Hi there! Not sure why this strange idea popped into my head, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it. No its not slash and yes, this contains some spoilers for the Deathly Hallows book so don't read this if you aren't decently caught up in book-verse (though the spoilers aren't too terrible, I don't think).
Also, (fun fact!) this is my first venture into HP fan-writing. I'm excited! Hope you like :)
A Change of Heart and Character:
Dudley Dursley and his mates laughed wildly as the uniformed officer chasing them stopped and turned around. He couldn't touch them past Little Whinging and they knew it so it was with great pleasure that they taunted him from just outside the border of their little town. They grinned as his curses, carried by wind, floated back to them.
"Man," Blake Boulstridge, the shortest of Dudley's friends said, breathing heavily as if over-exerted. It took nearly all of his energy to raise his meaty fist in a friendly, triumphant salute. "That was brilliant. For a while I didn't think we'd make it."
Dudley grinned, weakly meeting Blake's fist with his own in a brotherly sort of knuckle-tap. With his remaining hand, he brought an emerald-colored bottle to his lips and took huge, throat-burning gulps of the liquor inside of it.
"Me neither," Dudley agreed, smacking his lips. He passed the bottle to another friend who mimicked his actions.
"So where are we Big D and what should we do next?"
Dudley shrugged, surveying their surroundings. The town was just a stone's throw away from Little Whinging but it couldn't have looked more different. Little Whinging was marked by identical houses, Stepford families, and neatly manicured lawns. In contrast, the place they had stumbled upon was characterized by cottages of various shapes and sizes, some of them boasting a Gothic, almost ancient architecture.
...and it was creepy.
If he were honest with himself, Little Whinging was creepy too. It was too sterile, too empty, and too perfect.
This place was creepy for reasons that had nothing to do with its appearance or occupants. In fact, Dudley couldn't pinpoint exactly what sent shivers racing up and down his spine, or why the area felt somehow...
...familiar?
`No,' he shook his head. That wasn't right. His mother would never let him step foot inside a place like this, and neither would the mums of any of his friends. He supposed, with a roll of his eyes, that's why all of them held such looks of wonderment on their faces as they looked around. That, and the young trouble-makers now imbued with liquid courage saw all new opportunities for vandalism and mischief-making.
Shaking his head, Dudley put on his best tough-guy/leader front.
"I say we head back home," he muttered. "That old bloke should be gone by now and we can—"
"Go home?" Blake cut him off. "But there's a cemetery just up that hill! Lets go finish off a few more bottles and see if we can summon the dead or something."
"Why, in the name of the Prime Minister would you want to—"
"Relax Big D, it was a joke," Stan Green, another of Dudley's friends, cackled though he looked taken with the idea of visiting the nearby cemetery. "And no one will stop you if you want to go home, but me? I could do with a few more bottles, too."
"Alright then," Dudley began, ready to head back towards Little Whinging. Screw the lot of them.
"That's right, Dudders, run back to Mummy...and here I thought you were our leader!"
Laughter carried back to him causing him to stand dangerously still. In spite of the anxiety that had been bubbling in his gut, Dudley found himself whirling around to face his mates. His pride wouldn't allow him to lose face in front them even when his instincts screamed to just let the gits be.
Grabbing Blake by the collar of his maroon colored, Smeltings-issued blazer, Dudley lifted the boy several inches off the ground.
"What did you say?" he snarled.
Surprisingly—as no one had ever really stood up to him—Blake stood his ground.
"Just giving you an easy out, mate," he sneered. "You know...in case you were scared or something."
Dudley resisted the urge to pound the smugness off his face. Instead, he threw him roughly onto the cobble-stoned street.
"Me? Scared? That'll be the day," Dudley snorted, leading the way uphill towards the cemetery.
"This isn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be," Stan admitted. Piers Polkiss, Dudley's oldest friend nodded his head in agreement, draining the last of his beers and tossing it unceremoniously over the grave he'd been leaning on.
"You were right, D," he hiccuped, watching the bottle roll away. "Cheers, mate!" Malcolm called after it.
"Bloody gits," Dudley mumbled, his feelings of anxiety increasing the longer he sat there watching his friends. Something felt wrong about being there. He stood up abruptly, chasing after the bottle Piers had tossed aside.
`Disrespectful gits, too.'
It was a cemetery and it didn't sit well with him the way they were desecrating it. Needing to keep himself busy he went for not just Piers' bottle, but all the others they had littered around the graves.
"'Hey Dudley! You'll never believe what Malcolm just found!"
Dudley rolled his eyes, running his hands through his cropped blond hair.
"What is it this time?"
Blake's grin was—to use an American term—shit-eating. Spread wide across his boyish face with an obvious taunting edge, the shorter, pudgier boy waited for Dudley to cross the cemetery to where they stood, delighting in their leader's confusion.
"Okay," Dudley sighed, holding the four empty liquor bottles he had collected in his arms. "Let's see what Malcolm found. Come on, I haven't got all day!"
His friends shook their heads, letting Dudley hang in suspense a little longer. Then Blake's eyes flashed.
"Potter," was all he said, cocking his head in the direction of a large headstone.
"What?" Dudley balked, dropping all of his bottles.
"Potter," Blake repeated slowly, "Isn't that the surname of your freak cousin? The one who goes to St. Brutus'? I think these are his parents."
Dudley eyed the grave, reading over the neatly carved epitaph.
James Potter
Born 27 March 1960
Died 31 October 1981
Lily Potter
Born 30 January 1960
Died 31 October 1981
"The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death," he read aloud, his earlier feeling of anxiety rising from his stomach to his throat. A clammy, cold feeling settled in his chest eliciting goosebumps from his pale skin—and he knew it wasn't those 'dementy-whatsits' causing this unwanted feeling. Six feet below him, he realized horrified, was his dead Aunt and Uncle; his cousin Harry's parents.
