A/N: I ended up writing about 2008 Dudley instead, as I think this bit of back story needs to come in earlier.
8 August 2008
"But slot machines have 7-7-7," the bride's aunt started in again. "I don't understand why they've got all this set up like a casino and couldn't even get that right. 8-8-8 has nothing to do with slot machines."
"Look on the bright side, darling – at least they haven't got a gambling problem."
"Well, I hope when our daughter gets married, her wedding is a bit more refined."
Dudley shuffled uncomfortably in line for a drink. The day of Piers' wedding was unseasonably cool, but the rain had held off. Despite the grumbling from various elderly relatives about the unusual decision to hold a Friday evening wedding, rather than a nice weekend wedding breakfast, everyone seemed to be having a good time. Piers' best man was his younger brother, and Dudley'd been relieved to be free from any pressure to give a speech. Memorizing the choreography had been nerve wracking enough without fumbling with a microphone in front of Piers' massive family.
He had caught glimpses of Nicole-the-beautiful-wedding-planner throughout the day, as she flitted between the caterers, photographers, and guests. Dudley wondered if he should ask for her number tonight. Women didn't like being accosted at work, he told himself. He'd found her business webpage, and that had linked to her business social media, and while she didn't have a personal account that he could discover, her cousin did, as did her college roommate Gwen, and they'd tagged her enough times that he'd got a sense of the music and activities she liked. Gwen had posted an album from a festival in Belgium the prior summer and had tagged a photo of Lauryn Hill with "Miss you, Nicole!" and Nicole had liked the photo, which she hardly ever did.
Meaning she was obsessed with Lauryn Hill.
Meaning if she found out Dudley was also a fan, then she would hit on him while at she was at work, saving him the trouble asking for her number and probably looking like a creep.
Dudley was forming a complicated plan involving finding Nicole's favorite record store and reaching for the same Lauryn Hill album at the same time she did, but he realized he didn't know where she lived or if she ever bought physical albums.
Dudley had stopped buying CD's years ago.
Plus, Lauryn Hill had a limited discography, and Dudley already had all her songs.
He glared at the D.J., who had yet to play Dudley's request, though it was nearly the end of the night. Dudley's throat hurt from belting out Mr. Brightside moments ago, but he'd saved a little so he could sing along with one more song. Nicole would be impressed, he hoped. She would think, what a deep and soulful person I should get to know. Let me give him my card so he can call me up and take me somewhere inexpensive.
Piers' friends and family kept requesting drivel, slow songs from the 70's and earlier that emptied the dance floor except for a few swaying geezers.
"Got a couple more songs before we call it a night," the D.J. said. "Let's give it up again for Mr. and Mrs. Polkiss!"
The crowd, significantly thinned from the start of the evening, cheered as the couple kissed.
Dudley rubbed his sweaty hands on his thighs and held his breath, hoping to hear the first bars of Lose Myself. Maybe it could become their song.
"Got a request from one of the groomsmen," the D.J. said, squinting at the request sheet, "Here you are, big lad!"
Dudley didn't appreciate the call out, but he gave a tense smile and nod to the D.J.
With the first few notes of depressing piano, Dudley wanted to shove flip the D.J.'s table, drag the man outside, and pound him into a pulp.
Bloody Eminem?
As Dudley's friends crowded around him, anticipating the moment when they could all begin shouting the lyrics of Lose Yourself to each other, Dudley fought back his temper.
Look.
Shut up.
If you had.
Dudley shook his head.
One shot.
He'd blown his.
"Mom's spaghetti!" he yelled, because he may as well.
14 August 2008
The next Thursday, Dudley found himself perched on an uncomfortable wicker chair that was 5 inches too short for him. He didn't know what to do with his legs. He tried propping one ankle on his knee. He tried sticking his feet under the tiny chair. He stuck his legs out straight, then realized he'd trip everyone who tried walking past his table. The round bar of his seat edge dug into his thigh, and the back of his chair gouged at his ribs.
It was a Spoken Word event, and though the poetry had yet to begin, Dudley already regretted coming.
He decided to give up his seat and stand by the bar.
He didn't even know if Nicole would show. Just because she'd liked her college friend's post that she was presenting tonight didn't mean anything. Unless it did.
