Peripheral Pennywhistle
A Tale of Hogwarts' Most Hated
He rarely dreamed. His teachers complained of his lack of imagination, that he was far too literal and that his mind refused to grasp any concept that was not completely straightforward. But his teachers complained about so much that he had never paid them any heed. Mum clucked her tongue in disapproval and loudly declared that the teachers clearly had far too much imagination if they believed such nonsense. Imagination was overrated, in any event, she had informed him, sniffing at the thin boy who claimed he dreamed of flying motorcycles and talking cats.
And he'd submitted to her petting and coddling, especially when a wild storm of emotions flashed across the other boy's face: hurt and anger and resignation.
But, deep inside, in the part of his heart that he wouldn't admit existed even- or perhaps especially- to himself, he wished that he had dreams like that, too.
His dreams were of normal things, thank-you-very-much. Huge puddings and racing about on plain old everyday motorcycles and an unending refrigerator he could reach without having to leave his spot on the chaise longue in front of the telly.
This dream was normal, too, he supposed. He'd been twelve, and asked for a magic kit for his birthday. He'd handed the list (41 items!) to mum, smiling and making his eyes go as wide as he could, knowing that they'd buy him everything on there and then some. She'd smiled, and read over the list, nodding and making gentle noises of assent. Until she hit number 31.
A magic kit.
He hadn't thought anything of it, but one of the boys at Smeltings had brought one with him after the winter holidays, and anything anyone else had, he wanted. And the freak could do magic- real magic- and he couldn't. He'd never told anyone, of course, of how strong the feeling of jealousy had been when his cousin came back from his day with the monster who'd tried to turn him into a pig, when he returned, triumphant, with a trunk full of baubles and books. He'd never been much interested in reading, but those books, with their smooth cloth covers and their odd titles... those he'd wanted to read.
Magic made his cousin happy in a way he had never been. And he was jealous of that, too.
His mum had shown the list to his father, of course. His face had gone all purple and splotchy, the way it did when he looked at the freak. But never before had his father looked at him like that.
It made him feel like a freak.
His father had ranted and raved and even gone so far as to withhold dessert, a punishment which even his biggest tears and loudest wail couldn't overturn.
That night, he'd dreamed.
"Wake up wake up wake up!" Bits of plaster rained down on his head. He shoved aside the spiders as he crawled out from under his threadbare blanket. "It's my birthday today, Dudders!" He pushed at the door to the cupboard under the stairs, hoping that it wasn't locked this time. Sometimes Harry did that, just for fun. He'd lock the door and then tell mum and-Aunt and Uncle- that Dudley had done it himself, that he did it just to ruin Harry's day, so that he had an excuse to not make him breakfast. But it wasn't locked, not this time, and he tumbled out into the entranceway.
Harry was standing above him, face red and black hair wild. "It's my birthday, porkie pie. I want bacon and eggs and tea and fairy cakes and-" Dudley ignored him, moving towards the kitchen. Mu- Aunt Petunia- stood at the counter cracking eggs into a big bowl.
"Hurry up you lazy sod! It's Harry's birthday and I want everything to be perfect! Move, you tub of lard!" Dudley stumbled over to help her, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
"Mummy!" Harry called. "I think Dudley has been sneaking food again! Just look at how fat he is, like a tub of lard."
This was wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Mum and dad were supposed to love him, not Harry. He was supposed to be the one mocking Harry, whacking him with his Smelting stick and all. What was going on?
"Shut up! I'm not fat!"
"BOY! Don't you dare talk to your cousin that way!" Uncle Vernon stormed into the room, patting a sobbing Harry on the head. "Stupid fat lazy worthless ugly-"
He stared at Harry he rode round and round on his new bicycle. Dudley had never ridden a bicycle before. "Dumb diddling Duuuuuuuuudders, went and killed his muuuuuuuuuuder!" Harry sang. "But she's not deeeeeeeaaaaaad just mine insteeeeeeeeead!" Dudley's jaw clenched. Harry's pant leg caught in the gears and he went soaring over the handlebars. "Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum! Dudley's doing YOU KNOW WHAT again!"
Mr. Dudley Dursley
The Cupboard-Under-the-Stairs
No. 4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
"Dudley's got a letter, dad! He's not supposed to have mail!"
"We'll just have to beat the magic out of him harder, son. Go and grab your Smelting stick, Harry!"
No no no. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be the other way 'round!
"You're an evil, nasty little boy."
His parents'- they were HIS parents, not Harry's- faces swirled around him like in those cartoons.
"If only you weren't so dumb and fat and magical then maybe we could love you too!"
"Dumb diddling Duuuuuuuuuuuders!"
"Look like a pig in a wig!"
"Go to your cupboard!"
"We don't love you, we love Harry."
"Freak."
"Freak!"
"FREAK!"
He ran into his parents' (his parents, his!) room sweating and shaking, shrieking that he didn't want the magic kit, that Harry had put it on the list, that it was all the stupid freak's fault. His father rose up from bed and plodded into Harry's room (which should have been Dudley's too! Harry had stolen it, just like he'd tried to take his parents). Dudley watched, wide-eyed, as Harry was yanked out of bed by a meaty fist, Vernon yelling and hitting, face red red red.
"Freak," Dudley tried to say, but he couldn't make his tongue and lips work. Something unpleasant moved in his stomach, like a little worm trying to wiggle about.
"Sorry," he mouthed instead. Harry hadn't done it, not like he told his parents. And now Harry was being hit, snot running out of his nose as he sniffled, just like Dudley had been in the dream (no, that didn't happen, his parents loved him and not Harry; he was good and Harry was bad. It wasn't like he could imagine any different, after all, he didn't have an imagination, his teachers said so. And that was a good thing).
"Freak," he managed, voice hoarse. "Freak freak FREAK!"
Harry yanked him along, screaming at him to run, muttering something about demons. He thought he heard the Crazy Cat Lady, but perhaps not. Would she have known Harry or Dudley better? Which one of them had been shuffled off to her house whenever anything fun happened?
Suddenly his mother was clawing at him, begging him to tell her what was wrong. Wrong? Was this wrong? Was he the freak, or was Harry?
No, not Dudley. Dudley wasn't freakish at all. He was perfectly normal, thank-you-very-much. He didn't have a wand or go to some freak school or have freaky friends. He wasn't a freak. Harry was the freak. Harry. Harry was the freak. Freak freak freak.
"Him," Dudley whispered, raising his finger accusingly at his cousin. He's the freak.
A/N: This is the third installment in my "Hogwarts' Most Hated" series. It started out when I learned the JKR said that Dudley saw himself as he truly was when he encountered the Dementors and this is what started his transformation into not a complete jerk. However, this struck me as wrong. After all, Dementors are supposed to reveal your worst memories. And seeing himself as he was (aside from the fact that there's no real objective viewpoint in this case) isn't a memory at all. So I wanted to write a story that would sort of allow that to happen while being an actual memory. This was the result.
As for the title, I have no idea what it means. I stumbled across this, half-finished (up until the dream sequence) on my computer. I've no idea if this was supposed to be the original title or was just a stand-in that I thought sounded cool.
Basically, I posted this since it has been far too long since I've posted anything. Maybe this will serve as my reintroduction to the world of fanfiction.
Anyway, concrit is appreciated (I've noticed that all my old stories have many glaring errors that no one ever pointed out for me). Feedback is appreciated and hopefully I'll update some of my other stuff soon.