And sixteen, almost seventeen years ago, they had been murdered.
"Fucking A," he whispered, "We're in Godric's Hollow."
Dudley felt violently sick. The feeling increased as Blake shoved him aside, his head thrown back as he laughed loudly.
"Bloody hell! So your cousin really did grow up here? It figures. I thought this place seemed weird."
"So what should we do to 'em, Big D?"
"What do you mean what should we do?"
"I say we piss on it!"
"Yeah," Malcolm, Piers, and Stan agreed. Dudley sank to his knees as the three circled the grave. He couldn't believe his so-called friends.
"Wanna go first?" Blake asked, unzipping his pants.
"W-why?"
"Oh come on, Big D, you hate Harry!"
"I don't—I never—" Dudley sputtered, but in his minds eye he saw himself doing things he no longer felt proud of: him shoving Harry's head down a toilet, chasing him across a school yard, Piers holding him while he punched him a bloody nose.
"Dudley, what the hell has gotten into you," Piers gawked, shaking his head. "Look if you won't, then..."
He trailed off. The look on Dudley's face was murderous, his feelings of anxiety having twisted into something dark and dangerous. The feeling must have tentacled out alerting Piers because he suddenly re-zipped his pants.
"Duds, I—"
"Get the fuck away from my Aunt and Uncle's graves. Now," he said quietly, his head bowed.
The warning tone prompted Malcolm and Stan to mimic Piers. Blake, however, stood still. The boy was testing him and Dudley wondered briefly why the hell he ever liked him.
"Blake."
"Don't tell me what to do, Dudley. I don't take orders."
"Blake," Dudley said more forcefully, "Get the fuck away from—"
"Oi! Just listen to him, mate. Its not worth—"
"Shut up, Stan," Blake sneered. His green eyes flashed.
"What if I don't, Big D," he challenged. "You gonna hit me?"
Dudley cracked his knuckles, ready for a fight. He didn't know why, but he had this sudden urge to defend the Aunt and Uncle he never knew and the boy he had wronged all his life.
"Yeah," he grimaced. "I reckon I will."
Blake grinned.
"Bring it, Diddykins."
So with a roar, Dudley swung, the force of his meaty fist carrying his every regret regarding Harry and the hopes that in some small way, this made up for at least some of the awful things he had done to him.
"He's a nutter!" Blake howled, leaving heavily on Piers, Malcolm, and Stan as the three boys half-carried, half-dragged him from the cemetery. For all his talk, the shorter boy was no match for Dudley and all it took was the one hit to get him to back down. Dudley didn't bother to chase after them as they tore out of Godric's Hollow. In fact, he found himself rooted to the spot, hit with exhaustion and the weight of what he had done.
`I have no friends anymore, but...'
The idea didn't bother him. What bothered him was the fact that he had once been and acted so much like them. Moreover, he had been their leader, the one who usually encouraged their reprehensible and often times disgusting behavior. He—
His train of thought derailed as in the distance, no doubt transformed by magic, an old monument transformed into a statue of a tiny family. Dudley moved to get a better at it look and froze. He knew without ever having seen them that this was Lily and James Potter if for no other reason than James looking the spitting image of his cousin.
Sinking to his knees before this image of them, Dudley's hands flew up toward his face to stop the tears that suddenly pushed behind his eyes.
"I'm so ashamed," he confessed to them through his fingers, hoping they'd understand and not hate him for how he felt. In a rush of hiccuped and pitiful apologies, the dam behind his hands burst.
It was easy for him to lose track of time as he sat there blubbering about all the horrible things he had done to his cousin. There had been so much to confess, but when darkness washed over him he stopped and managed to tear himself away from his Aunt and Uncle's graves, mumbling one last apology as he ran back to Little Whinging.
"Oh Diddy!" his mum cried when he finally made it home looking worse for the wear. "Where have you been? I thought something happened. We nearly called the police when Mrs. Polkiss said you had gone home hours ago."
"Er..."
"You weren't mugged were you?" Petunia's eyes widened at the possibility and she threw her arms around Dudley, falling apart in his arms. "Vernon, I think Dudders might have been—"
"Mum!" Dudley stopped her, flushing a bright, tomato red, "I'm fine."
His Dad had just appeared in the hallway, looking alarmed.
"I'm fine," he repeated with more force and confidence behind his words. "Really. I'm just tired."
Petunia looked affronted, her hands flying off of him. Dudley shot her an apologetic look.
"I'm sorry. I'm just gonna make some tea before going off to bed, Mum."
"Don't be silly, Diddy," Petunia smiled, already moving toward the kitchen, "Sit down, I'll—"
"No, Mum, I can do it."
Again she looked offended, but he ignored her and started on a cup of Earl Grey. His parents watched him as he brought the cup to his lips, making Dudley feel uncomfortable...then, a sudden thought hit him.
"I'll, er...take this up to my room. Night Mum, night Dad!"
He tore out of the kitchen, taking the steps upstairs three at a time. Stopping at Harry's bedroom, he half-considered knocking.
`I haven't seen him in days. God only knows what he must be thinking; what he must be going through right now.'
More feelings of shame crashed over Dudley in waves, causing his shoulders to slump and his face to flush pink all the way up to his ears. He decided against knocking but left the tea where he hoped Harry, should he decide to leave that room of his, would find it.
It was a small, pathetic gesture and Dudley knew it.
...but it was a start.
"And just to clear the air
I ask forgiveness
For the things I've done that you blame me for"
- Elphaba, "For Good"