” She asked.

“My favorite what?” Greg asked. Hannah rolled her eyes, and cocked her head to the side as if to say, “see?” to Dudley.

“Baby,” Susan interrupted. “I loved her in the Wannabe music video. “Don’t lump us all in with the no-nothing purebloods, Hannah.”

“Hey!” Greg exclaimed, looking annoyed now, as well as confused. “I know lots of things!”

“Sure, you know the difference between, I dunno, Monkshood and Wolfsbane, but can you name all of the Friends?” Susan said. She gave Greg such a severe look that Dudley felt as though he’d catch her scorn too, if he wasn’t careful.

“My, my,” an annoyingly familiar voice sounded behind Dudley. He turned, and there stood Draco Malfoy, flanked by two other boys. One, of course, was Vincent Crabbe, but Dudley didn’t know the sulking one on the other side of him. “Is this why you betrayed your blood, Goyle? To get made fun of?”

Greg turned a particularly intense shade of pink.

There was an awkward pause.

“Malfoy,” Susan said.

“Bones,” Draco replied in a sneer.

“Crabbe, Nott,” Susan continued with a polite smile—though her eyes were chilling.

“You’re Amelia Bones’ niece, aren’t you?” the boy called Nott asked, his tone derisive.

“Yes,” Susan said. 

“Tell me,” Nott continued, “is she as priggish and snooty at home? Or does she save that for her courtly denunciations?”

“Hard to say,” Susan responded in a heartbeat. “See, unlike your father, I’ve never been arrested for my Death Eater activities.”

The Great Hall seemed to grow ten degrees colder. Nott looked furious; Malfoy glanced sideways at him and gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish, boys,” Susan said. Then she gave a fluttering wave of her fingers and took the scones from Dudley with a smile. Dudley, taking her cue, turned in his seat so that his back was to Malfoy. Greg, however, was still facing the three Slytherins.

“Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Chandler, and Joey,” Dudley said a little too loudly, trying to wrest control of Greg’s attention back from Draco. “They’re American, I grant you, but they’re funny.”

Greg gave a short laugh, turning himself back to the table. His face was an awkward angle, and for a moment Dudley feared that his friend would cry again. But then he elbowed Hannah and said, “the raspberry jam’s down there, I think.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said, standing up. Draco and his friends had not moved, and Hannah had to push past them slightly to get to the jam. Dudley watched her, pretending not to notice how surprised Draco looked, but feeling himself smirk all the same.

Then the three Slytherin boys walked away, and Greg relaxed, leaning forward as Hannah returned.

“Who are Monica and the others?” He whispered conspiratorily.

“Oh, just stick with us, Greg,” Susan said, now spreading honey on a second scone. “We’ll get you a proper education, yet.”

“What’s wrong with knowing wizard things?” Greg asked, scowling. “I mean—”

“Nothing,” Susan replied, and took a bite. She waved a hand toward the others as if to ask someone else to finish.

“I think Susan means it’s good to learn about everything,” Hannah said. Ernie sat down next to her. 

“Quite right!” He exclaimed, his chest thrust out and his hat curling slightly forward, reminding Dudley of a quail.

Susan, who had swallowed, added,

“My auntie always told me that if I could live in muggle or magical England, I’d be better off in the long run than my pureblood cousins.”

Dudley sat chewing, considering this, when a burly boy one or two years older than the first-years, by the look of him, sat down beside Susan.

“Did you hear?” He asked, excited. “Or—well—did you meet him? Since he’s in your year, and all that?”

Dudley gave the boy a puzzled look.

“McLaggen—Cormac McLaggen. I’m in my second year.”

“Hi,” Dudley said, waving his fork at McLaggen. “Like Q?”

“My brother,” the other boy said dismissively, giving a wave of his own, though his was somewhat disdainful.

“Meet who ?” Hannah asked, causing McLaggen to look at her. Dudley took a drink of his orange juice, watching the exchange with interest. Then he choked as McLaggen said,

“The school is simply exploding with the news. Keep a sharp eye out—they say Harry Potter is here, at Hogwarts.”

Chapter Text

Dudley was still deciding what to do.

The Hufflepuff first-years had all been woken and gathered, and Gemma had told them how to get to the greenhouses. She’d warned them that it was probably the easiest class to find.

They’d gotten lost twice on their way out of the castle.

All along the way, the other seven Hufflepuffs were discussing the apparently incredible news that Harry Potter was at Hogwarts. This had caused something of a quandary for Dudley Dursley.

Thanks to Niamh Walsh, a muggleborn girl who was as perplexed as Dudley would’ve been about the whole story, Dudley got more details about Harry’s fame than Hagrid had given. Harry, it turned out, came from a long line of well-to-do wizards and witches on his Potter side, some ancestors possibly dating back to something called the “Sacred 28,” which Greg had nodded about like “sacred” was a normal thing to call a group of magical families. Harry's family had held a great deal of old money, and gained a great deal of new money, which explained the Gringotts vault packed with gold that Dudley had had occasion to goggle at. Harry’s parents, Lily and James, had been famous in their own right for their magical prowess at Hogwarts in their time, and for some very near and often-described escapes from “You-Know-Who” ( Moldy Shorts, Dudley still thought privately.)

Then, of course, there was the fame of Harry himself.

Harry Potter had been a one-year-old when, on the Halloween for which Mum had stuffed Dudley into a bumblebee costume, Moldy Shorts had murdered Dudley's aunt and uncle. Rumor, according to the half- and pure-bloods of Dudley’s class, had it that Moldy Shorts had hunted them for over a year by then, and Dumbledore himself (they said this with great gravity and respect) had done his best to protect the young family. Then, in a happening still surrounded by great mystery, Moldy Shorts had blasted Harry’s parents apart or to death or something. Dudley wasn’t sure any of the other eleven-year-olds knew the grim and gory details. The point of the whole tale was that Moldy Shorts—who, by then, was all but ruling magical England with cruelty and malice and followers called “Death Eaters”—had tried to kill Harry himself.

Why anyone would set out to murder a baby was quite beyond Dudley. He might’ve beaten Harry up a few times over the years for acting like an obnoxious little prat, but he never would’ve tried to kill him.

“Why, though?” Dudley asked Greg as Ernie, who had been telling the story, fell silent in what Dudley suspected was a dramatic pause. “Why try to kill Harry? What, was he some kind of threat to Mol—” Dudley stopped, not sure if his private name for the Dark wizard would be appreciated here.

Susan squealed,

“Don’t say it!” and Dudley looked at her, embarrassed.

“I was going to—to call him something else, I swear,” he said.

They had finally reached the front doors of the castle, and set off together down the lawn.

“No one knows,” Ernie answered Dudley after a moment, in what Dudley assumed was his best spooky voice. “No one knows what He-Who-Must-Not—”

“Moldy Shorts,” Dudley interrupted. It wasn’t that he was suddenly feeling brave; rather, Ernie’s pompous nature was starting to wear on him, and Dudley didn’t think he could listen to the other boy call the Dark wizard “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” again.

Hannah gasped this time. Susan choked. Greg snorted, and Ernie looked as though Dudley had just punched him in the throat. Wayne stopped walking entirely, which caused Dudley, directly behind him, to stop as well.

“Well, anyway, no one knows why Moldy Shorts wanted to commit… what’s it called?” Dudley asked, feeling uncomfortable. He knew there was a word for it.

“...Infanticide, I think,” Susan said finally.

The group began to move again, though both Hannah and Wayne were glancing furtively at Dudley, and Niamh looked grateful that all the don’t say the name nonsense was over with.

“No,” Greg said at last. “Even… even the Death Eaters never really knew,” he finished.

Now, how does he know that? Dudley wondered.

“Hey—firs’ years! Off to Herbology?” Interrupted the very loud voice that could only have come from Hagrid. Dudley looked up with a smile.

“Hagrid!” He called. “What are you doing out here?”

“Oh, the centaurs were fightin’ about something, Dumbledore wants a report on it, so he sent me,” Hagrid said, puffing out his chest.

“ Centaurs?”

“Yeah, they’re right irritating sometimes, but clever folks. Not as much fun as the satyrs.” Hagrid smiled brightly. “I was thinkin' I'd send you two boys, you an' Harry, an invitational note later in the week—you’ll ‘ave Friday afternoons open, right?”

“Er—” I think so,” Dudley said, trying to remember everything scheduled for the week.

“Righ’, well, you go ahead and tell Harry I’ll expect you two to afternoon tea, then, on Friday. I'll send yer owl so you don't forget.” Hagrid paused, then jerked his thumb toward a round-walled hut in the distance. “That’s me ‘ouse. Just show up with yer cousin, there’s a good lad,” Hagrid said. Then he walked away, swinging his arms and whistling cheerily.

Dudley hadn’t realized the significance of what Hagrid had said until it dawned on him that the other Hufflepuff first-years were all staring at him, their faces varying from astonished to annoyed.

“Did—did he just say—”

“Oh, uh…” Dudley paused. “Should I have asked if I could invite you all?”

“No,” Greg said, “but you probably ought to have mentioned that Harry Potter is your cousin.”

Dudley squirmed. He considered denying, trying to distance himself from the debacle, but it wasn’t really a secret. And it certainly wouldn’t remain one if he tried to keep it quiet now.

“Er—er— well… yeah, he is,” Dudley said quietly. The others were still staring, and Wayne looked deeply uncomfortable. Dudley moved to the front of the group, striding toward the greenhouses. Greg followed, keeping pace, but when Dudley glanced at him, even he looked overwhelmed.

Did I just lose all the people I could be friends with at once? Dudley thought. His ears were burning, and he checked his pockets out of habit, hoping he’d find a snack or a treat or even just a piece of gum.

“Blimey!” Came Wayne’s voice behind Dudley, and he jumped. “I thought you’d all be nuts about me having a prefect for a sister—but—well—blimey, Dudley!”

The other Hufflepuffs had caught up.

“What’s this famous kid like?” Niamh asked as they approached the first greenhouse.

Dudley peered through the glass, remembering what the schedule had said—Potions with the Ravenclaws, Charms with the Slytherins, and Herbology with the Gryffindors.

“He’s the scrawny one. With the black hair, in there with the redhead boy,” Dudley said, and pointed through the glass of the greenhouse wall.

Chapter Text

Herbology, no one had mentioned, was the study of magical plants. Dudley supposed he should’ve seen this coming. He had just enough time to wave to Harry and say,

“Hagrid wants us to afternoon tea on Friday,” before Professor Sprout walked into the classroom and called for quiet.

She pulled out a roll sheet—folded on a piece of parchment from her pocket, rather than a scroll like at the Sorting, Dudley noticed—and called their names. After the discussion on the way over, he expected some kind of reaction to Harry’s name, and was somewhat relieved when none of the Hufflepuffs did more than glance at him when his cousin’s name was called. Harry, for his part, look relieved as well. Dudley wondered if his first morning had put him too much in the spotlight, or if that was still to come.

“My name is Professor Pomona Sprout,” the Professor said. “I’m glad you’ve all found your way to the greenhouses. Usually, I’d encourage you to look at the specimens in here with your hands, get a little dirty. Today, however, begins with a few items of business.”

Dudley noticed that Hermione had pulled out a notebook and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi . He glanced down; in all of the excitement to find the classroom, he hadn’t even brought his school bag.

“Herbology is rather different than many subjects taught at Hogwarts,” Professor Sprout continued. “In Transfiguration and Charms, your concentration will be on your wand and your will. In Potions, your ingredients and precision in following directions. Herbology is not like that.”

Dudley raised his eyebrows.

“Here, you will get your hands dirty,” the Professor said with glee. “You may be gifted with what they call a ‘green thumb,’ or it may be that you have… limited ability with plants. I recognize that some of this is talent and upbringing, and some is skill and study.”

She continued describing Herbology; how she evaluated and graded, the need to use proper ingredients, the importance of utilizing correct tools for their jobs.

 “You can’t repot a Venemous Tentacula with a trowel!” She trilled. She grinned at them all, but Dudley saw that everyone else looked as confused as he felt.

“You’ll get that in about six years,” Sprout sighed.

Something hit Dudley on the side of the head, and he whirled. Harry was staring at him, holding a second ball of paper, poised to throw.

“Now, you’ll have to become accustomed to certain safety procedures in this class, as even first-years often deal with dangerous plants. For instance, has anyone heard of Devil’s Snare?” The Professor asked. Hermione, unsurprisingly, raised a hand eagerly.

“What does it do, Miss…” Sprout squinted. “Granger, was it? I do try to recall all of the names.”

“Hermione Granger, Professor,” Hermione said quickly. “Devil’s Snare, it—it grabs on like a boa constrictor and tries to throttle people, doesn’t it?”

“Very good,” Sprout said. “The roots are carnivorous; Devil’s Snare is what we call a Scavenger Plant.” Dudley returned his gaze to Harry, who was mouthing something. Dudley shook his head, not getting it.

“Now, Devil’s Snare will kill you if it can, but we work with its shoots in second term. For that sort of reason, Mr. Potter and Mr. Dursley, while I encourage inter-House friendships, I advise you to pay attention whilst I am talking. There are many opportunities to talk in my class, as you will be working in groups most days. This is not one of those,” she finished.

Dudley’s whole face was burning with embarrassment. Harry ducked his head, apparently in contrition, though Dudley could see he was grinning.

“Mr. Potter, what is important enough to bother your classmate in your very first lesson at Hogwarts ever?” She asked. She was smiling kindly, but her tone was stern. Dudley vowed to himself to pay attention in this class.

“Er—well, it’s—I was passing on word,” Harry said. His smile had faded, and he looked embarrassed.

“I see. And is this message worth your life?” This was said neither as a joke nor as a scolding, but with apparent sincerity from Professor Sprout.

Harry, to Dudley’s curious surprise, looked to Hermione. The girl looked thoughtful, then glanced at Dudley, and shook her head.

“No, Professor,” Harry admitted. “I guess it isn’t that urgent.”

“Very well, then it will keep,” Professor Sprout said. She was smiling sunnily again. “And the rest of you, pay attention. Just because it wasn’t you getting scolded today doesn’t mean the lesson doesn’t apply to you.” She paused. Some of the class were still looking from Harry to Dudley.

“Is it a short message?” Professor Sprout asked. Harry stared at her.

“Er—yeah,” he said.

“Well, for Merlin’s sake, boy, tell your friend what you want him to know before we all perish from curiosity,” she sighed. Harry looked to Hermione again.

“It was my message, Professor,” Hermione said, tone shot through with apology. “I asked Harry to tell Dudley because they’re cousins. It’s just—“ she looked toward Dudley again. “I’ve read up about House Elves this morning, and I wondered why you’d brought it up at the Feast.”

Dudley opened his mouth to reply, but Sprout put up a hand.

“Meet after class, you two. I’ll not waste my whole class on this, I simply didn’t want the debacle of everyone being distracted while I taught. Anyone who wants—“ Sprout squinted—“to discuss House Elves, join Miss Granger and Mr. Dursley after class.”

She turned back to the table in front of her and lifted the lid on a small bin, a powerful smell rising immediately from it.

“For now, let us talk about compost.”

Chapter Text

Dudley rushed up to meet Hermione on the sloping lawn back to the castle. Greg and Niahm followed.

“House Elves,” Hermione said to Dudley without any pretext, “are an absolute tragedy.”

“What’s a House Elf?” Niahm asked.

“A slave, ” Hermione replied.

“So it’s true?” Dudley asked. “There are slaves at Hogwarts?”

Hermione stopped walking.

“There are House Elves at Hogwarts?” She demanded.

“Er—“ Dudley said. “I don’t know for sure,” he said.

“Probably, though,” Greg interjected. Niahm was looking horrified.

“But that’s awful!” She said.

“Exactly,” Hermione answered. “I’m Hermione.”

“Niahm,” the other girl replied. “How can we know for sure?”

Hermione tugged on one of her bushy curls.

“Ask a teacher?”

“Would they tell us?” Greg asked. Dudley frowned.

“We could go to the kitchens ourselves and find out,” he said. Snack time, he thought. “They’re supposed to be near Hufflepuff’s House rooms.”

“You try that,” Hermione said. “I’ll ask Professor McGonagall. We’ll meet in the library to talk. Tomorrow? After dinner?”

Everyone nodded, and started back toward the castle.

***

Monday’s second class was Potions, and it was weird.

The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws poured into a dungeon classroom. The walls were lined with disgusting, creepy things in jars. Dudley surveyed them, and chose a seat near the section that seemed to have things that came from bugs. Better to look at beetles’ wings than stare at pickled intestines of goodness-knew-what.

But he didn’t end up staring at the jars.

The teacher moved into the room like a bird— no, like a bat, in black head-to toe. He didn’t flap his arms, but held them out slightly, and his robes billowed because of it. His head, like a bat’s, looked too small because his black hair was slick with grease.

Ew. I wonder why he doesn’t just wash it? Or, I bet there’s a spell for that.

His skin, however, was a waxy-looking pale stuff, and his eyes (black as well) appeared sunken because his hooked nose was so prominent. He was thin, bony, which almost made Dudley think of Harry. Does this man eat?

“I am Professor Snape,” he announced in a hiss as he reached the front of the room. “Books and wands away, you must all to pay attention to what I say.”

Privately, Dudley smiled at the accidental rhyme.

Snape began to murmur in a loving tone about the power and subtlety of potions. He mentioned that he could “brew glory,” whatever that meant, and “put a stopper in death.” If that’s true, why do you look as glorious and alive as a molding carcass? Dudley wondered. Greg looked fascinated, but his posture was shrunken, as though he feared Snape might attack him.

“As head of Slytherin House, I…” oh, Dudley thought. Greg is embarrassed. He’ll get over that eventually, right?

Then Snape was calling roll. He glanced quickly at the students as they responded to their names, then carried on to the next without comment. That was, right up until—

“Dursley, Dudley.”

Dudley raised his hand and announced,

“Here.” Snape glanced at him, returned to the roll, then did a double-take.

“Do I know you, Mr. Dursley?” He asked after a moment. The Potions Master squinted at Dudley.

“I—” Dudley was taken aback. “I don’t think so, Professor.”

Yet Snape continued to stare at him. He glanced at Greg, who sat beside Dudley; something seemed to register for him, because he nodded to himself.

“Your father, then? Or your mother?”

“I doubt it,” Dudley said. “My father, Vernon, makes drills. Well, he directs a big company.” He didn’t want Dad’s job to sound menial. “My mum, Petunia—well, she’s a muggle, too.”

“Petunia.”

“...Yes, Sir?”

Snape stared hard at him for a very long moment. He looked searchingly at Dudley’s face; a spasm seemed to take him as he met Dudley’s eyes again.

“Maybe you’re thinking of my cousin, Sir,” Dudley said. He glanced quickly at the Ravenclaws, took a deep breath, and said, “Harry Pot—”

“I must be mistaken,” Snape said. He had not withdrawn his gaze from Dudley’s eyes. “If you are muggle-born, we have likely not met.”

Dudley opened his mouth, ready to comment—though he was unsure what to say—when Snape cut him off.

“Cornfoot, Stephen.”

“Here,” a small voice said from the back.

They continued through the roll. After lecturing while the students took some notes, Snape split them into pairs and set them to making a potion he called “simple,” though nothing Mum ever cooked could have been this exacting.

“Dudley—where d’ya reckon you’ve met Snape before?” Greg whispered, stirring.

“I dunno,” Dudley replied. “I don’t see how he could know my parents, either, but he looks barely older. Maybe he went to school same time as Harry’s parents.”

Greg shrugged.

“I’ll ask my father,” he said. “He and Snape—” he flushed. “They’ve met before,” he added.

Peculiar.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dudley said. “I’ll ask Mum. She might have a guess.”

And, despite his head being filled to the brim with questions, Dudley focused on the potion.

Chapter Text

“Is not. The Great Hall is this way,” Greg argued.

“Fine,” Dudley said shortly. “You try your way. I’ll go mine. I’ll save you a seat at lunch, if you make it!”

