Chapter Text
Dudley Dursley of Number Four Privet Drive was a quiet man with a quiet life. It wasn't simple by any means—for he sought out oddity wherever he could find it, much to his mother's chagrin. She still lived with him, after all, and his persistent adoration of fantasy novels and his growing collection of 'occult artwork' (her words, not his) was starting to grate on her. When he'd gotten his first tattoo—a boa constrictor curved around his upper arm and shoulder—she'd gone spare.
It wasn't his fault that he'd started to see the beauty that lay outside the lines of ordinary. Once his eyes had been opened, he couldn't stop seeing. He couldn't stop wondering.
He sighed as he opened the cupboard under the stairs, pushing the freshly folded linens inside. Not for the first time, it evoked a distant memory. Bony elbows and taped-up spectacles.
It made his stomach churn.
It had been three years. He wondered if his cousin was okay after all this time. Surely if he wasn't, the world would feel much darker. Less safe. After all, the nine months after he'd last seen Harry, he'd been filled with a constant feeling of dread—looking over his shoulder everywhere he went.
If that feeling had went away...maybe that meant that Harry was safe, just as much as he was. He wished there was some way to know for certain. That's why he'd decided to move back home, after all. His mum hadn't been as keen—worried about what may be lying in wait—but he'd insisted. He could feel in his bones that the danger had passed.
And just in case—even though there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he'd want to come back—he'd wanted to make sure his cousin had a safe place to land. Somewhere quiet and familiar, where the even the street signs would recognize him if he came strolling down the pavement.
Dudley owed him that much at least.
"Diddums," Petunia cooed, peeking her head in the front door. She'd been working in the garden all morning—planting a new hydrangea bush beneath the windows. He was glad that they'd come back here, if not for Harry, then for her. The garden was her masterpiece, and after his father died it brought her both comfort and joy. It was hard to find homes with good gardens these days. His father had been smart not to sell the place outright.
"Yeah, Mum?"
"Could you be a dear and go back to the nursery? I forgot to pick up mulch before we left."
"Let me put another load in and I'll be off," he assured her with a thin smile. Her gaze drifted to the cupboard—still open and stacked with freshly laundered sheets.
"He won't visit, you know," she said, face going stony. "Lily never visited. Not once she had a new life."
"Would she have been welcome?" he retorted. A tired argument. One they'd had before. She flinched, like she always did. "I know he won't come back," he assured her. He wouldn't come back either, if he were Harry.
She gave a terse nod. "Better for all of us, I think," she murmured. "The mulch, sweetums. When you get the chance."
She disappeared again, and he was left staring at the door she'd shut behind her. Better for all of us. Better for her, certainly. She knew she'd done wrong by him, keeping him in a cupboard. It was something he'd laid into her for, when he'd truly come to understand the gravity of it. Now, she barely spared the cupboard a glance as she passed, unwilling to sit with any guilt. He stared at it constantly. He loved his mum dearly—and he knew how much she loved him. But part of him would always be wondering what would have happened if Harry had grown up in the room beside his.
If Harry had been raised as a brother, instead of as a nuisance.
Not coming back would likely be better for Harry as well. Less painful, more peaceful. No reminders of cruel words and withheld affection. No memories of guardians who were clearly capable of love, and yet spared none for him. Of a cousin who took and took—trying to beat him down at every turn. A cousin who he'd saved anyway when the time came.
He sighed again, scrubbing a hand over his face. There was no point in dwelling on it now. He might never see Harry again, and his mother needed mulch before dark. He grabbed his keys and slipped on his shoes after he'd thrown the next load of laundry in. It was a quick trip—the nursery was just two kilometers away. It was a nice day, too—if it weren't for the bags of mulch he'd have to carry, he'd have just walked it.
He liked walking these days. Especially since it was easier to catch glimpses of things he shouldn't see. The occasional owl flying in daylight, the odd person in a long robe disappearing into an alley, pictures moving on strangely laid out newspapers, and cats staring far too long to be considered normal. That last one might just be wishful thinking, but it still made him feel hopeful. Like maybe, one of these days he'd get a glimpse of how his cousin was doing.