As luck would have it, one of the Smeltings alumni from Dudley's year was presenting tonight. So, Dudley wouldn't look like a stalker who only came to a Spoken Word in the hopes of hitting on innocent wedding planners. He was there to see Grimes, M.F.A. and fellow Smeltings man. He'd look like a well-connected, smart person who liked poetry. Not just a sweaty Eminem enthusiast.
Dudley, not for the first time, wished he'd gone to a school with girls, so he could have learned what to say to them. Harry had had it easy. He'd snapped up a cute girl from his school, and boom – set for life. Sit back, work a job, have some kids, don't worry about it. Dudley tried to imagine being a dad, right this moment. He felt years away from anything that serious.
How were you even supposed to meet anyone? The stupid dating sites were just a money pit he could no longer afford.
The bartender set down the pint he'd ordered, with the receipt tucked underneath. Dudley looked it over and almost vomited at the price. Effing London. He handed the last of his money over, miserable inside. Even if Nicole threw herself into his arms at this point, he couldn't afford to buy her a drink.
The beer tasted weak, too.
He could be watching a fight right now. There was a whole line-up at the Clapham Grand he was skipping for this.
Anyway, what if Grimes' poetry was all about Dudley and the stuff he'd pulled at Smeltings? They hadn't been close, what with Grimes being such a drip. Had he pounded him, or just shoved him a couple times? Dudley strained to remember.
He pictured Nicole, sipping a fancy drink she'd bought herself, then hearing,
Dudley Dursley is the worst
No girl in her right mind should date him
He beat me up when we were at school
And now I ****ing hate him.
He better not, Dudley thought.
"Dudu?"
Dudley should have known. Three more Smeltings alumni had come to see Grimes. Montmorency. Peters. Davis.
"I can't believe it!"
"Never thought to see you of all people at something like this," Montmorency continued. A smirk Dudley would love to punch danced over Montmorency's non-existent lips. One punch would probably drop him. Didn't look like he'd had grown since he was fifteen, and Dudley'd towered over him then.
"Yeah," Dudley said.
"We're getting a table together," Peters said. "Care to join?" Dudley noted Peters still had the cystic acne problem. Poor kid. He hadn't been so bad, just too smart for his own good. Davis, as usual, said nothing. Davis didn't like talking, didn't like eye contact, and didn't like Dudley, but he'd wielded a mean Smeltings stick when pressed.
"Sure," Dudley said, who wanted to leave. He brought his weak beer over and sat down in another spindly wicker chair.
They were joined in a few moments by Grimes himself and a few of his Cambridge friends. Dudley, who hadn't expected a Thursday night poetry reading to turn into a mini-reunion, made tepid conversation while keeping an eye on the door. It turned out Peters and Grimes had both been at Cambridge together, and they ended up pulling two of the tables together and settling in for a long chat.
"You missed the reunion, Dudu," Montmorency said. "It's for everyone, you know, not just those who took A-level 2."
"Didn't graduate, though, did I?" Dudley said. Not from Smeltings, he hadn't.
"It was a great time, the reunion, wasn't it, Pickle?" But Peters was talking to one of the Cambridge women and was turned away from them. "We were all wondering about you. You're quite the man of mystery."
Dudley had just seen the handful of Smeltings men he'd actually liked at Piers' wedding a few days ago, so he'd had all the reuniting that interested him. "Got Facebook?" he asked. "I'm on there. And Twitter. Got a Flickr account too." If Montmorency and his friends were excited to see blurry photos of pints, robins, and interesting boulders, Dudley had them covered. "Speaking of…" He pulled out his phone and took a picture of his half-finished beer. He posted it and tagged his location.
"Half your feed is alcohol, Dudu. It's hardly professional."
Dudley shrugged. "My line of work, it doesn't matter."
"Which is… what, exactly?"
Dudley had written a terse but descriptive profile on all his accounts. "Video game tester." Unemployed video game tester. Burnt out video game tester. Video game tester who couldn't code for shit, software degree notwithstanding. Video game tester without a chance in hell of ever making the dev team or management, according to Gavin, who'd had the pleasure of sacking him. Or laying him off. Whatever.
"I find bugs in video games while they're in development."