The boys raced off in different directions.

Dudley managed to take two sets of stairs, one that was on the move, at a sprint. Then he sat down hard on the plinth under the feet of a suit of armor.

“Alright, Dudley?” Asked a somewhat familiar voice. Dudley looked up; Neville Longbottom was offering him a hand to stand up.

“Yeah,” Dudley gasped. Neville looked him over, then sat on the opposite corner of the plinth.

“What’re you doing here?” Neville asked. “Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”

“I’m… I might be lost,” Dudley admitted. “You?”

“I was stupid; I put Trevor in my school bag today. Thought he’d help me be brave in classes or something dumb like that. Anyway, he’s hopped off again.”

“Sorry,” Dudley said, unwilling to commit to chasing a lost toad in the madness of Hogwarts. “He’ll turn up, right?”

“I hope so,” Neville replied fervently. The boys sat in silence for a moment.

“Neville?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you bring a toad to school? Owls, I get. Cats—well, maybe they’re useful. But a toad?”

Neville looked embarrassed, but swallowed and said,

“Toads are traditional familiars in my family.”

“…familiars?” Dudley asked.

“An animal that you can bond to magically and get powers from. My great-uncle Algie can see through his toad’s eyes, even underwater. And some other cool stuff. He bought me Trevor because he thought it’d be good for me. Help me channel my power.”

“Oh,” Dudley said. Trevor still seemed like an inconvenience to him, especially because nothing Neville had said seemed to imply that the toad did him any good at all.

“What about you?” Neville asked. A door swung shut down the corridor in the distance, and footsteps headed their way. “Does your violin help you with your power?”

What.

When am I going to stop being steamrolled by offhand comments from people who grew up with magic?

Dudley realized he hadn’t answered. He was about to admit that he had no idea that that was a thing, when a cool, calming voice asked,

“Are you boys alright?”

They looked up into the face of a wizard in deep navy robes. He was smiling slightly, though his warm, light brown eyes were quizzical. He had short brown hair, too, though with frosted tips. He reminded Dudley a bit of Brad Pitt, if Brad Pitt’s nose were too small and mouth too wide.

“We’re lost,” Neville said.

“First-years,” Dudley added.

“Well, I’m headed to lunch, if you’d like an escort.” The Professor said.

The boys got to their feet; Dudley was relieved to find he could breathe without panting again.

“I am Professor Delorme,” the man said, “but most people call me Corbon, or just Cor.”

“We’re students…?” Dudley said questioningly. The professor laughed.

“I know. I believe that fostering comfortable relationships with my students helps them learn better in the classroom—and I never could get used to being called ‘Sir.’”

“What do you teach?” Neville asked.

“Muggle Studies,” Cor said pleasantly.

“That’s a class?” Dudley asked. Cor gave a small, snorting laugh and led them through a previously solid wall that had giggled and moved when he winked at it.

“You must be muggle-born,” Cor said. He looked genuinely interested. Dudley nodded, and Cor beamed at him. "Wonderful," he commented.

“And you?” He asked Neville.

“Oh, I’m a Longbottom. Pureblood,” Neville answered.

“Ah. Well, if your friend here can’t answer your questions, I’d be happy to,” Cor said. “I’m a half-blood, but I grew up in Muggle France and, later, Britain. Your first names?”

“Dudley,” Dudley said. “Dudley Dursley, if that matters.”

“Neville,” Neville added.

They passed through a door that turned to vapor of some kind, and Dudley recognized the corridor; there were the barrels from outside the common room.

“And, of course, Dudley, feel free to come by my office if you need updates on the latest Dr. Who.”

“Who?” Neville asked.

“Exactly,” Dudley answered.

Cor chuckled.

They approached the Great Hall.

“I’ve got to speak to Mr. Filch, boys. Enjoy your lunch,” Cor said. He hurried off, and Dudley waved as Neville continued on to the Gryffindor table.

“Ha,” Greg said as Dudley arrived. He was halfway through a personal-sized steak and kidney pie.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dudley said. “Talk to the hand.” He held up a palm.

“What?” Greg asked.

“Never mind,” Dudley sighed. “I’ve gotta eat fast. I need to practice my violin before lunch hour ends; good thing Neville reminded me.”

Chapter Text

Fred and George slid into seats opposite Dudley as he chewed and swallowed in a rush. He had to be able to write Mum that he’d been practicing his music, and he knew she’d be desperate for a letter soon.

“Dudley,” Fred said, by way of greeting.

“Fred.”

“You can tell us apart!” George sounded stunned.

“Harry and I grew up with a pair of twins just down the drive. They were very touchy about getting mixed up. We learned some tricks.”

The twins shared a glance; they seemed somewhat disappointed.

“Wish we had some Polyjuice,” Fred said longingly.

“Why?” Greg interrupted. Dudley glanced between them, confused.

“So we could be each other. Throw a wrench in for those that can tell.”

Greg stared from one twin to the other. They wore identical expressions of earnest innocence. Then he started to chuckle.

“You two are either completely stupid—”

“—It’s been suggested—”

“—Or geniuses who are mad with power.”

“Ooh, I like that. We should get that tattooed somewhere, Fred,” said Fred. Dudley raised an eyebrow at him.

“Only checking to see if you were paying attention, Diddykins. Now, we have a question.”

“...Okay?” Dudley answered.

“We saw you talking to Cor when you came in.”

“Who’s Cor?” Asked Greg, puzzled.

“The Muggle Studies Professor. Likes to go by his first name, which is—”

“—more than a little curious, we think.”

“So?” the twins asked together.

“So… what?” Dudley asked.

“What did you think of him?” George responded. “We have his class this year, had it first thing this morning.”

“Our dad loves Muggles,” Fred added.

“Thought we’d get a less-obsessive viewpoint,” George finished. “So we’re taking the class.”

“Alright, but—”

“He’s interesting, though.”

“Interesting how?” Dudley asked.

“That’s what we wanted to ask you about. What did you think of him?”

“Er—I dunno, he seemed nice enough. Showed me and Neville the way back here. We got lost.”

Greg gave a gloating grin to his pie remains at that.

“Thank you for your time,” George said. If he was disappointed, he hid it well.

“We’d compensate you for answering our survey, but we’re dead broke,” Fred added.

Dudley shrugged, puzzled.

“No problem?” He said.

The twins, as one, stood and stepped backward over the bench. Then they paused, each looking back over a shoulder.

“You can really tell us apart?”

“Think so, mates,” Dudley said, feeling somewhat apologetic.

“If it helps, I can’t,” Greg said. Fred smiled; George nodded.

“Thanks,” they said together.

The twins left, and Dudley returned to scarfing down his food.

Chapter Text

Dear Mum, Dudley wrote,

It’s been a wild first couple of days here. I’ll do my best to explain, but—you know how you and Dad always told me not to do drugs because then I wouldn’t know what was real anymore? Well, I swear, I haven’t done any drugs, but things are that trippy.

The stairs move. The suits of armor watch you go down the hall. The— Dudley paused, not sure what to say. He didn’t want to make it sound awful, but he also didn’t want Mum to think he didn’t miss home.

—The portraits and ghosts are cool, though; they’ll talk to you mostly like normal people. Definitely takes some getting used to, but it’s alright.

I’m looking for someone else who plays violin to help coach me, like you said to, and in the meantime, I’m practicing! It’s been really tricky finding a space where people can’t overhear me while I make the same mistake fifteen times in a row. You’d think in a giant castle, there’d be empty space, but I’m afraid of getting lost and I haven’t explored all that much. Maybe I’ll ask Harry if he has any ideas.

I forgot to tell you; they sort us into Houses here, just like at Smeltings. My House is called Hufflepuff. The others in the House seem like decent people, and they say Hufflepuffs are the nice kids, so I guess that’s good. Harry is in a different House, Gryffindor— he paused again. Mum wouldn’t care too much about what Harry was up to, so he added a period to the end of the line and moved on.

I made a good friend, name of Gregory Goyle. I think you’d like Greg, even though he grew up with wizards and can’t even tell you what Cadbury eggs are. He’s really great about letting a fellow be when I just want a minute, and he’s good for a laugh too. The other boys in the dormitory are alright, like I said, I just don’t really know them yet. I really don’t know the girls, either, but Hannah and Susan seem like they’re pretty fun, and they know some muggle normal things. It’s nice to have someone around who’s heard of the Great Humberto!

How’s Dad doing? Are things… well, should I write him his own letter yet? I wasn’t sure…

In Charms class today—that’s a class, if you can believe it—we talked a lot about the nature of objects, and I swear it was all primary school stuff. Solids, liquids, and gasses are different and only the muggle-borns of us knew how to describe them! But then, they started talking about the magical nature of things, the Essences is what Professor Flitwick called them, and, well, it’s a good thing Greg was there or I wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on.

Hagrid, that giant bloke, is having me and Harry ‘round for tea on Friday. I hope that’s fun. I know you probably aren’t wild about him, but he’s really alright to me, I promise, Mum.

Oh! Another thing— Muggle Studies is a class. Wish I could take that, I’d get top marks! It’s also weird not having Maths and English (they offer Arithmancy and Latin as elective courses in third year, I found out, but still…) and I heard some third-years complaining because they had to write a 12” essay. A handwritten essay, 12 inches long. That’s like a five-paragraph, one-page essay that they had us writing in Year 4, but nobody specified a font size. These wizarding types sure can gripe!

The magic stuff—I know you don’t like it, and I’m not trying to make you feel worse. But I’m having an okay time with it. I just wish I could go home to your cooking at the end of the day! Not that they don’t feed us here; I’m getting plenty to eat, and the quality is pretty darn good. I just miss yours.

I guess I’m a little homesick, but I don’t think it’s really hit me, yet. Like, normally, I’d be freaking out about all the TV I’ve missed and the books I have to read and—well, lots of things. I realized this morning that Piers must’ve left for Smeltings today. I hope he does okay on his own.

I love you, Mum. And Dad, give him my love too. I’m sure Harry says hi and all that. Dudley chuckled darkly to himself. He very much doubted whether Harry would want to extend a greeting.

Write soon!

Love,

Dudley

P.S. Oh, there’s this super weird professor here named Snape who totally spazzed when he heard your name. Have you ever met someone with that name? It was strange.

Dudley approached Greg with more than a little trepidation. He didn’t want to get made fun of.

“What’s up?” Greg asked him.

“How do I get this letter to my Mum?” Dudley asked, showing his folded parchment to his friend.

“Er—send it by owl, mate. I thought you said you had one?”

“Oh, yeah, Harry and I have one that belongs to both of us. Morganna. Only…” Dudley swallowed, feeling stupid. “How do you actually send a letter with an owl? Do I read it to her and she repeats it?” That could get embarrassing.

Greg chuckled, but thankfully, not in a mean way.

“Nah, mate, she’s not a parrot; you tie it to her leg. Here—” he took the letter from Dudley and unfolded it. Dudley was about to object—it wasn’t full of secrets or anything, but it was still private—but then Greg rolled it into a tight scroll.

“Let’s find the Owlery. Your owl will be there, and I’ll show you how to attach the letter good so it doesn’t fall off.”

Dudley nodded his thanks.

“Maybe you can help me, later,” Greg mused as they walked toward the front exit of the Common Room.

“With what?”

“Well, I haven’t written home yet. Not sure how to break the Hufflepuff news.”

“Oh. I’ll think it over.”

The two boys ambled out, searching for a way to the Owlery.

Chapter Text

Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was something Dudley had been nervously, hopefully looking forward to. Q, the prefect, had told him that it was the first class where he’d get to actually use his wand.

“But don’t expect much,” Q had advised. “You’re a first-year. No offense, but if you turn a match into a needle on your first day, McGonagall will go nuts over you.”

Dudley didn’t mind. He didn’t even really care if he was good at magic, to start. He just wanted an excuse to feel the whoosh of magic he’d experienced in Ollivander’s wand shop again.

Ollivander had tried to find a wand for Harry first. That had taken forever. Just as Dudley had been dozing on the wicker chair in the front of the shop, Harry had poured sparks out of a polished stick.

Dudley had seen his cousin entirely differently, after that.

Then it had been Dudley’s turn. While Harry had stood by Hagrid, watching quietly, Dudley had waved a couple of wands. Nothing spectacular had happened, and Ollivander had seemed perfectly delighted that it should take some time.

Then, just when Dudley was starting to wonder if he was magical, really—it had happened.

“Alder and Dragon Heartstring, fourteen and three-quarters inches. Quite springy. Do go on and give it a wave, my young man,” Ollivander had said. Dudley had raised the wand.

It did have a certain give to it that some of the others had lacked, though Dudley had wondered if that was due to its being so long. He was also reeling somewhat at the sound of the words “ dragon heartstring” and wondering what a heartstring was, and so he almost missed it.

A slight tingle had begun in Dudley’s right fingertips, and spread rapidly up his arm, strengthening. He felt a warmth, a certainty, that seemed to pour into him from everywhere at once. Then, with a sensation like figuring out a particularly difficult riddle, something in Dudley’s mind connected, and blue sparks burst from the wand, catching or creating light as they dissipated into the air.

Yes. Dudley was very much looking forward to doing magic again.

He filed into McGonagall’s classroom with Ernie in front of him, and Greg behind. The Hufflepuffs clustered, as they often did, in a group of desks near the front. No one was left on his or her own—Dudley was beginning to realize that this was a silent, underlying decision made by all of the Hufflepuff students.

“Welcome to Transfiguration, first year. I have allowed you five extra minutes to find my classroom; I will not do so again,” Professor McGonagall informed them. She didn’t sound angry or even exasperated, just matter-of-fact.

McGonagall launched into a description of Transfiguration as a subject. Dudley was beginning to suspect that each professor thought his or her own subject the most important, the most magical. However, while there were comical elements to the other professors, McGonagall instilled in him a desire to perform exactly as she expected, or better. He had a feeling that if he didn’t make a real effort in Transfiguration, McGonagall would grab him by the ear and find out why he wasn’t trying.

She jotted several things on the chalkboard, which Dudley and his classmates copied into notebooks. Dudley, who had not mastered the use of a quill without dripping the ink, was distracted for a moment with cleaning up one of his diagrams.

“Now,” the Professor said, “I will be giving each of you a matchstick. For those inexperienced in muggle ways of making fire, a matchstick ignites quite easily; we use it for just this purpose. The coated tip is made of chemicals which will ignite if you stop paying attention to what you are doing and simply blast unshaped magic from your wand to the match. I know this seems like a foolish thing to say, but do not ignite the match on purpose. In fact, I would like you to do everything you can to persuade the matchstick to turn into a needle—a simple, hand-sewing needle—without lighting it. This can be accomplished so:”

She paused, pulling a match from a box and tapping it lightly with her wand, while saying, 

“Facti Accus!” 

The match was suddenly a gleaming, thick needle. Dudley tapped his foot lightly against the ground.

“Now, if you do start your match to burning, simply blow out the flame and raise your hand. I will bring you another. But, really, do focus. I believe you can do this if you try.”

McGonagall walked between the desks, lifting matches from a pile in her palm, placing them on the stone top of each student’s desk.

Dudley looked down at his match, eager to begin, but unwilling to go first. He was just looking over at Greg, hoping that his friend would go first, when Professor McGonagall said,

“Who didn’t get one?”

Dudley looked around; everyone looked back at the Professor with blank stares.

“I counted the matchsticks out several times—there should be one matchstick for each Hufflepuff first-year. Please, who needs a match?”

Still, no one spoke. McGonagall frowned, then did a quick headcount of the students.

“Who is missing from class? Is someone ill? Madame Pomfrey, the school Matron, usually informs me—”

Dudley shook his head; he could see all of the boys from his dormitory, and he thought all of the girls were there.

Professor McGonagall, still frowning, pulled a list out of her pocket.

“Abbott, Hannah?” She asked. Hannah raised her hand.

“Bones, Susan.” A hand. “Dursley, Dudley.” Dudley raised his hand too, quite confused. Hannah, Susan, Niahm, and Megan— he thought her last name was Jones— were all there. He ran through the list of boys in the dormitory, imagining the room. Left to right: Ernie, Greg, himself, Wayne, the empty bed, and Justin (who had taken the space on the other side of the empty four-poster, he said, because he was a light sleeper.) All of them were in class.

“Entwhistle, Kevin.”

No one moved.

“Mr. Entwhistle?” Professor McGonagall said again, her tone sharp. Dudley was feeling, he thought the right word was flummoxed.

“There’s no Kevin Entwhistle in our House, Professor,” Hannah said. “Could he be in some other House, and just on the wrong list?”

But no, that isn’t right , Dudley thought. He gasped, and apparently Professor McGonagall thought it was some kind of admission, because she pointed a mildly shaky finger at him.

“Mr. Dursley?” She asked, voice still sharp. “Do you know where Kevin is?”

Dudley stared at her, remembering the Sorting. Kevin had been Sorted right after Dudley. Had gone to sit with a girl that he had taken for a sister…

“I—I remember now. Kevin Entwhistle was Sorted into Hufflepuff. Don’t you remember, Hannah? You were all offended that he didn’t sit with us. And I told you not to worry about it, that he obviously knew that girl he sat by, and then—and then…” Dudley paused.

“But there’s no Kevin in the dormitory,” Greg argued. Ernie shook his head.

“I do remember that,” Hannah said. “I…” she blushed. “I thought he was cute, and I wanted him to come sit by us first-years…” she bit her lip. “But I didn’t see him anywhere, after that, and I quite forgot he existed.”

The Hufflepuffs looked around at each other, eyes wide.

“Please, in the most orderly manner you can manage, return to Hufflepuff Common Room,” Professor McGonagall said. “I do apologize, and we will make up your lesson soon. However, I must get to the bottom of this immediately. Pardon me,” she said.

Professor McGonagall rushed from the classroom, and Dudley stared at Greg, his eyes wide. An uncertain, unnamed anxiety clutched at him.

“What in Merlin’s name is going on?” Greg asked.

“Dunno,” Dudley said, “but I don’t much like it.”

Chapter Text

Since Professor McGonagall had said nothing about staying in the common room, and no one had come along to add any instructions, Dudley made his way toward the front doors just before one o'clock. In the Entrance Hall, he met Harry and Ron.

Dudley gave Ron a surprised look, but said nothing. Ten to one, Harry just invited him without asking Hagrid.

The three boys started off down the lawn.

“First week going good?” Ron grunted. He gave Dudley a sideways glance that seemed to carry an unexpected weight.

“Er—yeah, you?” Dudley asked.

“Yup,” Ron said.

Silence fell between them.

“Find a violin teacher yet, Dudley?” Harry asked.

“Not yet,” Dudley said.

“Dang, Aunt Petunia won’t like that,” Harry said. Dudley chuckled.

“I sent her an owl, told her I was trying. Said hello for you,” Dudley added. Harry gave a small grunt.

“Why?” Ron asked. “You think she cares?”

Dudley felt taken aback.

“You don’t know my mum,” Dudley said. “What’re you on about?”

“Harry told me some stories,” Ron said.

Harry quickly threw his hands up in a show of innocence.

“Don’t drag me into this, Ron; you asked. I didn’t even bring it up.”

Dudley felt the blood rising in his face.

“Oh, and your mum is perfect?” He sneered.

Harry, who seemed to think Dudley was speaking to him, at first, looked momentarily startled. Ron’s ears turned red.

“My mum would be upset about more than just the cost of new glasses, if I broke someone’s. With my fist. Four times."

“Ron—c’mon, Hermione fixed those.”

“No, Harry—Dudley here has bullied you your whole life! Don’t tell me you’re too cowardly to—”

“I’m not a—” Dudley began, though years of visits with the school counselors rang in his mind.

“Boys!” Boomed a voice. Hagrid was coming out of his hut.

“Oh, yes you are!” Ron shouted.

Dudley didn’t think. He just swung his fist at Ron’s stomach. Harry, who seemed to have seen the blow coming, tried to shove Ron out of the way. Dudley's fist clipped Ron on the side, and he winced aloud briefly.