He shivered as he climbed out of the car. It was that moment in the year where even though the sun was out, there was a chill in the air—where Summer bled into Autumn and the days grew darker. He'd have to make sure his mum was wearing a jumper when he got back. She'd grown frail since his dad died and while she was bouncing back, he didn't want anything else to bring her down. Not when she was finding simple pleasures again.
"Welcome to Spring R—oh! You were here earlier, weren't you?"
Dudley startled, blinking at the young woman in front of him. Her chocolate curls were up in a messy bun that his mum would have recoiled from. But the little wisps of hair that were escaping it, tickled the tops of her cheekbones, and he thought she looked charming. "Uh...yeah," he uttered. "With my mum. She forgot to get mulch. Too excited about the hydrangeas."
"Mm, hydrangeas are beautiful, I don't blame her," she said, smiling wide. Dudley's breath caught at the sight of it. He'd had crushes before, but he'd never get used to the strange eruption of butterflies in his stomach as she leaned in, pretty green eyes twinkling up at him. "They do need mulch, though. Helps their roots dig deeper, makes them more winter resistant."
"R-right," he agreed, cursing himself for the stutter. He racked his brain for anything his mum had said about them. "And planting in Fall is okay, right? Because they'll establish those roots before winter?"
Her grin widened, and he wondered if this was what it was like to be under a spell. His only other encounter with magic (aside from Harry's odd misfire) was something horrible and cold. If it felt like this, though—where his knees felt weak from just a smile—he could understand why Harry never wanted to come back to the magickless ordinary. "You know your stuff. Now I feel bad that I didn't help you earlier, but I always hide in the back when people ask for help with the big plants," she teased.
He huffed a tiny laugh, smile tugging at his lips. "Well that's not fair," he complained. "I don't have anywhere to hide when mum starts her gardening sprees, and I'm not even being paid for it."
"Hmm. Well maybe if you can lift the mulch on your own, I'll find a way to compensate you."
He blinked, heart stuttering. Was she...flirting with him? He wasn't...unattractive. But he was a big guy—thick and hulking, and his face looked mean at first glance. People didn't flirt with him, usually. "Well...I can't wait to see what you come up with..." His eyes drifted down to her name tag. "Katy."
Her smile turned sly, and his palms were sweating. "Well, that's just not fair," she said. "You know my name and I don't know yours. Should I call you Blondie? Cutie?"
He blushed, but something warm curled in the pit of his stomach. Something exciting and hopeful.
"Dudley," he said, proud of himself for not stammering. "My name is Dudley."
When he walked away half an hour later, her number was scrawled in careful ink at the bottom of his receipt.
Dudley's stomach was in knots. His hair was slicked back—not cemented to his scalp, but artfully swept away from his forehead. He was wearing a tuxedo. There was a boutonniere tucked into his lapel. His heart was racing.
He was going to vomit.
He could hear Aunt Marge from somewhere outside the door, loudly and drunkenly wailing about how Dudley had grown so fast, and what a shame it was that Vernon wasn't here to see him become a man. It made his heart clench. He wished his dad was here, too. They'd had so many disagreements before he'd died, and now Dudley just wished he could be here for this.
For his wedding. For expanding their family.
He wished Harry were here for it, too. He had an invitation for him, but hadn't had anywhere to send it. He'd considered luring a wild owl into the house so it could carry the delicate, lace-wrapped cardstock to his long-lost cousin. Just to let him know that he was welcome into Dudley's life, even if he never chose to take that place.
He wouldn't be here without Harry. He never would have met Katy. He never would have graduated from Uni. He never would have survived whatever dark magical crap had been lurking around every corner. He was sure that Harry had saved him from that. In return, he wasn't even sure if Harry was alive.