"Your parents must be so proud. All that money they spent on a Smeltings education and…"
"Pays the bills." It didn't. It never had.
He didn't ask Montmorency what he did for a living, because he didn't care, and he figured the tick would get around to bragging soon enough.
When was the blasted poetry going to start?
"When you didn't come back that last year," Montmorency continued, "I figured you'd failed your AS exams. Made a bit of money, in fact. Betting against you."
And Dudley had thought he had it bad. But, although he hadn't thought about Montmorency for ten years, this little git was apparently obsessed with him. "Happy to help," Dudley said. "When's the poetry start, anyway?"
"But where were you?"
"I was with my parents," Dudley said. "In the Cotswolds. Studying for my A-levels while we dealt with a family emergency."
"Why couldn't they deal with it while you were at school?"
Dudley shrugged. "Touch and go. Best hope you never have to deal with what we were going through."
"Like your house burning down? I heard about that from Polkiss. Terrible business."
"Can't recommend it," Dudley said.
Montmorency's eyes screwed up in concentration, and he had a dazed look. It was one Dudley had come to recognize as post-Obliviate confusion. "I thought – " Montmorency began, "I thought you were accused of something? Or seen mixed up in something criminal? Only, none of us could remember quite what it was." His memory had been tampered with. Probably more than once.
"Got any weird pains you can't explain?" Dudley asked, appearing to change the subject while staying right with it. "Any trouble remembering things?"
Montmorency shook his head dumbly, his face contorting as he fought back to his earlier sneering superiority. "There was – a CO leak in the dormitory. Or radon." He rubbed his forearm and flexed his wrist with a vacant look on his face.
"Yeah, there was a lot of that going around, that year." Dudley had given up trying to piece together Piers' version of that year. From what he could tell, the school had been monitored by Death Eaters, but Dudley had always suspected there might have been attacks. Piers was lucky to be alive, Dudley thought. So, it would seem, was Montmorency.
The lights dimmed, and the first poet started.
One hour in, there was a short intermission, and Dudley stepped outside to spare himself continued conversation. A small crowd gathered around the doorway, ducking out for a smoke, fresh air, or the chance to talk without shouting over everyone else. Dudley kept walking until he was at the crowd's edge, standing under the main window rather than by the door.
The air outside the café was pleasantly cool and damp, and he considered walking for a while. Nicole hadn't shown. No one would miss him or be surprised if he didn't return.
Then, his ears pricked at the sound of an unmistakable word.
"What do you think of the Muggle poetry?"
He knew better than to turn around and look at the source. The reply was too muffled to hear, and he didn't care which wizards or witches had decided to slum it for an evening. It was time he went home.
Then, there she was.
Nicole bustled down the street toward the cafe, half out of breath. Seeing the crowd outside the door, she asked one of the smokers, "It's not over, is it?" She grinned at the reply and said something Dudley couldn't catch. Unlike the wedding, when she'd been dressed in all black corporate wear, she was now wearing trainers, jeans, and a yellow jacket. She disappeared into the café.
Dudley stood outside, gritting his teeth. He didn't think anything would happen. There probably wasn't anything like this in Diagon Alley, was all. Anyone interested in poetry wasn't likely to start attacking this close to Auror Headquarters.
He tried to size up the people outside the café. No one he recognized from Harry's immediate circle. Wizards and witches were easy enough to spot, once you knew what to look for. There they were. Jeans the wrong cut and color, not worn for a decade, and maybe even enlarged magically after years of disuse. Too old to be in style, not old enough to be cool again. Vintage shirts not faded enough. Sleeves worn long so they could conceal wands. There were three of them, two women and a man, about his age. Not Death Eaters.
As he approached to re-enter the café, he heard one of the women rub her ears and say, "Ugh! I forgot how loud everything is."
"Use a Sound Dampening Charm," the other woman said.
"Morag! Shhh!"
"Oh, please – it's not like anyone's going to understand or care. Just duck in the loo and protect your ears before they start up again. Come on, I'll do it for you if you aren't sure how. Michael, you alright?"
Michael shrugged. It was a boring name for a wizard, Dudley thought. "Don't see what you're complaining about. It's quieter than a Quidditch match, anyway."