“No, Harry, I don’t care, if it shows people what he is—”

“Boys!” Hagrid said, a bit louder.

“Stop talking about what you don’t understand!” Harry yelped, pulling Ron backwards as he tried to hit Dudley, himself. “And I’m not a coward!”

Dudley took another step toward Ron, shaking all over with rage and pent-up confusion and frustration.

“You’re sure acting like one!” Ron snarled at Harry.

“BOYS!”

Hagrid, it seemed, had had enough. With one gigantic arm, he lifted Ron and Harry off the ground, pulling them out of Dudley’s range. With his opposite pointer and middle fingers, he scootched Dudley backward.

Everyone fell silent. Dudley gaped at Hagrid, awed by his strength.

“Now, get in here, and we’ll talk this ou’ like the gentlemen I know you’re meant to be.” Hagrid growled, all but tossing Harry and Ron toward the door. Dudley hesitated.

“You too, Dudley,” Hagrid said. “You’re in this mess, and you three are gonna talk —shu’ up, Fang.”

A dog—a boarhound that seemed almost to fit with Hagrid’s enormity, bounded out of the hut door, barking wildly. Dudley winced. He’d never understood why anyone would want something as loud and threatening as a big dog. And the name “Fang” inspired little confidence in him.

“Dudley,” Hagrid repeated. His black eyes were still warm, still patient, but warning showed in them. He swatted gently at Fang.

“Go chase some Bowtruckles, ya lump,” he said to the dog. Fang barked a few more times, and Hagrid snapped and pointed. Fang bounded toward the trees.

Hagrid stood back, waiting as the three boys sat at his tall table. Finally, he closed the hut door behind him.

“Now, wha’s happenin’ ‘ere?” He glanced between their faces. “Harry? Dudley?” He looked Ron over. “Weasley, is it? Never knew one ‘a ya to be violent before, yer mum an dad would be ashamed.” Ron flushed.

“Dudley—Dudley’s been bullying Harry his whole life! And Harry won’t even stand up to him, he just acts like everything’s smooth and fine!” Ron huffed, seething.

“Now that’s not—” Harry began.

“It is true, Harry! You told me what he’s like!”

“What he’s been like, Ron! Don’t you think he deserves—”

“No, I don’t!” Ron snapped.

“And any o’ this is yer business how, Ron?” Hagrid asked quietly.

Dudley had never heard Hagrid use that tone before. It was soothing, yet somehow made him want to laugh at the absurdity of the fight.

“Harry’s my friend,” Ron muttered. “I don’t like seeing people treated that way.”

“I see,” Hagrid said. “And since ‘e came to Hogwarts and you met ‘im, what’s Dudley been like to Harry?”

Ron scowled.

“A bit rude.”

Dudley frowned, now, in confusion. Sure, there had been the spat on the train, but all he’d really done was walk away. The school counselors had always encouraged that behavior.

“He’s really been fine, Hagrid,” Harry said.

“Stop defending him! He owes you an apology for the last ten years!” Ron snapped.

“And him saying sorry, that’s supposed to change what it was like, growing up in that house?” Harry asked. He didn’t sound angry, though; he sounded sad. Horribly, devastatingly sad.

“You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t ya?” Hagrid asked Ron. Ron nodded slowly.

“Then ‘ow dare you call Harry a coward?” Hagrid asked, still in that smooth, measured calm. “If you haven’t learnt it before, ya ought ta now—there’s plenty o’ ways of bein’ brave that don’t involve fightin’. Forgiveness is hardly the coward’s way, Ron.”

Ron looked much smaller, suddenly.

Hagrid turned to look at Dudley, and he suddenly itched for something to snack on. I’m so hungry!

“Now, as fer you, Dudley, now I know some’a the things that went on with you kids, growin’ up. Dumbledore gave me a file, before I came ter get ya. I daresay you’ve done a few nasty things to ‘Arry, ‘ere.” Dudley nodded slowly. “And I applaud you fer changin’ yer ways ‘ere at school, because Olympians know that ain’t easy. Change can take time. But fightin’ for yer innocence when you know you ain’t been innocent don’t make sense, either.”

Dudley hung his head.

“I am sorry,” he muttered toward the floor.

“Tha’s all well and good, an’ somethin’ to talk over with your cousin,” Hagrid said. “You must’ve been through it, yerself, at home, after my visit. Bet it gave you a taste o’ what Harry’s upbringin’ has been.” 

Dudley nodded again.

“Now, Harry.” Hagrid looked levelly into Harry’s eyes. “It’s very gracious of you ta forgive Dudley, ‘ere. But whinging to Ron about what he used to do ain’t really forgivin’, is it?” Hagrid asked. Harry looked surprised, then embarrassed. “As fer Ron, he’s your firs’ real friend, but my guess is—if you’ll excuse me, Ron— that you’re one of the firs’ friends he’s ever had outside his brothers and sister. ‘E’s a pureblood, and not from a wizarding community as such. I doubt as ‘e ever had the chance to grow up with other young’ns, an’ ya can’t be mad at ‘im fer tryin’ to be a real friend.”

Harry shrugged apologetically at Ron.

“Now,” Hagrid said, a little more loudly. “You three eat yer rock cakes, ‘ere, and I’ll check the kettle. Oughtta whistle any mo’.”

Dudley seized a rock cake from a platter, but simply stared at it. Quietly, awkwardly, he looked at the other two. They were as red in the face as he felt he must be.

“I—” he began.

“Let’s all just forget it,” Harry advised. “No use going on about this; we all needed to blow off some steam, and now we’ve done that. Forget it.”

“Forgotten,” Ron said, but his eyes were on Dudley, and his eyebrows were raised.

“Yeah,” Dudley agreed. “Yeah. It’s nothing.”

Chapter Text

The Gryffindors and Slytherins were walking up from the field, chattering very excitedly, as the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws marched down toward their doom.

That was how Dudley felt, anyway.

Ron caught Dudley’s eye and gave a small wave, but Dudley felt too sick to return it. Greg waved back instead, and added a thumbs-up. Greg was excited to fly, for some insane reason.

It didn’t matter how magical everything else was; Dudley knew perfectly well that he was big and heavy, and the strongest broomstick in the magical world surely couldn’t bear him up into the air. Physics still applied here, didn’t it?

Harry had mentioned, at tea, that he was excited to fly. Ron had launched into describing quidditch again, which was apparently a sport played on brooms in the air. Dudley had shrunk tighter and tighter into a corner, aggravated when Hagrid announced that he used an enchanted motorcycle to fly, because brooms didn’t work right for him. He was too big.

They arrived on the lawn, where a flustered-looking witch with flyaway gray curls had waved them to a pile of broomsticks. “Pile” might have been the wrong word; what did you call a group of low-hovering broomsticks?

“Madam Hooch; I’m Madam Hooch,” the witch said. Her eyes were tracing through the sky, as though watching someone fly who was no longer there. She shook herself slightly.

“Attention. This is Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, yes? Professor McGonagall has given new instructions that every teacher is to take roll, at the beginning of every class. So…” she paused, then pulled a list from her pocket.

“Brown, Lavender?” Madam Hooch looked at them all for a moment, and then Susan raised a hand.

“Madam Hooch?”

“Yes, Miss Brown?”

“No, I’m Susan Bones. I think Lavender is in Gryffindor, though, and they’ve just finished, haven’t they?”

The Ravenclaws tittered.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Miss Bones. One mo’.”

She stuffed her list in a pocket, then pulled a second scrap of parchment out of a different pocket.

“Abbot, Hannah?”

“Here.”

As she called roll, Dudley wondered—not wondered, really, he felt sure—that the change in roll policy had everything to do with the ominous cloud of the missing Kevin Entwhistle.

“Welcome to flight,” Madam Hooch said, once “Turpin, Lisa” had announced her presence among the Ravenclaws. “Today you will learn only the basic mechanics. You will not fly higher than that tree.” She pointed at a sapling nearby. “You will not dive. You will not throw things. This is not Quidditch.”

She seemed very stern, and no longer distracted.

Greg sighed slightly.

“You’ve flown before, right?” Dudley whispered to him. Greg nodded cheerfully.

“Tons, since I was little,” Greg whispered. “This’ll be nothing.” He glanced at Dudley. “Are you nervous?”

“A bit,” Dudley admitted. “I’m kind of a fat kid, Greg.”

“I’m not tiny either,” Greg pointed out. “You’ll be fine, honest. The only thing to really worry about is falling off, and I bet the school brooms have all kinds of enchantments against that.”

“Yes indeed, young man,” Madam Hooch said, apparently having caught what Greg was saying. “Falling off a school broom is actually quite difficult, my boy,” she added kindly to Dudley.

“You’re sure?” Dudley muttered. He expected the other students to laugh, but in glancing around, he saw that several of them looked as concerned as he was.

“Trust me, young man. If the Gryffindor boy who dived fifty feet this morning without ever having flown before didn’t crash, you won’t either.”

There were mutterings among the students.

“Who did a stupid thing like that?” Dudley heard Ernie whisper.

“I dunno, but I’m not surprised it was a Gryffindor,” Megan whispered back. “They seem the type.”

“ Do not follow suit, ” Madam Hooch said in response to the whispers.

She showed them how to call their brooms to them by saying, “Up!” firmly. Only one girl, a Ravenclaw, was able to actually get a response from her broom, and she was so startled, she dropped the handle. They all tried again; several others, Greg included, managed this time. Dudley’s broom quivered slightly, as though it were as afraid of him as he was of it.

“C’mon,” he murmured at it. “C’mon, we have to do this, so let’s try. Up!” He said the last word with more determination than he yet had. To his surprise, the broom swung immediately into his hand.

Okay, he thought, it just needs a little encouragement. I can do this. I can.

At a cue from Madam Hooch, Dudley and the others swung their legs over their broomsticks. The broom handle vibrated slightly, the letters of the brand name— Shooting Star— becoming difficult to discern.

“Kick off from the ground, hard—” Madam Hooch was calling out. “You there, Ravenclaw girls, don’t point the handles at each other like that, you’ll crash. Remember, the broom follows where you aim it.” he girls sheepishly aimed away from each other. “Three—two—one—”

She blew her whistle, and Dudley bent his knees and kicked .

Suddenly, the ground was fading away beneath his sneakers, and before he knew it, he was glancing to the side and the top of the sapling Madam Hooch had indicated was almost at eye level. Quickly, Dudley pushed down on the front of his broom, trying to bring it level. He dipped, turning to the left by accident.

“Look out!” Cried a boy’s voice. Dudley glanced up, and his broom followed as he accidentally pulled it along. Justin Finch-Fletchley passed an inch below Dudley’s feet.

“Hover, then come back down!” Madam Hooch yelled from the ground, her voice magically magnified.

Dudley tried to level out the Shooting Star. He did his best, then, as the broom began to buzz in his hands, he carefully descended and slid through the air, down, down, and his toes touched earth.

Dudley dropped the broom, breathing heavily. That had been unexpectedly fun— exhilarating, he thought the word was—but also absolutely terrifying. His hands were shaking the broom, now, not the other way around, and he looked around to realize that he was forty yards from where he’d taken off.

Well, I won’t be any kind of star quidditch player any time soon, but hey! —he breathed deeply— I survived! And… I flew!

Chapter Text

“Pardon, students,” said the strict voice of Professor McGonagall. The Hufflepuffs in the Gathering Place, along with the strays from other Houses, turned to look. There, along with Professor McGonagall, stood Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and Snape.

“There’s not a good way to break this news, so I will simply say it,” McGonagall continued. “A first-year Hufflepuff student, mister Kevin Entwhistle, seems to have vanished during the the Welcoming Feast, and has not been seen since. Due to the size and nature of the castle, we cannot rule out—”

A small shriek interrupted her.

“Kevin is missing?” a girl’s voice demanded.

A distant part of Dudley’s mind flew back to the last Christmas’ film, Home Alone. He thought the main missing character in that was named Kevin, too.

The girl who had screamed was now hyperventilating, and Professor Sprout moved quickly to her.

“Becca, it will be alright,” Sprout said soothingly. “We’ve never in Hogwarts history truly lost a student. Most likely, he’s found a secret passage or hidden room.”

“Mom will kill me!” the girl, Becca, gasped. “Kevin is my little cousin!”

“A school-wide search is being conducted. The portraits and ghosts have been notified.” Professor McGongall indicated a rotund ghost beside her, who Dudley assumed was the Fat Friar. “However, because Mr. Entwhistle is a new student and not familiar to the searchers, any students who met or can otherwise describe Mr. Entwhistle, please do your best to provide your report to the Friar, here, who will be heading up the main part of the search.”

Becca was still breathing very heavily, and a number of students were openly staring at her with a variety of sympathetic gazes.

“I have a picture,” she wheezed after a moment.

“A picture?”

“Not a moving picture, Professor. A muggle one—I’m a half-blood, but Kevin is a muggle-born.”

“A muggle picture will be extremely helpful,” Professor Sprout said. 

“I’ll go get it, it’s in my trunk somewhere,” Becca said.

“I’ll go with her, Professor,” the girl in the opposite armchair commented, standing and following. Professor Spout nodded encouragingly.

“If anyone else knows anything about the whereabouts of Mr. Entwhistle, please report to Professor Sprout and to the Fat Friar.”

The heads of House dithered together for a moment. Becca returned at last with her picture.

“Wizard pictures—“ Dudley whispered to Greg. “What’s the difference?”

“Dunno,” Greg whispered back. “What’re muggle ones like?”

“I—it’s a photo,” Dudley said. “Here, hang on…”

He fished in his robes, looking for the family picture he kept inside.

“Weird,” Dudley commented. “I must’ve left it somewhere. Here, I’ll show you. In the dormitory, I’ve got a photo book.”

Chapter Text

After dinner, Dudley, Greg, and Niahm asked Gemma how to find the library. They didn’t get too lost, but Hermione was waiting impatiently when they arrived. With her were Neville and, to Dudley’s surprise, Harry and Ron.

“What’re you doing here?” Dudley asked.

“Hermione told me about these elf creatures. Sounds bad. Thought I’d find out what’s up,” Harry said.

Ron nodded.

“It is bad,” Hermione said. “I reread Hogwarts: A History—“ she patted a three-inch volume on the table. “And there’s no mention of House Elves, but Professor Binns—you know, History of Magic—he says they were here before his time, and he’s a ghost!”

“First-years?” A voice interrupted.The tone was pleasant, the accent decidedly Russian (based on tv,; Dudley couldn't think of any Russians he knew peronally.) A shriveled sort of woman—not just with age, but with wrinkles carved from long sadness—crept around a bookshelf, clutching a clipboard.

“Yes?” Hermione answered.

“Yes, hello, Hermione. I need your friends’ names for the roster, to be sure I’ve met all of the new students.” She surveyed them over thin glasses. “I’m Madam Pince, the librarian.” She placed her clipboard in front of Ron. “Please clearly write your name, the first and last, and your House.” She walked away.

Ron scrawled his information, then passed the clipboard to Greg. Greg did the same, and gave it to Dudley.

“What is this?” Dudley asked. There was some very fine print at the top of the page, under the metal top of the board.

“It’s a contract. Magical,” Hermione said. “You sign your name, and you have to return or replace your books before leaving the castle in the summer.”

“Wait—it’s magically binding? ” Greg asked. Hermione chuckled.

“Wizards do it all the time, and hardly ever take notice. Don’t write your name in the wizarding world unless you’re willing to stand by what you sign.”

“But—those can be cursed and stuff! Is that legal?” Ron demanded.

“Wizarding law is very shady about that,” Hermione said. “But I doubt Madam Pince would do something illegal—she seems lovely.”

“Where’s she from, anyway?” Dudley asked. He penned his name. He wasn’t planning to steal or lose any books.

“Russia, she said,” Hermione replied. “She says she was smuggled out, you know, before the Berlin Wall finally went down a few years ago. Did you know you couldn’t Apparate through that?”

“Uh…” Harry said. Hermione had been looking at him, and he seemed startled. “What’s an Apparate?”

“That thing wizards do to travel, when they teleport,” Hermione said.

“ Wizards can teleport?” Dudley and Harry demanded together.

“Like… like Star Trek?” Dudley asked.

“Kind of,” Hermione answered.

“But… but…” Niahm whispered.

“I know,” Hermione said.

“What’s Star Trek? ” Greg asked.

“Sounds like traveling through the stars!” Ron laughed.

“…You do know muggles have been to the moon, right, Ron?” Hermione asked.

Ron, Neville, and Greg looked at each other.

“Hermione, no one’s gonna believe that,” Neville said patiently.

“But… there’s pictures…” Hermione began.

“You really don’t know?” Dudley asked.

“ Years ago,” Harry added, to the stupefaction of the purebloods. 

“You’re joking,” Greg said.

“No,” Dudley said. “It was before any of us were born.

“But the first Englishwoman went to space last spring!” Hermione added.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Dudley said.

“Blimey,” Ron said, rubbing his temples. “Blimey! How’d they do that?”

“Math,” said Madam Pince’s voice. They all turned, and Niahm, at the end of the table, passed her the clipboard.

“Thank you,” Madam Pince said, glancing at it. “The Americans were very, very rude about—about…” Her eyes had grown wide.

“Which of you is the Mr. Goyle, please?” She asked. Greg raised his hand, frowning.

“You are in the Hufflepuff?”

“Er— yes,” Greg answered.

“I see,” Madam Pince said. She stared at his face for a long moment. “Your father is Gregory Goyle Sr.?”

“Yeah?”

“I see,” she said again. “But you are in the Hufflepuff?”

“…yeah,” Greg said.

Madame Pince nodded once. Then she hurried away.

“So,” Hermione said after a pause. "House Elves. What do we do?”

“Can we do anything?” Harry asked.

“Why don’t we ask the House Elves?” Niahm asked. “See if it’s really so bad?”

Dudley flushed.

“I forgot to ask how to get into the kitchens,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Ask Fred and George,” Ron advised.

“Alright,” Dudley said. “I’ll go right now. Where are they?”

“Probably the Common Room?” Ron answered. Come on.”

Chapter Text

Fred and George were in the Gryffindor common room, which Dudley entered, with Ron and Harry, after plugging his ears so he wouldn’t hear the password. 

Their common room was comfortable, done in crimson and gold, with soft chairs and a roaring fire. Like the Hufflepuff Common Rooms, the temperature was even and comfortable. Unlike the Hufflepuff Common Room, the people were the only living things inside; no plants hung or sat around.

The twins sat in chairs near the fire, playing a game with large marbles. As Dudley watched, one squirted Fred in the face with something that stank powerfully.

“Ha!” George said. Then he noticed Dudley. “Diddykins! What’re you doing here? This isn’t Hufflepuff.”

“We need your help,” Dudley began.

“With what?”

“You d’you get into the kitchens?” Ron blurted.

Fred and George shared a look.

“Hungry, are you?” Fred asked.

“Something like that,” Ron replied.

“And why should we help you, Ickle Ronnikins?” George asked.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Dudley asked. He was puzzled. “I thought the Weasley family was one big happy team.”

“Er —“ Fred began.

“Well—“ from George.

“Alright, fine,” they said together. “Know that painting of the fruit bowl down the hall from the Gathering Place, Dudley?” George asked.

“Sure.”

“Tickle the pear,” Fred advised. He turned abruptly back to the game and skipped the marbles around, then laughed as George was sprayed with the foul-smelling stuff inside.

“Tickle—“

“Let’s go,” Ron said in an undertone. “You don’t want gobstone gel on you.”

“Er—thanks,” Dudley said in parting. Fred waved a hand, waving the reply away.

Dudley, Harry, and Ron headed back toward the library. Halfway there, Dudley came to a halt.

“Do you hear that?” He asked the other two.

“No?” Ron said.

“Music,” Harry replied. He glanced at Dudley.

“Where is that coming from?” Dudley asked. “It’s late.”

“Not curfew yet,” Ron commented. “Probably someone practicing.”

“Yeah, but where?” Dudley asked.