But Dudley was alive. He was alive, and about to marry the most incredible woman in the universe. The most bright and open person he'd ever met. The kind of woman who embraced people with more love than he thought a single person could contain. And he was going to build a family with her. Grow old with her.
He wished that all the people who mattered to him would be here to see it.
"You look so handsome," his mum's watery voice sounded from the door. He turned to look at her. Her lips were pinched, probably to keep them from trembling. She looked beautiful, hair swept back into a neat bun, wearing a pale, flowy thing that fell below the knees.
"You look lovely, mum," he said, tearing up. He'd been weepy all day. Who could blame him, though? She approached him, hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder.
"Are you ready, sweetums?" she asked. Her eyes were wet, like she would burst into tears at any minute. "No cold feet?"
"None," he assured her, smiling weakly. "I'm ready. I don't think I've ever been more ready for anything. I just wish..."
Her smile turned sad, eyes welling up properly. "I wish he was here, too," she told him. "He'd be so proud of you. Kathryn—"
"Katy."
"Yes, of course. She would have been an adjustment for him—such a...free spirit—but she makes you so happy. That's all we've ever wanted for you, darling. For you to be happy and safe."
He bit back the retort at the tip of his tongue. His mum loved Katy, even if it had taken her a few months to warm up. Thankfully, they both loved gardening and that had sped the process. But his mother took umbrage with Katy's love of overalls and paint-stained jeans. And the three cats she'd moved into Privet Drive. And the changed she'd made to the house, like ripping out the wallpaper and hand painting a mural onto one of the kitchen walls.
"I know, mum," he said instead. "I wish he could have met her."
Through the doors, the music started playing. He let out a shaky breath. Piers, his best man, poked his head into the room. "Time to go, mate. Gotta wait for KitKat at the altar." After Uni, he and Piers had reconnected—both of them more mellow and more mature. Dudley had shared as much of his regret as he could, and Piers had taken that and helped him be better. He'd become better himself. It was amazing what perspective could do for growth, if only you were open to it.
His mum wrapped him in a hug, squeezing him tight. "My baby's getting married," she sniffed. "It feels like you said your first word last week."
"Well he's about to say a whole bunch more," Piers teased. "C'mon, D. You made me rehearse your vows a million times, don't put it to waste."
"Coming," he said, squeezing her one more time. "Love you, mum."
She sniffled as she pulled away. "I love you too, Diddums."
He let Piers pull him away, only pausing outside the chapel's side doors to straighten Dudley's tie and make sure his suit was crisp. "You ready?" Piers asked. Their processional song was starting, so that meant that Katy's mum was walking down the aisle to her seat. In a few moments, he and Piers would be taking their place at the altar.
"I've been ready for ages," he admitted. Piers gave him a tight smile—and the length of their friendship afforded him the knowledge that he was trying not to cry. "Don't get soft on me now, mate," he warned. "You can't be crying now. If I pass out when I see her, you need to catch me."
Piers socked him in the shoulder. "If you faint, I'm drawing a mustache on you and that'll be in your wedding photos. Now shut up and get in there, Dickhead." He pulled the door open, and Dudley's stomach fell to his knees. "Deep breath." Dudley complied. "Now go."
There was a buzzing in his ears, not quite loud enough to drown out the music, but loud enough to make him feel like he was underwater or something. His palms were sweating—even more than the day he'd first met her. The chapel was decked out in bright white and shades of purple—dotting the flower stands at the end of each pew to match the river of violet that ran down the center of the aisle.
Katy's niece, their five-year-old flower girl named Annie, came in through the main door—sprinkling white rose petals across the floor ahead of Katy's maid of honor, her little sister Janine. When they'd first met, Dudley felt a kind of envy. He wished he'd had the foresight to build a relationship like theirs with the cousin he'd neglected. He hoped that whatever family they built would be closer than the one he'd come from. As it was, Katy's family had embraced him. He didn't feel lonely in the face of their bond for very long.
