Sometimes life's not worth it anymore.
He never thought he'd feel this way. Like something's cracked inside him and let something vital drain out, gurgling through his mind and heart and lungs like so much noisome fluid.
"Gone mad, hasn't he? Not the first time, I expect. Locked up in the loony bin, I hear." The hissing whispers around him stab at those open, broken places until he wants to scream.
Harry's not fucking mad, Dudley wants to yell at the world. At his 'gang,' at his parents, those smug, smirk-painted faces. He's magic. He's magic and he's brilliant and he...saved me.
But he can't tell anyone. His parents refuse to hear a word about the 'freak.' As far as Mum and Dad are concerned, Harry is at St. Brutus's and alternates his time between there and an asylum some place. Out of sight, out of mind.
Dudley can't do that anymore. He still remembers the cloaked, shadowy thing that loomed over him, that felt like it was trying to suck out every morsel of happiness until his back bowed under the strain. But Harry saved him. A brilliant white light that had galloped over him, brushing the shadow back in a movement so smooth, it seemed effortless. And Dudley lay broken on the ground, gawping at it, until Harry rushed up and pulled him to his feet, that wand sticking out of his sleeve, as he told Dudley to hurry up, come on, it might come back.
It never has, but Dudley watches the sky for it just the same. He doesn't like going outside anymore, especially when it's storming. The blustery grey skies are too reminiscent of the things that lurk in the darkness, and he can't take it. His friends tease him, jibing at him about what a baby he's become, but he ignores it all.
Much like Harry ignored his own taunts, Dudley realises with yet another twinge of shame. When he thinks of 'Harry Hunting,' his stomach twists and his mind feels ill. More than once, he has sicked up thinking about it. About beating up the too-skinny boy with the taped-up glasses and scruffy dark hair, the boy he should call 'cousin' but has always called 'freak.'
But he's not a freak. Not really. Just different. And is different really so bad? Dudley thinks not. He's not a particularly smart boy, but he is capable of thinking, of learning, when he really settles down to it. And he knows this. Harry's not a freak anymore than Dudley himself is underweight.
Why don't you understand? he longs to spit in his mother's face, longs to take her by the shoulders and shake her as gently as he dares. Her sister was magic! Harry's mum was magic! How?
It's not that simple, though. Dudley knows it's not, and can't help but wish it is, as he lies on his bed in the suffocating stillness of his room, listening to his mum vacuum downstairs, hearing her call that she'll be back in a little while when she leaves for the supermarket. The silence preys on him, and he finds himself getting up, moving around, turning on all the music in the house. Anything to not be so alone.
Harry comes home tomorrow, Dudley thinks, painfully aware of how spartan his cousin's room is compared to his own. The freak comes home tomorrow. He feels an instant flush of shame. Not a freak.
He slips into Harry's room. It is dusty and unused. Petunia refuses to go in here during the Hogwarts school year. Dudley tiptoes around at first, feeling alien in this cramped room that used to be his second bedroom, but soon warms up to his task, fixing new sheets and blankets onto the bed, adding one of his pillows and plumping it up with awkward, chubby fingers. An old stuffed chair here, a stack of books there. It isn't much, but it's something.
He smiles, thinking of Harry's reaction when he opens the door.
Harry, he plans to say, an awkward smile already curving his mouth. Thank you.
And maybe this time, it will be enough.