“Follow it?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, let’s,” Dudley said, and he aimed his feet toward the sound.

Chapter Text

They paused before a closed door, through which the chords of “Open Arms” flowed mellifluously. Then there was a very obviously missed note, followed by the sound of someone slamming down several keys at once.

“Stupid!—”

Ron reached out and knocked on the door.

The crashing notes, which had been held out, came to an abrupt halt. They heard footsteps, and the door was flung open.

Cor, the Muggle Studies Professor, stood before them in unbuttoned robes over a matching pajama set of the kind Daddy favored.

“Oh—hi, Professor,” Dudley said, once it became clear that Harry and Ron were going to stand there like useless sacks of potatoes.

“Dudley, isn’t it?” Cor said, the traces of frown on his face fading as he looked at them.

“Yeah, hi,” Dudley said. After a moment, a voice like Mum’s in his mind reminded him about manners. “This is my cousin, Harry, and his—our—friend, Ron.”

“Hello,” Cor said cordially. “My name is Professor Delorme— call me Cor.”

“Were you the one playing in there?” Dudley asked.

“Eh… you heard that, huh?”

“Yeah! It was pretty good!” Dudley answered with sincere enthusiasm.

“Well, thanks,” Cor said.

“It didn’t sound like anything I recognized,” Ron said doubtfully. “But then, I grew up with Celestina Warbeck.” He rolled his eyes.

“Pureblood, eh?” Cor asked. Ron nodded.

“Do you teach?” Dudley asked. Inwardly, he winced. Stupid way to address a professor, he thought.

“Teach…?” Cor asked.

“Music,” Dudley explained, his face growing hot. “I—erm—I play the violin, a bit—“

“Ah! And you need a Music Theory teacher?” Cor asked. Dudley nodded.

“I don’t play violin, understand—you’d have to find someone else for technique.” He eyed Dudley with a measured expression, taking in Harry too. He seemed to ignore Ron entirely.

“Dudley—can I talk to you?” Harry asked abruptly.

Dudley glanced at his cousin; he’d seen that look on Harry plenty of times. Usually, it meant someone was about to punch him.

“Erm—go ahead,” Dudley said. Cor looked curious, but waited without interrupting.

“Privately?”

Dudley squinted at Harry. He couldn’t remember his cousin ever asking anything like this before.

He glanced at Cor. He didn’t want to be rude, but—well, he’d been trying to make things better with Harry.

“Excuse us, please,” Dudley said. Harry grabbed him by the arm and pulled Dudley several feet away.

“I don’t trust him,” Harry whispered.

“Who, Cor?”

“Yes. Cor.”

“Why not?” Dudley asked.

“I—I don’t know, exactly. But he gives me the same feeling as Piers Polkiss.”

Dudley blinked at Harry a few times.

“Piers? Piers is my friend.”

“ Piers is a bully , and I have scars to prove it. Literally. Besides, this isn’t about Piers. It’s about that teacher.”

“What do you want me to do?” Dudley asked, fists balled up against Harry’s ridiculous behavior.

“Don’t take music lessons. Not with him. Don’t be alone with the guy.”

Dudley shook his head. True, Harry had taken some beatings over the years. Was it possible that he knew something Dudley didn’t?

“Maybe I’ll find someone to come with me, eventually,” he said.

“Not eventually, Dudley.” Harry’s eyes were popping. “Please.”

“What, you want to come along?”

“If I have to.”

“You ask him, then,” Dudley said.

Harry walked back to Ron’s side. Dudley hustled to follow.

“Sir—” Harry began.

“Cor, please.” Cor said.

“Cor, then. Can I take lessons too? Along with Dudley, I mean.”

For the tiniest moment, Dudley wondered if Cor looked offended. But no, it had to be a trick of the mind after Harry’s worries; he was smiling.

“Do you play, too?”

“Er—no,” Harry admitted. “But I’d like to learn. Piano, maybe?”

Cor gave Harry a long, level look.

“You’re Harry Potter,” he said at last. “The Boy Who Lived?”

“Yes, Si—Cor.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter. You and Mr. Dursley report to my office at seven o’clock on Tuesday night.”

Chapter Text

It was too late to get into the kitchens before curfew. Dudley said good night to Harry and Ron, then headed back to the Hufflepuff dormitory. Greg was there, and Dudley filled him in on the music teacher conversation.

“Weird,” Greg agreed when Dudley described Harry’s reaction. “But I guess it’s nice of your cousin to look out for you?”

“I guess,” Dudley agreed.

Since there were no classes the next day, the boys sat talking by the fire for a while.

“I wish we could make s’mores,” Dudley said, indicating the fire. “Or—d’you suppose they’d work, with the fire not throwing off any heat?”

“I have no idea,” Greg said. “What’s a s’more?”

“It’s—oh, I don’t know how to explain. I could show you, if I could get the ingredients.”

Q, the prefect, must have overheard, because he interrupted.

“If you need ingredients for something, just pop a note in the box,” he said.

“The… huh?” Dudley asked. Greg looked equally perplexed.

“There’s a box for snack requests. Technically it’s for the prefects, but we’re pretty good at sharing. What do you need?”

“You mean the kitchens are still open?” Dudley asked, surprised. Don’t those poor elves ever sleep?

“Sure; someone’s always up.”

“I—” Dudley caught Greg’s eye. “Can I just go ask them myself?”

Q chuckled.

“So you found out how to get into the kitchens, huh? Well, you’re a Hufflepuff, and—sorry, but the size of you boys tells me you’re probably used to late-night snacks. Alright, run down the hall, but bring me back a marshmallow.”

Dudley and Greg murmured their thanks, then walked out of the Common Room.

Just as Fred and George had said, the painting of the fruit bowl was only a little ways away. Dudley looked at Greg.

“He said to tickle the pear,” Dudley said after a second.

“Er— tickle it?”

“That’s what he said. Knowing Fred and George, it might explode or something.”

“Nah, Q would’ve warned you.”

Dudley reached out a cautious hand, and scritched his fingers over the painted pear. It giggled, twisting its shape. Dudley yelped, yanking his hand back. The high-pitched giggle echoed in the empty hallway. Then, with a small pop, it became a handle. Glancing at Greg for moral support, Dudley turned it, opening the door.

Inside the kitchens, there was light and a little bit of bustling activity, though it was mostly at waist-level—the first thing Dudley noticed was that the elves were tiny. They noticed him and Greg immediately, and all but pushed them inside of the warm room. Squeaky voices—higher than the giggle of the pear—shouted welcome and surprise.

“Hello, masters! You is new! You must be first-years or else very very sneaky!” One elf said. It bowed low, and all Dudley could see was huge, bat-like ears flopping as it bowed so low that its snout nearly touched its toes.

House elves, Dudley thought, are what Mum’s friend Yvonne calls “so ugly, they’re cute.”

They had gigantic eyes, bigger than Dudley had seen on even the weirdest disproportionate dolls in toy stores. Their skin was oddly wrinkled, as though there was too much of it, and they wore tea towels draped like togas. It was somehow funny and sad at once.

“More visitors! A busy night!” Another elf squealed.

More?

Dudley looked around, half expecting to see that Harry and Ron and Hermione had sneaked down to the kitchens.

His breath caught.

We’re for it, now, he thought.

Albus Dumbledore, the Hogwarts Headmaster, was sitting on a counter eating a cupcake, watching the two dumbfounded boys.

Chapter Text

“Bit early—pardon," the Headmaster said, pausing to swallow a bite of his treat— “bit early in the semester for you boys to have found the kitchens, isn’t it? Though, I suppose I did always suspect that Hufflepuffs were particularly good at finding things. That’s why I always ask Professor Sprout to help me look for my gloves, come winter—I inevitably misplace them, you see. Finding is an under-appreciated talent, wouldn’t you say?”

Dudley and Greg glanced at each other; Dudley was relieved to see that Greg was as slack-jawed as he felt.

“Now, now, boys, no need to look terrified! Unlike the Bloody Baron, I have no criminal record.”

Dudley just stared at the Headmaster. Who?

“Indeed, I believe I owe you a thanks, Mr. Dursley— Misters Fred and George Weasley have already been in my office for running amok, this time encouraging everyone to call the Dark Lord by the name ‘Moldy Shorts.’ I haven’t laughed so hard in months, and they credit you with the origin of that name.

“Cupcake?”

Professor Dumbledore held out a tray toward the boys. Greg didn’t move, but Dudley did—reflexively. He took a bite, the sugar easing his panic a little.

“Now, boys, I know it’s a Friday evening, but you really oughtn’t to be here,” the Professor said. “After all, it’s after curfew, and I do hate taking points from First Years.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Greg muttered.

“It’s my fault, Professor,” Dudley interjected. “I was going to teach Greg about s’mores, and—”

“Ah! I understand the hurry completely,” Professor Dumbledore said gravely. “After all, education can hardly be controlled by a clock! Still, we do our best to keep it reined in around here.”

He nodded to a house elf, who hurried off to a cupboard and withdrew, as if by magic ( probably by magic, Dudley realized) marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate. He thrust the marshmallows onto a double-ended roasting spear and began to heat them over the stove.

“Er—excuse me, our prefect wanted—wanted a marshmallow,” Dudley said, voice faltering as he realized that he might get Q into trouble by mistake.

The house elf nodded, withdrawing another marshmallow. A third prong grew out of the roasting spear, and the elf carried on roasting.

“Thank you,” Dudley stammered.

“Not yet used to magic, Mr. Dursley?” Professor Dumbledore asked.

“No, Sir,” Dudley replied.

“Well, watch closely, but don’t expect to gain an education in spells here. Elves have their own magic, and their own secrets.”

“Uh—alright,” Dudley said.

“We teach cooking,” the elf grunted. Well, grunted as much as someone whose voice sounded like it came from a deflating balloon could manage.

“To a lucky few,” Professor Dumbledore said. “Someday I will find time to take your class myself, Gricky. Alas! For now, I simply come down for snacks.”

“Yes, Sir,” said both Dudley and the elf at the same time. Greg chuckled.

“And, Mr. Goyle! I have a thanks for you, as well,” Professor Dumbledore continued. “Your Sorting into Hufflepuff won me the inter-departmental pool. Yes, I confess, I take part in the wagers of how many students each House will welcome. It’s a bad habit, but a tradition from my teaching days.”

Dudley frowned in perplexity.

“I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourselves, though, boys,” the Professor said. He pulled another cupcake from the pan.

“Yes, Sir,” answered both boys.

“Now, then, Sirs, there is your some mores!” squeaked the elf. Two perfect s’mores and a browned marshmallow sat on a plate.

“Thank you,” Dudley stammered.

“You is very welcome, Sir,” the elf replied. “And please just be leaving the plate in the Common Room, Sir, and we will be taking the care of it!” The elf—Professor Dumbeldore had called him Gricky—bowed again.

“Do you know, Mr. Dursley,” Professor Dumbledore said abruptly, “you have the very same eyes as your Aunt Lily, may she rest in peace.”

“Mum says they’re Grandma’s eyes,” Dudley answered.

“Ah! I imagine she is correct,” the Professor responded. “And Mr. Goyle, stop by the trophy room some time—your mother’s perfect OWL results are framed against the wall of test scores.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Greg said brightly. The Professor shook his head.

“Until we meet again, boys,” he said. He made a shooing motion with a hand, and Dudley and Greg turned to leave.

Outside, Dudley looked at Greg.

“Is he…”

“Absolutely mental? Some say so,” Greg answered.

“Huh,” Dudley answered. “Well, this is a s’more. Let’s eat them in the Common Room, they’re sticky.”

Chapter Text

Dudley had expected the weekends at Hogwarts to feel like holidays; after all, at Smeltings he would’ve been sent home every Friday afternoon. Hogwarts was different, though-- I should've known it would be, he thought wryly. 

There was homework. Dudley had never been so overwhelmed by homework before. Oh, he wasn’t a genius, but he’d always been able to ask Mum or Daddy for help. If all else failed, he’d been able to beat Harry into letting him copy.

”C’mon, Dudley-- let’s do flying practice,” Greg said. “Madame Hooch is only  out for the first years for another half hour.”

”I’ve gotta get this done, Greg,” Dudley sighed. “I don’t know anything about plants, and Professor Sprout wants a whole essay on compost. What do I write? Compost is literally just decomposing gross junk.”

”Write that, then,” Greg said with a smirk. “But write it really big.”

”Oh, ha,” Dudley replied. “I was laughing at everybody saying the homework was gnarly, but now I’m stuck.”

”Fresh air will help,” Greg said, a faint note of pleading in his voice. “Come on. Let’s go down to the Quidditch pitch.”

”Fine,” Dudley said. “But I’m stopping by Hagrid’s on the way back. He’s got a whole huge garden, he must know something about compost!”

As they approached the little broom shed just outside the Quidditch stands, the boys were met with an unwelcome sight: Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and the other boy who’d been with them during that first breakfast.

”Here to fly, Goyle?” Draco sneered. He and his lackies were carrying broomsticks— Dudley assumed they must’ve just finished their practice.

”Yeah. That a decent broom?” Greg asked, loading his hand limply toward Malfoy. “I’ll give it a go, if you’re finished.”

Draco made a face, as though Greg had offered to feed him the mud off his shoes.

”No, you won’t. You’re not riding something you don’t deserve, and this is the best broom from the shed. Wish Dumbledore would let first-years bring their brooms from home. But either way, I’m too good a flyer to give this thing over to the likes of a traitor like you. I think I’ll just.. hold on to it,” Draco finished.

”But Draco—“ the Slytherin boy Dudley didn’t know began.

”Shut it, Zabini,” Malfoy grunted. The other boy pursed his lips. Dudley wanted to laugh; there was something about the expression that reminded him of the face Mum made when she saw Harry on family vacations. It looked weird on the face of a preteen boy.

”What’re you grinning about, mudblood?” Malfoy sneered. Dudley cocked his head to the side.

”Weird insult, that,” Dudley replied. “My blood is clean; I’ve got excellent doctors that understand blood looking out for me. I’m betting you wizards are backwards when it comes to medicine.”

Draco blinked a few times.

”What’dya mean, ‘you wizards’? You’re just as much a wizard as I am,” he retorted.

”Exactly,” Dudley said with a grin. Malfoy looked outraged. “C’mon, Greg, let’s go get you your flying fix,” Dudley continued. He shouldered past Malfoy, deliberately bumping him and Crabbe. Crabbe looked furious, but he glanced over Dudley to size him up and apparently decided that he didn’t want to fight Dudley, at least not in the moment.

Dudley paused, looking back at Greg, who was still rooted to the spot he’d been in.

”You alright, mate?” He asked.

”Yeah—“ Greg stammered. “Well—well—I’ll see you around, Draco,” he said. He stepped through the hole Dudley had made between the other boys.

”Don’t you call me that, you filthy traitor!” Draco was frenzied, suddenly, nearly screaming. “Don't you act like you've got a right! Don’t you pretend we’re friends!” He spat in the direction of Greg’s feet.

Dudley saw red. He moved toward Malfoy, raising a fist.

”Dudley, no—“ Greg yelped, but Crabbe stepped up to block Dudley’s fist. 

Later, Dudley would wonder how it happened: suddenly he was rolling in the mud, grappling with Crabbe, trying to escape so he could punch Malfoy. Greg was shouting in the background.

A whistle blew, shrill and sharp. Dudley and Crabbe both froze, and then Dudley slid to the side, off of Crabbe, letting go of the half-Nelson hold Daddy had taught him.

”Boys! This is not a wrestling ring!” 

Madam Hooch was standing over them, her short figure seeming menacing from the ground. Dudley rubbed at his jaw where Crabbe had managed to wallop him. At least I gave him a few good whacks as well, Dudley thought.

”Madam Hooch, we—“ Greg stammered.

”Crabbe, I should think you’d know better. Your mum would be ashamed; your father may not have been a good Quidditch player, but at least your mother kept him honest. Oh, yes, boy, I’ve been here that long.”

Crabbe’s face turned scarlet.

”As for you, Mr.--er—“ She squinted at Dudley.

”Dursley,” Dudley said, knowing his tone was sulky.

”Very well, Mr. Dursley, I don’t know your parents, but surely your Head of Hosue would be disgusted by your behavior. What House is that, anyway?”

”Hufflepuff,” Dudley whispered.

”Hmmph!  A Hufflepuff in a fist fight!” Madam Hooch scoffed. Then, her expression softened slightly. “What on Earth led to that?”

”Well— er—“

”It was Malfoy, Madam Hooch,” Greg said suddenly. “He called Dudley a—a— mudblood, and—“

“Malfoy!” Madam Hooch shrieked. She looked him over slowly, her face grave. “We do not use that kind of foul slur at Hogwarts.”

She stared at the five boys for a long moment.

”Mr. Dursley. Ten points from Hufflepuff for fighting.”

Dudley figured this was fair, and nodded. He’d have gotten in much worse trouble at his old primary school for that kind of fight.

”Mr. Crabbe, ten points from you as well.”

”But he started—“

”I don’t care, Mr. Crabbe. Keep arguing, and I’ll make it twenty.”

Crabbe swallowed hard, then he nodded too.”

“And lastly, Mr. Malfoy…”

Malfoy looked shocked. Madam Hooch conti nued slowly.

”If I ever hear you use such language with my own ears, you’ll be banned from flying practice for the rest of the year, do you understand?”

Mafoy’s eyes bulged.

”Thirty points from Slytherin.”

Malfoy looked as though he might object, but Crabbe frantically shook his head. To Dudley’s surprise, Malfoy said nothing.

“Do better, boys. You’re expected to act like wizards here, not animals.”

She shook her head as she headed back toward the castle. This left Dudley and Greg staring at the three Slytherin boys.

”Well—“ Greg began, a pleading in his voice. “I guess—I guess I’ll be seeing you lot around…”

Malfoy sneered, and Dudley put an arm on Greg’s shoulder.

”Guess we missed the chance to fly,” Dudley mused, pointedly ignoring Malfoy and his cronies. “Shall we go ask Hagrid for help with the homework, then?”

Malfoy made a derisive, snorting sound. Dudley scowled at him, daring him to say something stupid. He’d still have loved to deck Malfoy in the face.

”Yeah, let’s,” Greg answered, marching away from Malfoy. Dudley gave the three Slytherin a final glare, then followed Greg.

After they’d walked a bit of the way, Dudley glanced back. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Zabini (first name or last ? He wondered) were nearly back at the castle.

”Hagrid’s over this way, by the greenhouses,” he muttered to Greg.

Greg stopped walking, looking at Dudley. They'd been walking the wrong way. The boy's eyes were shining, and Dudley wondered if he was going to cry again.

”Oh,” He said. “Why don’t you lead?” His voice was deadened, flat. Dudley was just wondering how to ask what was wrong, when Greg spoke again—this time, his words were trembling and soft.

”Thanks. Thanks for sticking up for me. I… it means a lot.”

”Of course,” Dudley said. “I take my friendships very seriously. Guess that’s why I’m in Hufflepuff,” he said, amused.

”Yeah,” Greg said. “But I’ve never had a friend who would fight like that for me before.”

Dudley pondered this.

“Not sure Malfoy and Crabbe were ever really your friends, mate,” he said at last. Greg did not reply.

Chapter Text

Dudley peered around the library, looking for his friend. With him was his schoolbag and his violin case—he really needed to practice tonight. He’d never been a big fan of libraries—never been a particular fan of books, if he was being honest. He knew a lot of people might mistake him for stupid because of that, but it wasn’t that he didn’t understand books. His eyes just got tired when he read. But librarians had never been cool about that. They either acted like Dudley was an idiot, or like he was making excuses, or like something was horribly wrong with him. So, he preferred his plotlines in video game format.

“Greg?” He whispered as loudly as he dared. Q and Gemma had each, separately, warned the first-years to beware Madam Pince, the librarian. They said she hoarded books like a dragon hoarded treasure, and not to cross her.

Dudley had wondered nervously what dragons hoarding treasure was like, and whether the description was accurate.