When she reached the top of the aisle, Janine shot him an encouraging smile—taking Annie by the hand and leading her to the side.
Then, the music swelled, and she made her appearance in the doorway. Dudley couldn't have looked away if he tried. She looked ethereal—ivory fabric soft and fluttering around her with flowers across her waist, up her side and over her shoulder in something soft like lavender. Instead of a veil, she had a thin, flower crown in her curls. None of that mattered though. All he could see as she glided toward him was her smile—bright as the sun.
He wasn't a poet, nor much of a romantic—but he knew that smile would rise in his chest forever, more brilliant and beautiful than the dawn.
"Sweetheart?"
Dudley looked up from his phone, heart clenching at the sight of Katy in her comfiest maternity dress, hair pulled up and mud all over her hands. Her hand was pushed into her lower back—probably sore from the extra weight she was carrying. He silently resolved to make sure she took a long bath tonight. If she was still sore after, he'd give her a massage. She was tiny, and her pregnancy had started to bear down on her bones as soon as her belly started to protrude.
"Mm?"
"You were right. I was ambitious."
He chuckled, tossing his phone aside to heave himself up. "What broke you down?" he asked, sauntering over to drop a kiss on her forehead. She pouted up at him.
"My center of gravity," she mumbled. "I was all the way in the back, kneeling to plant the begonias. I tried to get up but I couldn't get the momentum. I'm the size of a whale, Dudley. I thought I was going to be beached there, too far from the house for you to hear."
"I would have come looking for you. I always go looking for you if you're not there to say 'I told you so.'"
"Will you help me with them?" she asked, still pouting. "We can trade. I can make dinner while you finish up."
He thought about teasing her but honestly, he was just glad that she was asking for help. She was unbelievably stubborn, especially in the face of her current condition. He'd been stamping back his protective instincts, just for fear that she'd chop off his dick if he smothered her. He'd agreed that he'd keep his overbearing reactions to a minimum, as long as she truly asked for help when she needed it. She was holding up her end of the bargain, so there was no good reason to poke fun at it now.
He wanted to live in a space where it was okay to ask for help. God knows, Privet Drive had never been that before.
"Of course, sweetheart. But we can pick up dinner, if you want. You've been talking about pizza for a week," he reminded her, pulling her in closer. "There's that new place too, with the thin crust and fancy toppings." She made a disgruntled noise, and he knew she thought he was coddling her. "Hey, if you want something to do, the laundry is all yours."
"Don't act like you didn't pick laundry specifically because it's a sitting chore," she huffed, burrowing into him anyway. It made him feel soft and sappy—he was tall and bulky, less chubby than when he was young but still a solid mass that lay somewhere between strength and pure heft. He used to use that to intimidate—to lord over others and beat them down. Now, his considerable size was purely something for his paint-and-dirt stained gremlin of a wife to burrow into for comfort.
"Nah. You know I hate doing laundry. Don't have the patience for it. And mum can't do it as well anymore—not with her back problems."
"Guilting me with your mum is foul," she scolded him, whacking him in the chest. "Fine. But I want Indian food instead. And I want it spicy."
"You drive a hard bargain," he chuckled. "But in that case, if you could fix something for mum, that would be ideal."
"Someday, I will get her used to spicy food," she insisted. He kissed her on the forehead again. "Go plant my begonias, darling. I'll take care of the rest."
He did as he was told, ambling into the garden and making his way to the back fence—immediately spotting the spot of empty dirt that had been dug up to make room for the begonia flats resting on the lawn. His heart twisted at the sight of it. He was 25—almost 26—years old. It had been nearly ten years since he'd seen Harry.
But there were echoes of him in every part of his childhood home, and sometimes those echoes rang louder. When they were nine years old, his mum had convinced Dudley to give Harry one of his old action figures. It was to make space for a new one he was set to get on his birthday, but Dudley had been hard-pressed to part with the toy, especially if it meant Harry would have it.
Still, he'd ultimately given it up. Harry had it for a week, and then Dudley had decided he didn't like seeing Harry enjoy himself with his belongings, so he'd stolen it back when Harry wasn't looking and smashed it on the countertop.
He'd been afraid that his mum would get upset with him, and didn't want to risk her withholding his birthday gifts, so he'd buried it in the back yard. He'd buried it deep. The plastic pieces were probably still there—a hidden monument to his selfishness and greed. Why hadn't he just shared? He didn't understand now. It wrapped around his mind and tugged at him, yanking him toward self-flagellation.
He took a deep breath, trying his best to shake it off. If he ever saw Harry again, he could lean into that guilt then. Show his cousin how horrible he felt, and give him a meaningful apology. Until then, he'd just do his best with the life he was building. He'd make his wife happy and his mother comfortable. He'd make sure that his kid knew, no matter who they turned out to be, that they were loved—and they should extend their own love to as many people as they could reach, like Katy did.
Just like he should have done, all those years ago.
Nine months of bracing himself for impact had not prepared him for the moment Katy's water broke in the middle of their kitchen. Not even by half. He could have sworn the paintings hanging on the wall had shuddered just before Katy had called for him, like a warning to batten down the hatches. But no amount of warning could have prepared him for the way Katy crushed the bones in his hand to dust. He wondered if, like magic, the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk was real, and whether he'd accept Dudley's hand-bone dust to make his bread.
He didn't blame Katy for the crushing grip, though. Her labor was long and difficult—the downfall of marrying into a family of monstrously large babies. Both he and his father had been massive babies, both falling at just about 5 kilos—and his mother had spent an uncomfortable amount of time preparing her for the possibility that their precious baby would also be gargantuan at birth.
His daughter, mercifully, wasn't quite as massive—but she definitely wasn't small, coming in around 4 kilos and taking her sweet time to make her way into the world. At that final push, Katy screeched so loud that he was sure he blacked out for a moment—his eardrums rupturing, the bones in his hand breaking, his vision going dark for a split second as though the lights were flickering.
But when she finally made it, he was thrilled. He was delighted and excited beyond reason—not a speck of anxiety in his entire body, even after Katy's reality-altering battle cry.
He had a daughter. They had a daughter. They'd opted not to know the gender before, just because Katy didn't want pigeonholed gifts at her baby shower, and they didn't want any unsolicited advice. Moreover, he didn't want his mother to start pushing her influence before their kid was even born. One of her only points of contention with Katy was that she wasn't 'proper' or 'ladylike,' and they were determined to let their kid know that they could choose to be whatever they wanted to be, as long as they were good to the people around them.
They wanted to decorate the nursery in sunshine yellows and ocean blues and meadow greens. Katy specifically wanted to create a technicolor paradise, with every color of the rainbow splashed across the walls—not to be pressured into same-stay pinks and blues. So they'd prepared for their little treasure with as little information as possible—building a beautiful place with no expectations for them to thrive in.
But now, a perfect little girl with ten tiny fingers and ten pudgy toes was swaddled and cradled in Katy's arms—pink and chubby and utterly cherubic. He couldn't wait for Katy to start dressing her in tie-dye shirts and silly little hats with flowers on them. He couldn't wait to show her off to anyone in his path. He couldn't wait to have a conversation with her, just so he could describe how he felt in this moment—like he had definitively brought something good into the world, with limitless potential to bring joy to everyone she met.
"Have you already picked a name?" his mum asked quietly, holding his daughter to her chest. She'd arrived just fifteen minutes ago, and now watched reverently as his sleeping daughter curled her tiny hand around her grandma's finger. He wondered if his mum had looked at him like that when he was born—like he was miraculous and perfect, and she'd melt into a puddle if she so much as sneezed.
"We have," he replied. She looked up at him, waiting. "Her name is Dahlia. Dahlia Evelyn Dursley."
"Dahlia," she murmured, looking back at her. "Beautiful."
She was. Dahlia was probably the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.