“Greg?” He tried again, sticking his head around a corner in the shelves. No Greg there, either.

Finally, Dudley gritted his teeth and started wending his way toward the front desk. Maybe Madam Pince would know where Greg was.

He skirted around the “restricted section”—it made him nervous to think of books full of something so scary, he wasn’t allowed to read them until his late teens according to… well, he assumed it was law. Maybe it was Dumbledore? But the mention of Dark Magic way back in Diagon Alley had stayed with Dudley, and he wasn’t stupid enough to meddle with such things.

Video games had taught him that.

“Greg!” he said. The other boy was standing at the front desk, a bewildered expression on his face. His eyes were on the retreating back of Madam Pince, who turned, frowned, and made a shushing noise at Dudley.

“What’s up?” Dudley asked more quietly.

“Uh… nothing,” Greg said. Dudley was sure something was going on with his friend, but he trusted Greg enough to let him keep quiet about whatever had his brows furrowed.

“We’re supposed to meet here, aren’t we? With Hermione and that lot?”

“That’s what I thought,” Greg answered.

It was Sunday evening; Hermione had sent school owls with a note each to Dudley and Greg, and Dudley had noticed Harry getting something by Owl Post that morning too. Dudley had been disappointed at seeing Hermione’s handwriting—he’d hoped it was a letter back from Mum. The note had piqued his curiosity, though:

Meet in the library Sunday after dinner. I have a really fantastic idea about this horrible House Elf business. Maybe don’t mention it to any teachers, they all seem fine with this abomination.

-Hermione J. Granger

Dudley had laughed at the use of the girl’s full name, but he was finished with his homework—finally—and he thought he could use some time away from Ernie MacMillan, who was hosting a reading of his own poetry in the Gathering Place. It was the reason Dudley hadn’t suggested moving this meeting to there, from the library.

“Dudley! Greg!” A whispered voice made the boys turn. Hermione was there, one hand wrapped around the wrist of a beleaguered-looking Harry. Behind them were Ron and Niamh, plus two boys that Dudley thought were from Ravenclaw, and—Dudley was shocked—Fred and George.

“What’re you two doing here?” Dudley asked.

“We’re here to discuss House Elves,” Fred said. His tone was even and cheerful, but he and George rolled their eyes in eerie sync.

“Let’s find a table. Ooh, I do hope one of the good ones is open,” Hermione hissed. Dudley raised his eyebrows at Greg and mouthed, good ones?, but he followed Hermione, and everyone else trailed after as well.

“Welcome,” Hermione said, her voice shaking slightly, “to the first meeting of our new club. I looked it up in several books and I asked Professor McGonagall, and there are no rules against starting a club unless it’s promoting bigotry or dark magic. And, of course, we’re doing neither.” She spoke in that very fast nervous-Hermione way, leaving traces of her words behind as she leapt onto the next.

“Er—what—” Harry began, and Dudley was relieved to see that he looked as thoroughly confused as Dudley felt.  Maybe Hermione had forgotten to explain to everyone . That seemed likely.

“What club?” Dudley asked, when Harry stopped talking and seemed to flounder for words.

“Oh, yes, the name—the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare— here, I’ve made a leaflet.”

She passed a neatly tri-folded brochure of parchment to the middle of the table. Dudley reached out to take it for a look, but George snatched it too quickly.

“The Society—Hermione, you can’t honestly think that people are worried about the House Elves. Things have been done this way for thousands of years!”

Hermione’s face grew so dark, so enraged, that for a moment, Dudley felt nervous. And she wasn’t even scowling at him!

“ Fred Weasley—”

“He’s George—” interrupted Dudley, Harry, and Fred himself.

“Fine,” Hermione snapped. “ George Weasley, if your intention in coming to this meeting is to disparage the great and mighty work to which we are about to set ourselves—”

“No, Hermione, it’s not. Not exactly. But Ronald here—” George ruffled Ron’s hair, and Ron gave a small growl of annoyance— “has informed us that you seem to be bent on getting House Elves freed.”

“Well, I was going to build up to that, but yes, that’s the idea behind the Society for the—”

“Just call it by its initials, maybe, Hermione, it’ll save a lot of time,” Neville piped up. “S… SPEW?” Neville, who had always seemed so patient, gave a sigh. “You named the club 's pew'? ”

“It’s not SPEW! It’t the Society—fine.” Hermione was looking around the table, where everyone was giving her expressions that could only be read as, it’s SPEW, Hermione, live with it. “Fine. I’ll call it the Society, all right?”

“Wait, wait. Hermione, what do you mean you want to free the House Elves? Have you seen them? Have you ever met one?” Greg asked.

“Well—no. I haven’t. We all got separated the last time we tried to go to the kitchens, but I say we all go, right now, and talk to them—just as soon as we’ve decided what to say. I’m sure we’ll need to be delicate; we don’t want to offend them, or raise their hopes too high too soon.”

“Oh, you’ll offend them,” Fred answered. He shook his head slowly, smirking. “George and I thought we’d simplify things for you. See, we know some of the Hogwarts elves. Mum is the reason they teach some students cooking, that’s where she learned, and Fred and I decided to take classes as well.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Ron said.

“Ickle Ronikins, we do many things to which you are not privy. In this case, however, we’d be willing to let you study alongside us— if you can treat the teachers with appropriate respect.”

“But that’s just what I’m talking about!” Hermione exclaimed. “Treating them with the respect they deserve! They’re sentient beings, they shouldn’t have to be bound up by—"

“Shut up, Hermione,” George said, holding up a hand. Hermione rolled her eyes, as if being told to shut up was only a constant annoyance. George looked at Fred. “What’s the summoning again?”

“C’moff it, you know.”

“I’m building dramatic tension,” George replied.

“Aight then, we say it together.”

Fred and George raised their fists toward each other, pressing their knuckles together like the wonder twins in the old cartoon. Dudley gave a small snort.

“A student of Hogwarts

Requires Your Help

Please Come to Us Quickly;

We Need an Elf!” The twins chanted. Dudley opened his mouth to tell them how stupid they looked, but then there was a bang! And he jumped about a foot out of his chair. When Dudley had caught his breath, he looked up. The same House Elf that Dumbledore had called Gricky stood on the library table, head cocked to the side, staring at Fred and George.

“What in the name of Hades was that noise? No dueling in the library!” Madam Pince hissed. Dudley jumped again, this time because her voice had come from directly behind his chair.

“I is very sorry, Madam Pince Librarian,” Gricky said in his squeaky voice. Madam Pince winced a little at the shrill sound. “I was not knowing that these Sons of Molly would be summoning Gricky to the library. I will—” he paused, then crouched lower in on himself, as though to show he could be smaller (though, in Dudley’s opinion, the elf was plenty small.) “I will whisper instead,” he finished in the loudest whisper Dudley had ever heard.

“Very well,” Madam Pince said. “Thank you, Gricky. Bring me a cup of chamomile tea when you can, please.”

Gricky bowed so low that his nose touched the tabletop. Then he sprang back into his normal stance, looking expectantly at Fred and George.

“What is you needing, good Sons of Molly?” He asked.

“Er… ‘Sons of Molly’?” Ron inquired quickly.

“Yes, we is knowing their mother of old, in the kitchens—and the elves is having difficulty telling these boys apart because they is twinsies, and—hey!” Gricky shuffled quickly across the table toward Ron, now, and leaned very close to him. Dudley assumed he was staring into Ron’s face, though he could not tell because of his angle to the others.

“ You is also a Son of Molly, is you not? You is having her nose just the same!” Gricky asked.

“Er—yeah, Fred and George are my brothers, and our mum is Molly Weasley. Well, Molly Prewett, at school.”

Gricky gave another tremendous bow, and Ron’s face took on a dazed expression.

“Sons of Molly is always welcome at Hogwarts, young wizard!” Gricky said in tones of ecstasy. “The Hogwarts Elves is being very fond of Molly, yes! Why, there was even a cousin of Gricky who almost left employ at Hogwarts to work for Molly and her Arthur! But the cousin was deciding to stay with her family, to stay here, Son of Molly.”

“Ron, my name’s Ron. Are you telling me I almost grew up with a House Elf?”

“Yes, Son of Molly Ron.” Gricky bowed again, less deeply this time, and pivoted to look at Fred and George. “But Sons of Molly George and Fred were the ones summoning, yes? What can we Elves do to serve?”

“That’s just it, Gricky,” Said Hermione. Her voice had lost its tremor; she sat straighter, and her expression was thoughtful. “We’re concerned about the Elves’ service here at Hogwarts.”

“Herm—” Fred began to scold, but at the same moment, Gricky’s eyes grew wide— well, wider— and the Elf began to whine wordlessly.

“What—” Niamh said.

“Hermione, how could you?” George scolded.

“The students at Hogwarts is not considering the Elves’ work to be good enough anymore? My grandfather’s grandfather’s ears is burning in his grave to hear this! Oh, Gricky is ashamed! When I is telling the other Elves, they is—”

“Gricky, I didn’t mean—”

“Gricky, no—”

Gricky threw his head back and began to wail loudly, and Dudley realized rapidly that he was not going to stop unless something stopped him. In another life, he might’ve slapped the creature—though most of his physical beatings had been reserved for Harry or Harry’s sympathizers—but that seemed so wrong . Quickly, he whipped his violin out of its case and played a few notes of “Hey Diddle Diddle,” his usual first warmup after scales.

Thankfully, it worked. Gricky was so startled that he raised his head back to its normal position, and while his ears drooped in obvious sorrow—not to mention the tears on his cheeks— he was watching Dudley and the violin, and the wailing had finally stopped.

Dudley glanced around for Madam Pince; thankfully, she must’ve been busy elsewhere, or else she was ignoring Gricky because of who he was.

“You is playing very most beautifully,” Gricky sniffled.

“Oh—um, thank you,” Dudley replied. “Look, Hermione misspoke. We don’t think the Elves are failing, not at all! We think you are wonderful! We just… just…” he looked around the group helplessly. Greg shrugged; Dudley knew he felt this whole SPEW thing was ridiculous. Harry, thank goodness, piped up.

“We’re just worried that the Elves aren’t treated as well as they should be by wizards, Mr. Gricky."

Gricky’s eyes again filled with tears. This time, he fell on his bum and sobbed onto his crossed ankles, which was a very peculiar position to see a person—person-like creature—take.

“Er—Gricky, are you—are you alright?” Ron asked. He reached out and patted the creature on his ear very quickly.

“Hogwarts students is worrying about Gricky. Wizards is concerned about Elves! It is too much! Too much!” He hiccupped, clearly trying to settle his own sobs. Finally he looked at Fred and George with shining eyes.

“Please explain to your friends, Sons of Molly, that Elves is treated very well at Hogwarts.”

Fred and George each gave a nod, and Gricky turned toward Ron.

“You is welcome to come to cooking class with your brothers, Son of Molly Ron.” He said, his voice still a bit gaspy. He wiped his eyes on his tea towel uniform.

To Dudley’s surprise, Gricky turned toward him next.

“And you, Master—you is more than welcome to play your beautiful music in the elf dormitories if you is needing a practice space! We Elves is loving music!” He then spun on, bowing to each student in turn. Then, with another loud crack! Gricky disappeared.

Everyone—everyone except Fred and George, who were laughing to hard to speak—stared dumbfounded at the spot where Gricky had been. Hermione looked deeply concerned.

“How—how did he do that? You can’t Apparate or Disapparate in Hogwarts…” Then she shook herself. “That was a lovely first meeting, Society members. We have made contact with the Elves themselves: I thought that was going to take a much longer time. Still, there’s minutea to be dealt with—I’ll be club president, I think, if you’re all alright with that. But we need a treasurer, and a secretary…” She finally seemed to notice the blank looks of the other students at the table. Even Fred and George’s mirth seemed to have faded somewhat. Everyone looked at each other, then Hermione, with a certain tension.

Hermione didn’t appear to notice; she was removing a wooden box from her school bag.

“Here, wear these; hopefully, people will ask questions, and—” she was holding out little purple buttons with “S.P.E.W.” and a silhouette that Dudley thought was meant to be an elf printed on them in orange.

“Wear them?” Ron asked. He gave Hermione an incredulous look. “Hermione, weren’t you listening? The Elves don’t want their welfare promoted! They want to work! They love their jobs.”

“Maybe Gricky is… is a bit brainwashed, but that’s no reason to—”

“Gricky is normal for his kind, Granger,” Fred said, and his voice was more serious that Dudley had ever heard from him. “Maybe a little too much like wizardkind; there’s a reason he’s the representative sent to speak to students. Seriously.”

George nodded, and the twins rose to their feet.

“You’ll hurt his little Elf feelings if you keep pushing this, Hermione J.,” he said. “And by ‘little feelings’, I mean that Elves are little. Their feelings are not. You saw that.”

“Ronald,” Fred said by way of goodbye. “Harry. Didikins.” They chortled, but not in a mean way. They each gave Hermione one more long, pointed stare.

Then the twins left.

“ Well, ” Hermione sighed heavily. “It’s just as well they’re gone, if they’re going to stand for the oppressors!”

No one said much for a minute. Then Greg leaned forward and whispered,

“Hermione, look. I don’t know you well. I think it’s good that you want to fight for people. But… you’re a mud— you’re a muggleborn, right?” He asked, his face turning scarlet, though he continued as though he hadn’t nearly slipped up.,

“Yes,” Hermione said, bristling.

“There aren’t creatures like the House Elves in the nonmagic world, right?” Greg asked, though he was looking to Dudley for the answer.

“A long time ago, there were slaves in England,” Hermione said fiercely. “Thankfully, that’s all done with. But the wizarding world needs to catch up on its policies even more than in needs ballpoint pens! I mean—”

“No, Hermione, you don’t understand. I know that’s not something you hear a lot—”

Ron snorted in the background, and mouthed the words insufferable know-it-all across the table to Dudley, who suppressed a grin.

“—but you’re just learning how this whole world of magic works, right? Don’t you see? You’re wrong about this, about all of it. The Elves are happy being—being—I don’t even know if “enslaved” is the word!”

Dudley frowned. He was pretty sure it was the right word, but maybe with the wrong feelings associated, in this case?.

“They’re not slaves like the human slaves were. We’re not doing anything like that in the wizarding world—it’s not like there’s some mass Imperius Curse that could control a whole race, and besides, since—” he glanced at Dudley— “Since Moldy Shorts’ reign, there hasn’t been a wizard in Europe evil enough to even think of such a thing!”

“Moldy—” Hermione began, but Greg had grown passionate, even emotional, as he’d gained steam.

“ Trust me, there’s no dark wizard terrible enough for that; the Death Eaters would’ve rallied behind him by now!” Dudley frowned. Greg talked about Death Eaters with a strange certainty. Maybe it was just that he knew wizarding history?

“I’m not saying the Elves are being controlled by magic,” Hermione said. “I’m saying they’ve been oppressed so long—”

“No, Hermione. That isn’t it. The Elves like their lives. Please, just—just leave well enough alone.”

He stood suddenly, pushing his chair back, then in against the table.

“Find another cause,” he whispered. Then Greg stalked out of the library, not looking back.

Dudley raised his eyebrow at Harry.

“Do you think—” he began.

“Go talk to him,” Harry advised. “We’ll make sure Hermione cools off in the Common Room okay.”

Dudley nodded gratefully, scooped up his bag, and raced past the shelves in the direction Greg had gone.

Chapter Text

To Dudley’s delight, an owl fluttered toward him at breakfast Monday morning-the owl he’d sent home several days prior. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the bird, other than tiredness. Had Mum waited to reply, or had the bird simply taken a long time to deliver the letters? Dudley wasn’t sure how fast Owl Post was. For that matter, he didn’t even know how far, geographically, he was from home at school.

Greg eyed the letter Dudley was untying from his tired owl’s leg. Morganna, for her part, was eyeing his breakfast eggs.

”Go ahead,” Dudley said to the bird, making a mental note to snag an extra plate for his owl in the future. He wouldn’t eat more of the eggs after Morganna had pecked at it. Gag me with a spoon!

The owl seemed grateful, however. She ate greedily, then drank from his goblet ( disgusting! ) Dudley watched her intently.

”You gon’ read dat?” Greg asked with his mouth full.

”Huh?” Dudley asked. He looked at the stiff, standard-sized muggle envelope in his hand. Mum had even put a stamp neatly on it-Dudley smiled at that. “Yeah, yeah-of course. I was just… thinking.”

”You alright, mate?”

”She just took longer than I expected to respond.” 

Maybe the owl freaked her out?” Greg suggested. Dudley shook his head.

”Oh she definetely she did; Mum would’ve wanted Morganna out of the house ASAP.”

”ASAP?”

”Oh, As-soon-as-possible.”

”Then what took so long?”

Dudley sighed.

”Could Morganna have gotten lost?”

”Er-”

Dudley knew that Greg could detect the hope in his voice.

”That’s a ‘no,’ then?”

”Well, unless you captured her in the wild, as a baby, and then didn’t train her well at all…”

Dudley chuckled.

”You really don’t know my mum.”

Greg laughed too.

”Nobody’s done that in, like, two hundred years; I was joking.”

”Oh.” Dudley returned his gaze to the letter.

”You could read it in the dormitory, if that helps,” Greg suggested. Dudley nodded numbly. He knew he sholdn’t be nervous, but--

On his way back to the dormitory, he tickled the pear on the kitchen door. It swung open.

”Oh! Come in, Sir, come in!” Squeaked the elf voices. Dudley entered the kitchens, closer to smiling than he had been.

”What can we do for you, Sir?” An Elf Dudley didn’t think he’d yet seen asked.

”Er—well, maybe could I get some kind of… small treats? I don’t need a lot, but I’m-well, honestly I’m a bit of a stress eater. Sugar helps the most.”

The Elves reacted with glee. The kitchen was bustling, and Dudley was fascinated to see the dishes being cleaned to gleaming by the Elves’ pointing fingers at them. Other plates, bowls, mugs, and silverware danced through the air like the dishes in Disney’s The Sword in the Stone, settling themselves in cupboards that seemed too enormous for the room. Then, just when Dudley thought he’d seen the craziest thing of the day, another Elf patted a full dish cupboard gently. With a crack! , the cupboard--the size of the big armoire in Mum and Daddy’s room—shrunk, then bounced once on the floor. It landed neatly in the Elf’s palm, and he set it on a small shelf above a sink.

”Woah, that is seriously awesome,” Dudley muttered.

”Thank you, Sir! We is appreciating your kindness, Sir!”

Gricky had returned to head the Elves’ discussion with him. In his hands was a basket, covered by a paisley-patterned cloth napkin.

“Will this be enough to get you through your stressing eatings, Sir?” Gricky asked.

”Absolutely, Gricky,” Dudley chuckled.

”Sir! You is remembering Gricky’s name! You is very gracious indeed, Sir.”

”Remembering your name is a big deal? We’ve met twice,” Dudley commented.

”Yes, but you is a student , and I is a servant! One of many! You is not having to remember my name!” Gricky dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his tea towel.

Dudley made a mental note not to accidentally mention this exchange to Hermione, at least until he decided how he felt about SPEW.

”Well, thank you very much. Seriously, I needed this,” Dudley said. Gricky and the other Elves beamed with intense pride. They bowed, which Dudley didn’t know how to respond to—he ended up sort of bobbing his head at them—and turned to leave. Then, with his hand on the door’s handle, he paused. He looked back.

”Gricky?” He asked.

”Yes, Mister—Mister—“

”Dudley,” Dudley supplied.

”Mister Dudley! What else can we do for you, Sir?”

“Well I don’t want to inconvenience you or anything—but you mentioned a place where, maybe, I could go to practice? Music? I need to find a place where no one can hear me, or where they won’t mind that I keep making the same mistakes, and I won’t keep anyone awake…”

Gricky’s head swiveled, turning to meet the expectant eyes of the other Elves. They blinked toward Gricky, who spoke to them in his whispering voice--though Dudley could clearly hear his every word.

”Mister Dudley is being very good at playing the violin, Brothers and Sisters! Mister Dudley is nervous, though, of finding the right space to practice in. Gricky thought—well, Gricky suggested to Mister Dudley that maybe he could practice in the Elf dormitories.”

There were squeals of assent; one particularly wide Elf clapped excitedly. Gricky turned back to Dudley.

”House Elves is loving music very, very much, Mr. Dudley—but we only rarely get to hear any, Sir!”

”Why not?”

”There is not many Elf musicians, Mr. Dudley.”

”But… why aren’t there, if you love music so much?”

”Oh, we is having too many other things to do to learn any musical skills, Sir, and we don’t have the kind of magic that would help us. We would have to learn like muggles, one little note at a time. House Elves is needing to use their hours to help their wizards, when they can, Sir!”

That… is the saddest thing I’ve heard in a long time, Dudley thought. An idea began to grow in the back of his mind, but he knew it wasn't yet ready to discuss with the Elves.

”Well, thank you,” Dudley said. Then, in a moment of manners that made Dudley feel puzzled with himself, but would’ve delighted Mum, he asked, “is there anything I can do for you?”

Gricky’s eyes grew wide, and to Dudley’s horror, he burst into tears.

”Oh, Gricky, did I say something wrong? I’m so sorry—“

”No, Sir!” Gricky gasped through tears. “No, nothing is wrong, Sir. You is just being so kind to us Elves!”

”Well, you’ve been kind to me—“

”Yes, but that is a House Elf’s duty , Mister Dudley, Sir. Asking if you can help us is so thoughtful—“

Dudley hoped to stem Gricky’s flow of tears quickly, so he interrupted.

”Gricky, what is it? Do you need something?”

The Elves—not a dry eye to any of them, Dudley noticed—began to whisper excitedly to one another. Gricky bowed to Dudley and turned to listen to the whispering. Eventually, he faced Dudley again, his hands clasped before him as though pleading.

”There—there is one thing we would ask, Sir, if we may,” Gricky said. This time, his voice really was hard to hear.

”Well I don’t know that there’s much I can do; I’m a muggleborn, and a first-year—“

“But a first-year is who we is needing! That exactly! The Eves need to know—we really want to find out—they say… HARYPOTTERHASCOMETOHOGWARTS?!?”

Dudley frowned a little, trying to figure out what the elf had squealed.

”Oh! Harry Potter?” Dudley asked. “Yeah, he’s here, why—“ Two Elves fainted into friends’ arms. Others burst into tears. A few whooped, and more just held each other in tight embraces.

”Oh! OH! Mr. Dudley, is you knowing Mister Potter, Sir?”

”Erm… Dudley felt suddenly very awkward. “Yeah, we—well, he—“ he glanced at the basket he held. These Elves deserve the truth, they're a good lot. “We grew up together; we’re--well, we're cousins, see.”

Dudley had expected a ruckus—pots banged together, more yelling, some kind of hullabaloo. Instead, the kitchens became silent .

“You is Harry Potter’s cousin?” Gricky asked. His tone was disturbingly reverential. " You is Harry Potter’s cousin, the cousin he grew into a young man with, and you is asking us if we is needing anything from you?” Gricky dropped to his knees. Dudley hoped it was in awe, and that this little fellow didn’t plan to—swear fealty, or something.

”Ah, get up. Look, Harry’s a decent bloke. Honest. But he’s not worth all this.”

Gricky scrambled obediently to his feet.

”You is a muggle-born wizard, isn’t you, Mr. Dudley?” He asked.

”Yeah, how did you—“

”Elf’s magic is often in knowing things about their masters,” Gricky said casually. Dudley gulped. What else does he know?

”But if you is a muggle-born wizard, Mr. Dudley, you is not having been growing up with tales of the reign of—of—the Cruelest Master.”

Dudley frowned; several Elves looked alarmed at the words. Dudley, having only seen that kind of reaction about one person-especially one person connected to Harry—shook his head at the nonsensical fear they displayed.

”You mean Moldy Shorts then, my good bloke?”

An Elf girl—a child, Dudley thought, realizing for the first time that there did seem to be children assisting in the kitchens—screamed.

”Mummy!” She wailed, and her mother pulled the little one into a tight embrace. Some of the Elves looked terrified; others looked as angry as Dudley could imagine an Elf looking.

”Er—sorry. The wizards I’ve met have found that funny.”

”The wizards suffered much under the reign of the Cruelest Master, Mr. Dudley,” Gricky said, clearly trying to slow his rapid breathing. “But there were many wizards who were able to live normal lives when he was in power.” Gricky shook his head, trembling. “Elves was… Elves was not so lucky. Only the ones that worked here, at Hogwarts, were safe—safe, because the Cruelest Master feared no one but Professor Dumbledore.”

Dudley wanted to know more; wanted to ask, but Gricky was shaking top to gnarled toe, and Dudley wasn’t ready to be cruel about simply assuaging his curiosity.

”I… I’m really sorry, Gricky,” He said. Gricky nodded his thanks, but seemed unable to speak.

”Can I get you a cup of tea?” Dudley asked. It was what Mum would have said to do.

”Oh! Mr. Dudley!” Tears welled in Gricky’s eyes yet again.

”I’m—Oh—I’m so sorry, Gricky! I wish—does anyone have a handkerchief, or—“

"We will be taking care of Gricky, Mr. Dudley!” Squeaked a tiny voice. “We will make him Elf tea, and carry him to his bed. He will be alright, Mr. Dudley.”

”Thank you,” Dudley replied.”And…if it’s alright, when should I come to practice violin?”

”Any time is a good time to serve, Mr. Dudley!” Another Elf said. The others smiled; they did seem genuinely pleased by the idea of Dudley playing nearby.

”Alright, but when—I guess—when is best for you ?”

”Any time is a good time for music as well, Sir!”

Dudley sighed.

”Tell you what; it’s Monday. I have midnight class on Wednesday… how’s tomorrow night? After dinner?”

”After dinner, or after dessert, Sir? There is a difference around here,” Gricky said, apparently having overcome his fit.

”When is the least busy time in the evening, before curfew?”

”About 7:45 would be quiet, Mr. Dudley,” Gricky said. "Many Elves would not be needed in the kitchens at that time, and it is before our nighttime cleaning rounds. We would be most excited if you came Tuesday night."

”Tues—Oh—“ Dudley slapped his own forehead. “That was stupid. I have my first lesson tomorrow evening. I’d love to practice before that, so I don’t embarrass myself too much. Would tonight be alright? 7:45?”

”Certainly,” Gricky said. 

Dudley thanked the Elves, picked up the truly oversized basket of sweets, and left with a great deal on his mind.

Chapter Text

My Darling Diddykins, Mum had written.

Even though he was alone in the dormitory, Dudley looked around hastily to make sure no one could see the address while he pulled a treat from the Elves’ basket. The Weasley twins calling him “Diddykins” was one thing, somehow; he couldn’t stand the thought of the name catching on with everyone , though.

Thank you for writing. Of course, I’ve been fretting about you. I suppose I would’ve done just the same if you’d only gone as far as Smeltings, but—well, Hogwarts is further and more strange. I’m your mother; it’s my job to fret, and it’s your job to let me know things are alright with you!

I’m glad to hear they’re feeding you well at school. You’re a growing boy, and I’d hate to think that you were going to be stunted because those people wizards don’t know how to feed a child. I guess, if I think about it, I remember my sister saying there were extravagant feasts when students arrived and left, and holidays. Thanks for saying your old mum is a better cook, though!

I’m even more pleased to hear about this friend you’ve made, this Greg. I guess part of me was worried that you’d spend all your time hanging around with Harry! Tell me more about Greg, and any other little friends you’ve made! I hope my special boy has so many, it’s hard to keep track.

I hope you’ve found a violin teacher by now. Surely someone in that place has a musical education! If not, don’t stop practicing. You are so talented, darling! Don’t lose that just because you had to go to that school.

You asked if Daddy would want his own letter. Not yet, sweetums. I promise I’ll keep him abreast of your messages, and please, don’t stop writing to me!

Things around here are pretty ordinary. Mrs. Figg’s leg is healing nicely, and she said to wish you the very best at school. She is such an odd woman, didn’t seem at all surprised when I told her our story--that you were going to a school for exceptionally bright children. Of course, maybe she just knows how smart you really are!

Daddy is doing fine, and I really think he’s coming around to this… situation. I’m sure soon he’ll be writing to you himself. For now, be as patient as you can with him—he’s got a lot going on at Grunnings, at the mo’—mergers, or acquisitions, something like that. You know he tries not to bore me with the details, especially the ones I might not understand.

I’m as well as I can be without my dinky Diddykins to squeeze and love on. Oh, I miss you so much, but I hope you are having the adventure of a lifetime out there, wherever “there” is. I took up a new hobby—I’m trying out making stained glass pictures. Daddy says they’re not very good yet, and he’s right, but I hope I’ll get better with it. Perseverance, my son!

Well, that’s everything. Send lots of news and lots of love.

-Mum

P.S. Snape. You don’t mean Severus Snape, do you?

Dudley found himself almost teary, running his fingers across his mother’s words. A slamming feeling of homesickness overtook him, and to his embarrassment—though he was still alone in the room—a tear or two escaped his eyes. 

“I miss you too, Mum,” he whispered into the silence. 

He tried to ignore the way she skirted around Daddy’s not being “ready” to hear from Dudley. That made him angry, and he didn’t want to be angry with Daddy. It wouldn’t do anyone any good, and it wasn’t as though he could force his father to be okay with his magic.

Dudley sighed, lying back on his pillow, and stared at the golden-ochre canopy above his bed. He thought about home; his gang back in the neighborhood, getting rowdy together on weekends when they were home from their various schools. Would they all forget him by the summer? He thought about his room, with the things he’d left behind. He’d thought his childhood stuffed rabbit was too juvenile to bring all the way to Hogwarts, but he missed Mr. Twitches now. And, though he tried to ignore it, part of his brain whispered that there was no one, now, to stop Daddy from losing it at Mum on the more stressful days…

“Dudley?” A voice asked quietly. It was Greg. Dudley shook himself, trying not to appear sulky or anything.

“Yeah?” He asked, his voice almost normal.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.”

Greg nodded, and Dudley blinked away the last of the teariness in his eyes.

“I told the guys that you were overwhelmed, and needed a minute. Should I tell them they can come in, or—”

A flash of anger rushed through Dudley. My feelings are private! He thought. Then he looked into Greg’s face, and the rage subsided. It wasn’t as though Greg had told the other boys that he was in here blubbing. He was too good a mate for that. He was trying to help.

“Of course,” Dudley answered. He didn’t quite have it in him to thank Greg, but he thought he could let it go. “It’s their room, too.”

Greg leaned backward, out of the doorway, and made ushering movements toward himself. Wayne, Justin, and Ernie tumbled chaotically into the room, with Greg bringing up the rear.

“Alright, Dursley?” Justin asked. His voice was friendly; Dudley didn’t think he was being mocked.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Sorry if you lot thought you had to keep your distance.”

“Nah, it’s brilliant, mate,” Justin answered, thumping down on his bed.

“What is?” Dudley asked.

“You making—er, setting the precedent this way. I think we just need a signal. Like a 'don’t come in right this second, I’m taking time for myself.'" Justin pointed at his head. “Healthy mind, healthy body. Being with people all day could make anyone nuts. And having time alone in here is better than skulking in a toilet somewhere.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Dudley answered slowly.

“Definitely,” Wayne agreed. “What should the signal be?”

“Er…” the boys all made stalling noises at once, filling the air with a strange buzzing. A few of them broke off into chuckles.

“What if we go really simple and just lock the door?” Greg suggested.

“Well, sure—” Ernie said, “but what if it’s really important that we come in? How do we let the person inside know?”

Dudley stared at him.

“You could always knock,” he suggested.

“Right,” Ernie said, flushing. Dudley was a little sorry—he hadn’t meant to make Ernie look bad, but on the other hand, it was sort of a stupid question.

“We should probably set a limit,” Greg added. “So no one can take over the room for too too long, you know?”
“Well, how long is too long?” Justin asked.

“I bet fifteen minutes is enough time for a chap to settle himself,” Wayne said. He grinned. “And it’s not long enough for anyone to do anything they really oughtn’t to be doing—not that I’d accuse any of you of getting up to mischief.”

His eyes were so full of forced innocence that the others burst out laughing.

“Alright. This is our safe zone, then.” Ernie said authoritatively, as though drawing a meeting to a close. Dudley fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“What should we all do now, then?” Wayne asked. “I’m not really tired. Are you lot?”

The boys looked at each other, shrugging.

“We’re supposed to go to bed…” Justin suggested half-heartedly. Then he grinned. “Do you all like games? I brought my poker set!”

“Poker?” Greg asked. “What’s that?”

Justin grinned.

“You’ll see. You got any spare Knuts?”

“Nah, Justin, you can’t get them gambling with real money,” Dudley objected. “That’s gotta be against the rules.”

“Oh, alright,” Justin said. “What do we bet, then?”

Dudley grinned, flipping the napkin off the basket the Elves had given him.

“Treats?” He asked. The others nodded enthusiastically. Justin went to work divvying the contents of the basket up, and explaining poker to those that didn’t know how to play.

Chapter Text

“Ah, I’m gonna be late,” Dudley grumbled. Greg, who’d been in a teasing mood that whole day—Tuesday— grinned obnoxiously at his friend.

“Took too long at dinner, eh?” He asked. “Had too good a time talking to Susan? ”

He made the “oo” sound in “Susan” go on and on in a sing-song tone.

Actually, Dudley’s conversation with Susan—while captivating—had been terribly sad. Apparently she’d been raised mostly by her aunt, because her parents had been tortured and killed by Death Eaters. But Dudley resented Greg’s implication. Rummaging in his trunk as he was, he threw some pants at Greg, which hit the boy on the shoulder and fell softly to the floor.

“There it is!” Dudley exclaimed, pulling his extra rosin box from a little bag. He tucked it into his violin case, locked that, and leaped to his feet. He grabbed the handle of the case, yanking it up.

“Am I forgetting anything?” He asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Yup. Me,” Greg said, standing too.

“What?”

“You said Harry was worried you wouldn’t be safe with Cor, right?”

“Yeah, but he’s just—“

“Well, safety in numbers, mate. I’ll sit quietly, I promise.” Greg smirked. "Maybe I'll actually do my homework."

Dudley rolled his eyes, but he was already late.

“Fine. C’mon.”

“Wait. Dudley?” Greg’s voice was suddenly serious.

“What is it?”

“Er—someone… someone gave me this. But i can’t open it. I thought—well, maybe since your name…”

Dudley stared, bewildered.

Greg pulled a little, aged textbook from behind him. No, not a textbook; just hard bound in an old style. Embossed on the cover in peeling gold were the initials “D.D.”

“Oh,” Dudley said, still perplexed, and worried about being late. “Er—thanks,” he finished. He took the book from Greg. 

It began to glow. As Dudley yelped, dropping it, the book fell open. Hand-written notes and diagrams were marked all across the pages.

“Well, I guess it’ll open for you,” Greg said. “Initialization incantation. Basically a little kid’s lock, except this one was a lot stronger than most.”

Dudley blinked a few times, then tucked the book in under his pillow. He’d get to it.

“C’mon, if you’re coming, Greg,” Dudley said. The boys crossed out of the room, off to Dudley’s lesson with Cor.

***

Harry was waiting—hunched and looking uncomfortable—in the Gathering Place. Next to him, Wayne was chattering, but Dudley could see that Wayne was staring at Harry’s famous scar. No wonder he looks ready to barf, Dudley thought.

“Let’s hurry,” he said quickly. Harry nodded and rose, and the three boys hustled to the door.

“Wh—what’re you coming along for?” Harry panted at Greg as the three boys raced through corridors. The clock had already chimed for 7 o’clock.

“Security,” Greg grunted back, also out of breath. “You were—you told Dudley you were worried. I figured—no offense, but you’re not much good in a fight.”

Harry’s face scrunched as he considered this, and he pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“I was more thinking of witnesses,” Harry said. “But hey, I’m glad you joined. Ya never know.”

Greg nodded. To their left, Dudley watched his cousin and his friend with curiosity. Harry was too much of a walking brick wall to realize it, Dudley figured, but he was pretty sure the two had just crossed an invisible boundary into friendship.

This thought stuck Dudley in a weirdly sharp way. In his life before, a member of his gang buddying up to Harry would’ve been base treachery. But this…

He realized he was glad they were getting along.

Harry slid to a stop across the smooth stone floor, and Dudley and Greg slowed immediately as well. All three boys were breathing heavily.

“Ready?” Harry asked. Dudley nodded, and Harry began to knock on the Muggle Studies professor’s door.

Chapter Text

“Ah! Welcome, boys— three boys?” Cor announced, flinging open his door. Inside, Dudley could see the back of Professor Quirrell—the Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher—sitting at Cor’s desk on the visitor’s side. It was obvious that the back belonged to Quirrell, because his head was encased in a purple turban that was unique to him. Maybe on the whole planet, Dudley thought. It was a very bright shade.

“Sorry, Professor,” Greg grunted. “I just really wanted to watch. Is that okay?”

“I… suppose so, young Mister… Goyle, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir. How did you know?”

“I try to memorize the new players in the school,” he answered with a smile. “Quirrinus, I’m terribly sorry, and I’d love to hear more about the Rotfang Conspiracy sometime—really, it’s fascinating. But these boys have an appointment to study, and—”

“Of course, of course,” Professor Quirrell said. He rose, and, seeing Dudley’s violin case, grinned broadly.

“Are y-you a musician, m-my young man?”

Dudley hated that question. He never knew how to answer it.

“A brilliant one, Professor,” Harry said, though he was rubbing his forehead in pain as he sometimes seemed to do. “You should hear his improvisations.”

“Ah, Mr. P-P-Potter, you and Mr. D-Dursley are acquainted?”

“Cousins,” both boys said at once. The last time that had happened, Dudley realized, he had said it in shame on the Hogwarts Express. This time, he pronounced the word with a certain amount of… pride?

“Well, I’ll leave you to-to-to it, Cor. I hope y-you read up on that literature. And—if you’re think-thinking of hosting a performance sometime-time, count me in—I p-p-play the flute.”

Quirrell nodded his head, which always seemed a bit too large what with the turban, and left, closing the door behind him.

Cor clapped his hands together. He leaned against his desk, surveying the three first-years.

“Well, well. What a delightful twist to my year. Mr. Dursley, Mr. Potter, I’m sure you are anxious to play your instruments.” Harry made a suppressed snorting noise, but Dudley really was itching to show Cor what he could do. “However, before a single note can be played, we must follow safety protocols.”

“What?” Dudley asked. “What do you mean?”

Cor’s eyes grew narrow, scrutinizing.

“How long have you been playing violin, Dudley?”

“Er—since I was about three, Sir—Cor. There was an incident with Harry and me at bedtime—until recently, I thought it was my imagination, but now I wonder if both of us weren’t doing accidental magic. That… that can happen, right?”

Cor nodded.

“Well, my parents got me started on music just a couple of days later. Mum said it would help me concentrate. After that…” Dudley eyed Harry. He hadn’t expressed this thought to his cousin before now, and he wondered how Harry might react. “After that, Harry’s magic kept popping off in weird ways—when he was scared, or angry, or whatever. I channeled my feelings into my music, and not much strange happened around me, at all.” Dudley flushed, and he lowered his voice, afraid to ask the question, but desperate to know. “Obviously my parents thought they could… suck the magic out of me with music. But—well—is that how it works? Am I less magical than Harry—or whoever—because I can play?”

Cor met Dudley’s eyes piercingly, steadily.

“My dear boy, no . It’s quite the opposite. Learning to control your… your power, your magic, your will and concentration and emotions… all of this has only made your power much stronger.”

“Oh,” Dudley gulped. There was silence in the room for a moment, then something occurred to Dudley.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, Dudley?”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get music lessons of your own. I hope you don’t think—”

“Dud. Dude. We’re cool; I promise. I’m already some famous freak in this world, and I have enough magic to go to wizard school. I’m not worried if you’re ahead of me.”

Cor laughed. He had a wild kind of laugh, louder and longer than was really appropriate—or maybe he just thought what Harry had said was super funny.

“It’s not a competition, boys,” Cor said, clapping Harry on the shoulder and nodding to him.

“Now. You asked what I meant by safety protocols. All we need to do is set up a warding. I’ll be teaching you magic and music together, if that’s alright—?” he paused, and Dudley nodded eagerly. Harry was doing the same, though he still looked nervous. “And there’s no sense letting uncontrolled magic loose in the castle—though, as it goes, Hogwarts is about the best-protected place I can think of for such a thing.”

Dudley still wasn’t sure what Cor was on about, really, but he set his case down and took a seat. Harry and Greg each sat on chairs of their own, Greg in the corner out of the way. Dudley had a realization and looked around.

“Sir, there’s no piano in here,” he said. Then he felt himself flush at how critical he sounded. “Er—I mean—”

“Quite alright, Dudley,” Cor said. “You’re correct, of course. I wanted to show you my solution to that in a bit, but I suppose now works.” Cor looked at Harry. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

“...Yeah?” Harry answered.

“Wonderful. I suppose you have seen the piano played, Harry?”

“Well, yeah.” Dudley noticed a note of sullenness in Harry’s voice, and realized it was the same way he talked to Daddy, sometimes, when Daddy wasn’t being particularly mean. Harry didn’t trust Cor. Well, I knew that, Dudley thought, but it was weird to see how Harry was defiant inside, even when he seemed to comply, in this setting.

Maybe Harry Potter isn’t quite the doormat I’ve always taken him for, Dudley thought. True, Harry had taken… well, a lot of beatings over the years—but he always got back up. There’s a sort of courage to that, I guess.

“That’s right, curve your fingers a bit higher—” While Dudley had been musing, Cor had come to stand behind Harry, leaning over his shoulder, and helping him sort of mime playing the piano. It looked stupid.

“Now, think of the note middle C. Oh—you probably don’t have perfect pitch, do you?” Cor asked.

“Not that I know of, Sir,” Harry said.

Cor looked around, catching Dudley’s eye.

“Dudley, would you play a middle C? This’ll go much better if Harry can hear the note in his head.”

“I’m not tuned or anything yet,” Dudley said. He’d hate to be unable to play a single note in front of Cor. Cor smiled, though.

“In Hogwarts, one never has to tune. One of the benefits of living in a magical castle,” he said. 

Dudley, who had had the importance of proper tuning drilled into him since toddlerhood, had a bit of trouble accepting that. Still, he obediently opened his case, pulled out his violin and bow, and cautiously ran the bow across the appropriate string.

The note rang in the air, rich and full, as though they were on stage at a concert hall, rather than crowded into a small office. It hung there, not quite echoing—not leaving—Dudley thought the word was reverberating. He lowered his instrument, jaw slackened, and gazed around in wonder.

“Er—alright, Professor, now what?” Harry interrupted awkwardly after a moment. Dudley wanted to elbow him in the temple for interrupting that note.

“Now, Harry, hear that note in your mind. And, while you hear it, press down with your finger, and try to believe you’re playing the piano key.”

Harry, who looked bewildered, nodded anyway. He stared hard at his right hand for a long, long moment. Then he pressed down half an inch with his pointer finger.

Nothing happened.

After a second, Cor sighed slightly.

“It’s alright, my boy, really; if you’d done it on your first try, that would’ve made you a prodigy. Ça va. Here, if you'll excuse me—” Cor reached delicately over Harry’s shoulder, softly humming the same middle C note they’d all just heard, and pressed down in the same spot Harry had.

An upright piano made of purplish light—that’s what it looked like, anyway—faded immediately into being around Harry. Harry yelped; Dudley, Greg, and Cor all chuckled at his reaction.

“Try now,” Cor advised. Cautiously, as though it might bite him, Harry pressed the same key Cor had just played. It worked! The note rang out again. Harry grinned up at Dudley, then pressed a few keys at random.

“Oh stop it Harry, you have no sense of tone,” Dudley said, but his heart wasn’t in it. This was pretty cool.

“Can—can that be done with the violin, Sir?” Dudley asked.

“Can what—oh, you mean making it appear? Yes, but it’s an advanced Charm. No rush getting there, since your instrument will fit into most rooms you will; for now, wood and horsehair are your friends,” Cor said, nodding at the violin. “Now, Harry, I want you to start at C and go up and down the scale, just getting used to the feeling of the keys, for now. Say the name of each note as you play it, and look where it is in relation to the other keys. Don’t forget that the musical alphabet only goes to G!” Cor chuckled.

“It… what?” Harry asked. Cor looked at Dudley, eyes expressing exasperation.

“He really knows nothing, Professor. I guess I should’ve—”

“No, no, it’s alright. A beginner! Well, no bad habits to unlearn, anyway. Dudley, would you mind warming up while I teach Harry a few basics?”

Dudley nodded, and turned toward his music.

***

Two hours later, the three boys left the office, exhausted. Dudley was worried about finishing his homework for the day—he was already so tired.

“Hey, Dudley?” Harry asked, as he was about to depart for Gryffindor tower.”

“Yeah?”

“I know I was kind of wound up about this whole thing—and—don’t get me wrong, I still want to keep an eye on him. But—but—thanks.”

“For what?” Dudley asked. Harry blinked.

“For letting me see what it’s like in your world.”

`

Chapter Text

The first few Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with Professor Quirrell had gone smoothly and quietly; the students had taken notes and discussed a few historical figures that Professor Binns had also mentioned. Dudley had earned five points for Hufflepuff for knowing that the Greek ‘gods’ of legend had, in fact, been wizards, and that Zeus’ philandering was the reason that there was still so much magical blood in that part of the world. Greg had earned a few points, too, from knowing a little about the great battle between Zeus and Merlin that had, apparently, rewritten wizarding history for most of Europe.

Dudley slid into his seat on the second of October, expecting another borderline-interesting class. He was startled when two girls—Ravenclaw girls, who usually sat on the opposite side of the room from the Hufflepuffs—flanked the outer edge of his desk, blocking his view of the front of the room.

“You’re Potter’s cousin, right?” the girl on the left—small, some kind of Asian (though Dudley was unsure which)—with a bobbed haircut that Dudley privately thought made her look like Harry Takayam from Full House, except with eyeliner—demanded, leaning close and whispering.

“Yeah,” Dudley said. He’d been a bully enough in primary school to know that these girls were trying to intimidate him, but he found them about as scary as Mrs. Figg (actually, less than that, but he’d go to his grave swearing that Mrs. Figg didn’t give him the willies at all.)

“But you’re a Hufflepuff,” the Indian-looking girl on the right said. Dudley thought she was much prettier than her counterpart on the left, but then, he’d never been one much for short girls, or girls with short hair, for that matter.

“Yeah,” Dudley said again.

“You’re not supposed to be smart,” the taller girl said.

“What? Did Harry say that?” Dudley demanded, actually a little annoyed. The two girls glanced at each other.

“N—no. But I mean… he’s a Gryffindor. Plenty of smart wizards have come out of Gryffindor. But Hufflepuff?” The one on the left sneered.

“It’s Dudley,” Dudley said, holding a hand out to the Asian girl.

“...Su Li,” she responded, though she did not shake his hand. “This is Padma Patil.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dudley said. “Now, why is my intelligence an issue?”

“You’re not supposed to be earning points by answering all the questions!” Padma hissed.

Dudley gave her a long, thoughtful look.

“I’m not going to fight you over this,” he said.

“You scared?” Su demanded.

“Not particularly,” Dudley scoffed, “but this is just stupid. You want to fight me because I’m… too smart to be nice? Too nice to be smart?”

The girls glanced at each other again, looking uncomfortable.

“We’ll be taking these seats,” Padma said, sliding into a desk in front of Dudley. Su took the other. Dudley supposed this was meant to be a strategic blocking of him, if he raised his hand. The trouble was, even the taller Padma was several inches shorter than Dudley. Her arms were shorter, too. They think that’s gonna work?

He chuckled, shaking his head to himself.

“Attention, c-class,” Professor Quirrel stammered from the front of the room. He always stuttered, but he looked much more nervous than usual today. Dudley sat a little taller, though it was less because he actually needed to see the professor better, and more because Su Li had glared over her shoulder at him.

“Today we m-move on from wizard-wiz-wizarding history to more m-modern uses of d-dark m-Magic.” Quirrel’s face contorted with terror.

Padma Patil raised her hand rapidly, then glanced at Su Li. Padma’s face was red; Dudley wondered if she’d expected to be answering a question.

“Yes miss Pat-Patil?” Quirrel asked.

“Er…” she hesitated, and Dudley suppressed a laugh. She was showing off. Or, trying to.

“What… what makes a dark magic user “modern,” Professor?” She asked weakly. Quirrel raised an eyebrow.

“If you will all o-open your b-books to page sev-sev-seventeen, you will see the official distinction,” Professor Quirrel said. Dudley pulled his copy of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection from his bag and flipped to the right page.

“There is, of c-course, a figure from modern magical his-history at Ho-Hogwarts presently,” Quirrel mused. Then he gave a strange laugh; Dudley didn’t know why, but he did not like the sound.

“Harry Potter?” Su Li asked, throwing her hand into the air.

“Of c-course, Miss Li,” Quirrel replied, his grin twisting down into a frown. As an apparent afterthought, he added, “two p-points to Hufflepuff.”

Dudley bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

“Er—Professor, I’m in Ravenclaw,” Su said, but the sound was lost in the rustling of pages and thudding of books.

“Professor?” Padma said, a bit louder.

“Yes, Miss Patil?” Quirrel sighed. 

“Never mind,” Padma finished, and pulled her own book from her bag.

Chapter Text

Dudley was nervous as he headed to the House Elf dormitories for the second time, violin case gripped tightly in his fingers. He knew he ought to be practicing nightly, but that seemed so unfair to the poor Elves—so he popped over on Tuesdays and Fridays.

The Elves were as good as their word, in terms of appreciating his music. The first night, while most of the Elves had scurried around the kitchen, six or seven had gathered in their rooms and stared at Dudley as he played. At first, it had been extremely unnerving. Those huge, wide eyes shone with—the word was adoration, and he found himself concerned that he’d let the little guys down.

He’d played through his scales first, still weirded out that he didn’t need to tune the instrument. He’d finished the final runthrough—he played up and down the notes several times to warm up his hand—and as he lowered his bow, the Elves had burst into riotous applause. One had been wiping his eyes; another was letting tears simply stream down his cheeks and into the base of his bat-wing-like ears.

“They’re only scales, mates,” Dudley had muttered, heat rising in his face. The Elves squealed and bowed, then turned back to watching Dudley.

I can’t let them down, he remembered thinking.

A particularly small Elf—Dudley thought it was another child— clapped and pointed at his violin, jabbering so fast, and at such a high pitch, that Dudley hadn’t caught a word.

“He’s wondering if you’ll play him a lullabye,” an older Elf had translated at Dudley's look of consternation.

“Er—I don’t know any,” Dudley had answered, embarrassed. “I mean, it’s the violin, so a lot of stuff sounds kinda soothing, but I don’t have music for any specific  lullabies. I’m really sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, master!” The older Elf replied. “You is doing us a great favor by playing here!”

“Is there a particular piece you want? I could try to learn—although I don’t know where I’d get music around here. Maybe from Cor?”

“Hmm,” the Elf replied, looking concerned. “Is you meaning Master Cor the Professor, Sir?”

“Yes,” Dudley said. “He’s agreed to help me study music and magic together. Do you know him?”

“Not really, Sir,” the Elf answered. “Most of the professors is coming to the kitchens often, Sir. But Master Cor is only coming when he is needing something very strange, and he is being very odd about—” another Elf elbowed the speaker, and his eyes grew wide. Without warning, he began to slap himself in the head, shouting, “Bad Skrip! Bad Skrip!”

Dudley set his instrument down hurriedly, and leaped forward to hold the Elf’s arm.

“Skrip!” Dudley said, hoping this was the Elf’s name. Apparently it was, because he paused and looked up into Dudley’s face.

“Skrip is sorry, Sir! Skrip is almost saying something unkind about another Master, Sir, and Skrip must be punished by hisself!” He tried to slap himself again, but with Dudley still holding his arm, his hand just flapped uselessly.

“What, about Cor? And people say unkind things all the time, you don’t have to hurt yourself—”

“People is doing that, yes, but House Elves is not being the same as people, Sir!” Skrip said. His lips trembled. He looked near tears. Dudley felt sick as he considered the words, but he didn't know what to say.

“Well—well just please don’t try to hurt yourself, Skrip,” Dudley said at last, tentatively releasing his hold on the Elf. Skrip lowered the arm shakily.

“Yes, Sir. Skrip is sorry, Sir.”

“It’s alright,” Dudley said, though the truth was that he was profoundly uncomfortable, and remained that way while he practiced a few familiar pieces and worked at the Concerto in B Minor he’d played through on the train. His practice here was less finessed—he guessed it was because he was distracted, and maybe because he wasn’t trying to show off—but he worked out a few issues he’d been struggling with.

By the time he’d finished, quite a few other Elves had arrived, and when he'd lowered his violin for the last time, it was with the realization that dozens of Elves were applauding.

***

Tonight, Dudley attempted to sneak into the back room. He was tired; the week had been long. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to play in front of a crowd. To his frustration, he made it about three steps into the busy kitchens before an Elf—he didn’t know her name, but he thought she was female— tapped his elbow and bowed.

“Master Dursley!” She exclaimed, her voice nearly as squeaky as the Elf child’s had been. “You is here to practice yours music?” She smiled widely. Dudley nodded.

“I is Ibby! I is here to make sure you is having what you is needing tonight!”

“Hello, Ibby,” Dudley said.

“Hello, Sir! What can Ibby do for you?”

“Well—well I was wondering if maybe tonight I could practice in peace?”

Ibby looked wounded.

“No—I mean—you guys can listen! But maybe not watch me tonight?”

“Of course, Sir,” Ibby said, but her ears drooped.

“Well—I guess a few of you can watch,” Dudley said. “Just—just keep chill, you know?”

Ibby clapped her hands, grinning.

“Yes, Sir!” She said. Dudley gave her his best, most supportive grin, and followed her through the kitchens.

Chapter Text

Dudley tried to phlumph into bed Saturday night—he’d spent the day learning about Quidditch and flying from Greg, Ron, and—oddly—Harry. But his collapse into oblivion was abruptly halted by something hard under his pillow smacking up against his head.

He pulled out the odd book that Greg had given him.

It did not glow in his hands this time, but flopped open as though it were an ordinary book. Dudley was not fooled. He peered closer at the pages. To his consternation, the book was not written in English--not even in the alphabet. It had to be some kind of code.

He resolved to ask Hermione about it in the morning. Wizard codes seemed like just the kind of oddity that the girl would know about.

***

Hermione, to Dudley’s mild regret (and Greg’s rather stronger annoyance), did not know what the book said. She’d muttered something unintelligible around a mouthful of food, waving her fingers at it. Dudley had nodded politely and walked away, with Greg trailing behind him.

“Maybe she’ll think of something?” Greg said hopefully. “Or… maybe those are Ancient Runes. I think there’s a class for that here at Hogwarts, for students aiming to become curse-breakers. I’ll bet the professor for that class could—”

“What’s that about curse breakers, Goyle?”

“Our brother Bill does that. Looking into it?”

“Not sure you’ve got your magic up to snuff, yet.”

Fred and George chuckled in unison.

“Not me,” Greg said. “Why, d’ya know about curses? Or, actually, Runes?”

“Not a bit,” George said.

“Bill would. We’ll see him ‘round Christmas, maybe, if you have a question.”

The twins looked at each other, their furrowed brows a mirrored image.

“I guess we could use the Floo network—”

“Not sure if anyone is keeping fires going in Egypt this time of year.”

They frowned toward Dudley and Greg.

“What’s the curse on, anyway?” Fred asked.

“It’s not a curse—well, I don’t think so, anyway,” Dudley said. He suddenly felt nervous about showing the twins the book. “It’s just a bunch of Runes in an old book.”

“Odd book?” George asked, at the same moment Fred said,

“Magic book?”

“Odd, yes. Magic, definitely. Not really your business, though,” Dudley said. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so off-putting, but Malfoy, Crabbe, and Zabini were walking behind the twins toward the Entrance Hall doors, and Dudley was sure he didn’t want to tell them anything.

“Hmmph!” the twins grunted together.

“Nasty attitude, that,” George said. Fred leaned forward and tweaked Dudley’s nose.

“Impertinent, Diddykins.”

“Sorry,” Dudley began, but Greg gave him a funny sideways look. Dudley stopped.

“You can figure this one out yourself, mate, if you don’t want to be nice,” George finished. The twins marched off with their noses in the air.

Dudley and Greg returned to the Hufflepuff table, and Dudley tapped his fingers against the books’s hard green cover. Then he tucked in to his breakfast, right up until Greg said, all at once,

“I don’t think we ought to show anybody the book, Dudley,”

“Wha?” Dudley asked, his mouth the full one this time. He swallowed. Mum would’ve been disgusted. “Why not?”

“Well, the—the person who gave it to me said it was sort of… sort of magic. Sort of a family secret. I just—”

Dudley gave Greg a hard stare.

“You didn’t tell me someone gave it to you,” he replied after a moment.

“She didn’t want me to make a big deal. Well… she just… she asked me to hide it.”

“Hide it? Why?” Dudley asked. He gave the book a queasy glance. “A book can’t be dangerous, can it?”

“Well, actually, it can,” Greg said. “Dark magic takes to books quite well. Lucius Malfoy has one that—well. Never mind.”

“What’s with all the secrets?”

Dudley found himself more than a little annoyed. Maybe it was the taunting from the twins, or the exhaustion, or Greg’s secrecy, but suddenly he was ready to escape people. He picked up the questionable book, then marched off toward the dormitories without a word.

He’d made it as far as the second-to-last corridor when, distracted as he was, he stepped into somebody.

Cold, worse than diving into frigid water, rushed through him. He stepped back, and the sensation struck again as he and the ghost he’d walked through passed through one another again.

“I say!” exclaimed the ghost, a chubby little man with the odd haircut of a monk, and wearing an enormous, translucent cross over his simple tabard.

“Oh! I’m—I’m terribly sorry, sir!” Dudley said, though he was still occupied with shaking off the dreadful cold.

The ghost looked Dudley up and down.

“Are you alright, my son?” He asked in a calmer voice.

“Yes,” Dudley lied. The feeling of being… ghosted … would stay imprinted in his mind forever, he was sure.

“You’re Mister Dursley, aren’t you? No—don’t be alarmed, it’s my job to know all of the Hufflepuff first-years… those that haven’t vanished, that is. I’m the Fat Friar, the Hufflepuff ghost. I’m sorry we haven’t met before this.”

“Er… no problem,” Dudley stammered. In the hustle and bustle of classes and homework, he’d put Kevin Entwhistle out of his mind for several days. The reality of the mystery came slamming back to him with awful force.

“Well, my young man, you look troubled. Might I be of some service? A Hufflepuff is always happy to help!”

“Only if you read Runes,” Dudley scoffed, unthinking.

“Runes, eh? Early in your schooling to be interested, but very well. What’s the homework? Or is it extracurricular?”

“Yeah, it is,” Dudley answered. Eyebrows arched high in surprise, he offered the book to the Friar, who merely blinked at it.

“Only Peeves, of the transparent folks around here, can interact with the tangible, dear boy.”

“Er—yes, sir.” Dudley held the book open for the ghost’s perusal.

The Fat Friar chuckled.

“Those aren’t Runes, dear boy.”

“They’re… not?”

“No. They’re Cyrillic. A different alphabet than we use. Your book there is simply written by someone from Eastern Europe.”

“Can you read it?”

“No,” the Friar sighed. Dudley closed the book, more disappointed than he would have expected. “But I’ll see if there’s anyone here who can.”

Chapter Text

Dudley’s experiences with American television had given him unreasonable expectations of Wizard Halloween, as it turned out. The actual day started out boring as toenails.

Classes were ordinary for a Thursday—following breakfast, the Hufflepuffs had hustled down to the dungeons to be vastly ignored by Snape. Dudley, who had written to Mum with a, “yes, how do you know Professor Snape?” had received no answer from her, and was far too nervous about his grade in the class to bring it up to the man himself. During the second hour of class, Su Li had smiled at Dudley, which made him uncomfortable; as far as he could tell, neither she nor Padma Patil had forgiven him for scoring points in DADA.

After the break was Transfiguration, which had become Dudley’s second or third favorite class—his opinion on Quirrel’s lessons vacillated depending on how interesting the professor made the material. Professor McGonagall, whose lips pursed nearly as tightly as Mum’s when she was annoyed, could be warm and extremely helpful if the students asked nicely for help. Greg had even gone to her during office hours, and his skills had improved significantly.

Dudley and Greg walked with Harry and Ron to Herbology.

“No Hermione or Neville,” Dudley observed. He glanced back; Neville wasn’t there, but Hermione was.

“Neville’s in the Hospital wing,” Ron grunted. “Peeves made him try to jump between flights of stairs as they moved.”

Dudley winced aloud.

“Poor chap,” he commented. He glanced backwards at Hermione again, then looked Ron over; the boy’s ears were a pink that clashed spectacularly with his hair.

"Hermione—"

“They’ve had a row,” Harry sighed.

“A row would suggest that we were friends enough to speak,” Ron replied indignantly. “Hermione Granger—“ Ron looked quickly over his shoulder, and Dudley followed suit; Hermione was definitely hurrying, trying desperately to listen. “—is a bigot.”

“Big word for you, Weasley!” Hermione snapped, now only a few steps behind them.

“What happened?” Greg asked. Dudley raised an eyebrow at Harry, who rolled his eyes. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, Harry spoke up.

“They come from different worlds,” he sighed. At the same moment, Hermione grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “speciesism.”

“House Elves?” Dudley whispered to Harry, who nodded.

“Oh come off it, Hermione!” Greg grumbled. She glared at him.

“I will not. Slave labor is abhorrent, and—“

“It’s voluntary!”

“It’s dreadful!”

Dudley sighed.

“That isn’t what you’re fighting about anyhow,” he said, inspiration striking him. Ron, Hermione, and Greg all looked at Dudley in surprise. Harry stared pointedly ahead, apparently ignoring the conversation.

“Ron and Hermione, you two like each other. Idiots.”

It was a gamble, and Dudley knew it—if either Ron or Hermione was truly uninterested, their reactions would make everything worse. But—

Both blushed, Ron’s ears practically glowing as he and Hermione spluttered.

“C’mon, you can sit at our table,” Dudley said, guiding Hermione away from Harry and Ron, who were joined eagerly by Ernie.

Dudley was feeling quite pleased with his manipulation of the situation, right up until dinner time. He had a forkful of steak-and-kidney pie halfway to his mouth when Professor Quirrel came sprinting down an aisle in the Great Hall, screaming about a troll.

Chapter Text

With the troll reportedly in the dungeon—though he was certain he could hear a clanging coming from up stairs—Dudley tossed a long list of dessert requests into the box for the Elves. Neville, who was feeling better, had wound up walking with Dudley and Greg, and the three of them were eating treacle tart by the now-warm fire (it was wintry outside, after all) in the Gathering Place.

“Shame Ron and Harry aren’t here, we’d have a right party,” Greg chuckled.

“Oh they went to tell Hermione about the troll, I guess,” Neville said, immediately choking on an overlarge bite. Once he had finished spluttering, Dudley followed up.

“Why wouldn’t Hermione know?”

“She was off crying in the bathroom. One of the girls in my House said it had to do with some boy.” Dudley and Greg exchanged a look. “I was pretty sure they didn’t mean me, so I didn’t ask any more about it. But I guess Ron felt bad that she didn’t know or something.”

“Er—” Dudley began, unsure whether he ought to explain his outburst that morning to Neville.

“Oh, now, terrible showing, you lot!” an unexpected voice shouted above the mild din in the Gathering Place. Fred and George Weasley climbed up through a hatch in the floor that Dudley was certain he had never noticed. He realized that it might be magically hidden, like with the barrels outside.

“Hold on, you two—” Q began. Dudley watched in surprise, expecting Q to be much more in favor of the Weasleys’ shenanigans than most prefects. And, after a moment, Dudley’s surprise melted away—Q was grinning widely. “Why didn’t you let me in on this idea? I’d have helped!”

“What’s the idea, exactly?” a stuffy-looking older Hufflepuff asked.

“A party! Why not? The teachers are all running around like crazy, looking for that troll. Even the ghosts are distracted.”

“Er— Dudley began to object, then realized two things simultaneously: one, that he didn’t mind if the Weasleys threw a party, and two, that he didn’t actually have to attend.

“Neville—” Dudley said, realizing that he wasn’t supposed to take the Gryffindor boy into the actual Hufflepuff Common Room. Do you want to stay for the party, or—”

“Yeah! It’ll be brilliant!” Neville said. He stood, rushed toward Fred and George with arms outstretched (probably to help carry the heaps of treats the twins were heaving in) and tripped, falling flat on his face.

Greg gave a chuckling sigh, and he and Dudley pulled Neville to his feet.

“I’ll be skipping this one, I think,” Dudley said. “I need to write to Mum. Greg—here or there?”

“I’ll come with you, mate, if Neville will be alright.”

Neville, whose whole face was scarlet, gave a quick nod and a weak smile.

“Thanks,” Dudley said, and he and Greg crossed into the Common Room.

It was blessedly quiet once the door had closed behind them in the empty Common Room. Dudley gazed into the dancing flames in the hearth.

“You really writing to your mum?” Greg asked.

“I should, but… maybe I’ll wait ‘til the troll is taken care of, so I can avoid mentioning anything scary while keeping in the important parts.”

“You’re lucky,” Greg said, and Dudley took it as a comment more to Greg himself than to his friend. The room was so quiet, however, that after a moment Dudley stopped staring at the fire and looked carefully at his friend.

“Something you wanna talk over?”

“Nothing new,” Greg said, his voice still low. “Just my father being—being—” he rose suddenly, turned, and upended the chair he’d been sitting in. “Being the worst prat you can imagine, and really, that’s not the right word—” he shoved a stack of books off of a small table. “But the right word is— is—”

And Greg sank to his knees on the floor, suddenly sobbing.

Dudley stared down at his friend, unsure what to do. If it were Mum, crying over something Daddy had said or done, he’d be down there too, arms around her, telling her that she was loved, lying about how he could keep them both safe. But this wasn’t Mum. This was another dude .

Still, he had to do something. Slowly, Dudley knelt next to Greg. After a cautious moment, he laid his fingers on his friend’s shoulder. Greg twitched, but not in a “get off me!” way. Even more carefully, Dudley patted Greg’s shoulder and leaned in toward him, so that Greg would know Dudley was there if he needed him.

Greg gave a few more rending sobs. With one eye, Dudley watched the door. It seemed everyone was enjoying (or blocked by) the party, because no one came through the door. Still, Dudley raised his wand and whispered, “colloportus” in the direction of the door, locking it (he hoped; he’d never used magic outside of an assignment before.)

Greg was just breathing, now—heavily, but without choking on sobs.

“Do you want to tell me what the right word is?” Dudley asked in a low voice. Greg shook his head.

“Alright, well, is there something else I can do?”

“Why are you nice to me, Dudley?” Greg asked suddenly.

“Why?” Dudley furrowed his brow. “Er—why not?”

Greg gave a hollow laugh.

“‘Why not.’” He shook his head. “You’re a muggle-born.”

“And…?”

“And I—I’m a Goyle. Have you not heard the name anywhere? Honestly?”

“Um. No?”

“Oh. Er…”

“Why? Where’s your family from?”

“...Russia.”

“Okay, so… what, they’re KGB or something?”

“Not—not exactly. More like…” Greg looked terrified, like Dudley might beat him to a pulp—or, not Dudley, maybe, but someone. “More like the KGB… are the muggle version of my family.”

Dudley blinked rapidly, trying to understand. Greg’s eyes were shut in a wince. Dudley tapped his shoulder again.

“What does that mean, when it’s at home?”

“It means…” Greg breathed. Breathed. “It means that the Goyles are like… a wizard mob in Russia. My family are, and always have been, Dark Wizards. Dudley. My father moved out to England to—to—” he stopped, shook his head.

“Greg,” Dudley said, feeling that the time had come for bluntness. “I don’t give a crap what your ancestors have done, or even your parents. You’re different—if you weren’t, they wouldn’t be so mad at you. And you’re also my friend, my best friend in this insane place,” he said, gesturing at the castle around them. “You never make fun of me for what I don’t know, or—or having the wrong ideas, or— whatever. You treat me well, and I try to be a good friend. So whatever it is you’re trying to tell me, it’s okay. We’ll find a way to make it okay. ”

Greg swallowed so hard, Dudley practically felt his own throat burn.

“My father,” he repeated in a whisper, “was sent by the Goyle family to support—Moldy Shorts—during the beginning of his rise to power. My father was—would still be, if he had the opportunity—a Death Eater, Dudley. A man who used to hunt muggles and even muggle-born wizards for sport. A predator, and you’d be prey to him.”

Dudley was grateful, later, that he didn’t reel backwards at these words. It would’ve seemed to Greg that he, Dudley, was trying to create distance between them, the boys. What he wanted to escape from was the idea, the notion of Greg growing up in a home like that, under the thumb of a man like that…

And in a sudden, horrifying, impossible moment, a truckload—a mountain— of memories began to pour over a wall that Dudley had not known was in his own mind.

Daddy, pushing Mum so hard she fell off his chair just because she was in it. He hadn’t even wanted to sit there. Daddy, when Dudley was young, bopping him on the mouth for using the word “magic.” Mum, screaming the very words at Harry that Daddy had yelled at her ten minutes before. Daddy, telling Mum that Harry deserved a wallopping, and making her give it. Daddy deciding that wasn’t good enough and hitting Harry on the cheek with his fist. Dudley himself, screaming that Harry was bleeding and being sent out of the room by a terrified-looking Mum. Daddy, screaming at Mum upstairs while the living room reverberated with the sound. Mum, covering a black eye with thick makeup. Mum, blaming a broken arm on falling down the stairs, when Dudley was sure she’d been downstairs all day, except when Daddy needed help getting to bed after a night at the bar.

Choking, spluttering, Dudley whispered, “My… father… hurts my mum. I think she takes it so he won’t do it to me. Hurts Harry, too—I swear I thought that was normal for years. And—when he found out I had magic, I think he hated me for it…”

Greg looked up for the first time, his sad eyes meeting the pain in his friend’s.

“We’ve worse to worry about than trolls in this life, haven’t we?”

Chapter Text

“ Dear Mum,” Dudley wrote. Then he stopped, watching the ink on his quill shine in the light of the lantern beside his bed. Halloween had passed, and two days with considerably fewer incidents (thankfully,) and Dudley realized with horror that he hadn’t written home in… nine days?

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept up with writing. School is so busy! There’s a lot going on, most of it good, I just don’t know how to explain it all. I’m real glad you’re my mum, and I love you. Just thought I’d let you know that I’m ok, everything’s ok, I’m just trying to get my feet under me at the mo’.

Love,

Dudley”

Though he wracked his brain, Dudley could not think of anything else to write.

There was someone that Dudley found a way to talk to, unnatural though it seemed. Monday, after churning through a weekend of homework with Greg, Dudley found Harry during the inevitable chaos that defined Herbology. 

“Harry—” Dudley began in a low voice. Harry looked at him; then his eyes shifted focus, and he dodged a trowel’s worth of soil from Justin Finch-Fletchley (who was much less fastidious about dirt than, say, Ernie, and who lacked Neville’s tenderness with plants.)

“Harry,” Dudley tried again. Something in his voice must have caught Harry’s attention, because he looked at him more intently.

“Help me water these at the tub outside,” Harry suggested, gesturing at the borage starters he held. Dudley took a second tray. Together, the boys traipsed to the washbasin full of rainwater, which Professor Sprout said Hagrid tended to.

“My dad’s been a jerk to you,” Dudley said, unsure of how else to start.

Harry stood, straightening away from measuring the soft water into the plants. He looked Dudley square in the eye.

“Sure you want to talk about this?”

“Sure I like that we’re friends now, and it seems like we have to, doesn’t it?”

Harry considered that.

“Not just your dad,” he said finally, “but he’s been the worst of it, yeah.”

Dudley felt his cheeks grow warm, but he pressed on.

“I know, I’ve spent your whole life bullying you. I’m—I’m really sorry, and I don’t know what else—” his voice broke.

“Hey,” Harry said. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I didn’t even mean you, and I don’t think it’s really your fault. How were you supposed to know any better?”

“You—you mean Mum?”

Conversation faltered for a moment.

“Dudley, you have to actually water the plants; Sprout’s watching.”

“...Right.” He began to water the starts along with Harry.

“I don’t want to blame Mum,” Dudley said at last.

“I think, in her own way, she was trying to protect you,” Harry said. “Like—like if someone was gonna get it from your dad, she’d rather it was me. I’m not her kid.”

Dudley nodded, hoping the tear that fell into the washtub wouldn’t hurt the plants.

“My dad won’t write me,” he admitted slowly.

“Because of Hogwarts? And magic?”

“Yeah.”

“That… truly and deeply sucks, Dudley. I know you love him.”

Dudley braced himself. He was waiting for some kind of judgement, some “ however that’s possible” or “ even though he’s terrible.” Instead, Harry sighed.

“If I had a chance to spend five minutes with my dad, I’d do anything for it.” He stopped, gave Dudley a wry grin. “I’d even throw you under, mate.”

Dudley chuckled. Harry, seemingly worn from the heaviness of the conversation, turned away with his plants and headed back toward the greenhouse.

Dudley watched him go, thinking. Was his own father better than no father at all? Certainly he had to be. But Harry’s perspective opened a window to Dudley, and he realized that he wasn’t ready to cut Daddy off entirely, either.

That night, Dudley sat down in front of a second piece of parchment.

“ Dear Daddy,

School is going well. I don’t know if Mum told you, but I found a great violin teacher and some real mates around this place. I’m studying hard and the teachers seem to like me okay.

Please write back.

Your son,

Dudley”

He looked at the note, embarrassed that it was so short. But sometimes, writing was just hard.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Plots and Plans

Quidditch training caused a slight problem for Dudley. Two, actually: one, not only was his cousin “the famous Harry Potter,” but the new Gryffindor Seeker—apparently a very big deal, and therefore there was a resurgence of questions about him— and two, Harry was busy during music lessons. Beyond the practices and homework, he seemed glued to Ron and Hermione since Halloween, for some reason. Dudley didn’t envy Harry’s time, not really, but he did discover that he missed having his cousin—his friend—available to roll eyes with when the purebloods got going.

He was startled, then, to run into Harry coming in to The Gathering Place (with Ron and Hermione trailing behind) as he, Dudley, left to play for the House Elves.

“Dudley! Have a minute?” Harry asked.

“Erm—I guess,” Dudley said, glancing at his violin.

“Practice time? Sorry.”

“S’ok. What’s up?” Dudley asked.

Harry jerked his head, indicating that the four of them should step out into the corridor. Dudley followed, and Harry faced his cousin with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“What do you think of Snape?” He asked.

Dudley felt his eyebrows lift.

“Snape? I mean, does anyone like him?”
“Malfoy, but that’s cause he’s a little pet,” Ron interjected.

“Malfoy is actually pretty good at Potions,” Hermione began. Ron opened his mouth to say something—probably something rude. Then he looked into Hermione’s eyes and blinked a few times.

“Not better than you, though,” he said at last. “And he gets top marks, and you don’t.”

Hermione shrugged, blushing a little over the compliment.

Wonder how long that’ll take to turn into something real, Dudley wondered.

“Snape,” Harry said again. “What’s your impression of him?”

“I guess I learn okay in his class,” Dudley said. “It helps that Mum taught me some stuff about cooking, I know words like ‘simmer’ and ‘saute.’”

“Right, but I don’t mean as a teacher. I mean… as a person, what do you think of him?”

“Er—he’s a right prat, honestly, and he’s extra weird to me. Jumped about a mile when he learned Mum’s name, and he stares at me sometimes. It’s super creepy.”

“So you don’t like him?”

“Not particularly,” Dudley answered, wondering what this was all about.

“Good,” replied Harry. “Listen. On Halloween, when the troll was causing a ruckus…”

***

Dudley closed the kitchen door behind him, oblivious to the joyous reception of the Elves. Could Snape really be doing something so awful? Trying to steal from the Headmaster? Endangering students?

THERE WAS A THREE-HEADED ATTACK DOG IN THE CASTLE??

And Dudley was still nervous about Hagrid’s dog, Fang…

“Mr. Dudley! Is you alright? Is you needing sweets before yours practice?” A squeaky voice finally penetrated Dudley’s thoughts.

“Er, yeah, that actually might help,” Dudley said. He blinked as an Elf he didn’t know pushed his fellows to the side, gathering a pudding from a countertop. He pressed it into Dudley’s hands.

It was jam roly-poly, one of Dudley’s favorites. He ate the whole thing—it wasn’t a serving bowl’s size, after all—and felt his muscles relax. The dog was contained. Snape was Professor Dumbledore’s responsibility, not his or Harry’s.

Dudley walked with his case back toward the room where he practiced. Gricky appeared at his hip, and the Elf stared at him as they walked with a nervous expression.

“Gricky? Can I—is there something on your mind?”

“Yes, Mr. Dudley, there is!” Gricky squeaked. He pulled a stack of parchment from—seemingly—thin air, and offered it up to Dudley with a shaky hand.

“Oh, righteous!” Dudley exclaimed, examining the pages. It was new sheet music, labeled at the top with the name “Berceuse.”

“Bear-sauce?” Dudley read slowly.

“I am thinking it is ‘bear-suz,” Mr. Dudley, but you is welcome to call it whatever you is liking!” Gricky said. “You is not having to play it, of course, but recently you was asking if we had sheet music. Gricky is finding some in the library, and Madame Irma Pince is saying that he could check it out! And Elf checking something out from the library!” He shook his head in disbelief.

“You’ve never checked a book out before? Any of you?”

“Books is being the property of wizards, Mr. Dudley. Gricky and the other Elves is not taking their things, Sir!”

Dudley sighed. Then, staring at the music, he remembered the idea he’d had the first time he’d practiced with the Elves. The rest of it fell into place in his mind.

“Gricky, would you be willing to help me learn this piece?” He asked.

“Gricky would be honored, Sir, honored!”

Dudley scrunched his brow. How do I teach Gricky about music, without his knowing that he’s learning it? He wondered.

“Do you know how to read music at all, Gricky?” Dudley asked.

“No, Sir,” Gricky said, ears drooping. “Gricky hopes he can still be of service to you.”

“If I… if I showed you which note was what, and told you their names, do you think you’d remember? So you can help me?” Dudley added the last bit in a rush, hoping the ruse wasn’t so thin that Gricky would be offended.

“Gricky is very good at remembering, Sir.”

“Good. How’s your ear?” Dudley asked.

“Gricky’s ear, Sir? It is long for a House Elf’s, Sir?”

“No, I mean—sorry, Gricky. I mean, your sense of tone. Can you tell the difference between different notes? Can you tell if a harmony is off, or—or—”

“Gricky is not sure, Sir, but I is willing to find out if it will help Mr. Dudley!”

“Alright, then,” Dudley said. He had to fight to keep his grin from spreading across his face—he was sure that the House Elves would frown on one of their own learning music for his own sake. But to help a wizard?

That seemed plausible. And, it might actually help him, to boot.