They took no notice of Dudley walking past them, and he re-entered the café in search of Nicole.
She was easy to find – she'd joined one of the tables up front. He supposed she'd want to see her sister. Would it look weird if he went up to her right away? As in, oh, are you that wedding planner I just saw? Or, should he retake his seat at the table he'd deserted? He noticed Grimes had left the table, as he'd be performing next.
Dudley didn't like sitting near the front in places like this. He'd block people's view. He hated the sensation of small people tutting and hovering behind him, shifting and popping up like chipmunks to try to see around his frame.
He stood to the side of the room, trying to make up his mind. The witches and wizard entered, and he tracked their movement to a large table in the far corner. Four more were there – two witches who looked related, and two more wizards. He didn't want to be caught staring, so he let his gaze rove over each table, trying to give the same amount of time to everyone. The poets who'd gone already were now relaxing, while several (he could tell who they were by the notecards they were shuffling) were doing some last-minute preparation.
"Pulled another guard duty?"
Nicole mimicked his cross-arm position against the wall. She'd sneaked up on him pretty well.
"Nah, just looking around," he said. "The chairs are killing me, so I might just stand."
"I'm here to see a friend," she said. "You?"
"Well," he began. "A bloke I went to school with is about to go." He pointed at Grimes. He quailed at the thought of tricking her. "Though actually, I was hoping you'd be here." He felt himself redden at his unexpected confession and hoped the lights would dim soon.
Her eyes crinkled at the edges when she grinned. He felt a sudden relief.
"I didn't want to ask for your number while you were at work," he explained.
"So you what, stalked me on social media and came to a poetry event hoping I'd show up to support a friend?"
"Well… yeah." He didn't know what to do with his hands. It was like being fourteen again, in the worst way.
She snickered. "You're mental." But she didn't go back to her seat.
It was time for Grimes to start. Turns out, he had quite a lot to say. Dudley had never known he'd had it in him.
Nicole wasn't biting her lip, or shaking, but somehow, Dudley could tell she was suppressing laughter at Grimes' deranged rant that referenced every sexual act he'd ever heard of and a few he hadn't. Something about the gleam of her eyes and the set of her chin, he thought.
The crowd broke into brief conversation as Grimes took his seat.
"Close friend of yours, is he?" she asked.
"Hadn't seen him since school."
"Impressive use of… er … metaphor," she said.
"Yeah, well. He went to Cambridge."
At this, she burst out laughing, and had to bite it back as the next poet was introduced.
Padma Patil.
It was one of the witches, and now Dudley knew who they were. Patil. Patil. Corner, with the missing finger. MacDougal, with the bite marks on her jaw. Turpin, burn scar on the throat. The wizard with the brown curly hair was Boot. But… was that last wizard Macmillan or Hopkins? He couldn't remember who the blond had been. They'd been clustered together, fighting off a werewolf (untransformed) and three giants together.
Dudley hoped Padma was going to talk about politics. Or even sex.
"Ten Years On," she began. "The smell of water on stone takes me back to you."
And Dudley knew it could only be about 1998, and summer, and death, and grief, and he felt his body freeze, from the skin inward, ice crawling through his veins. He forced his eyes to stay on the poet, at the embroidery in her scarf, as the low, soft hum of her voice washed over him, pulling him into the past.
She was quieter than the other poets. Less of an actress. Still, her every word pulsed over Dudley's mind.
…Dust from the broken castle floats down the drain…
When she'd finished, and he could breathe again, he felt Nicole's hand on his arm.
I wash your blood from my hair
"You alright?" she asked.
I'll never wash from my mind
He nodded, unable to speak.
Your blank eyes reflecting the bright green stars.
"Sure?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just – "
They were interrupted by one of Nicole's friends. "Come sit down, Nikki! Maureen's up after this one."
Nicole dropped her hand from Dudley's arm and inclined her head. "Come on and join us. Take a seat. You look like you could use it."
Nicole's friend, on their way back to the table, said, "You can always tell a novice at these things. Thinking a poem about death is bound to be deep, and ending up trite. Too much color description, too. Bright green stars?" She shook her head. "And as for the other one, the posh bloke. Sheesh. Maureen's so much better than either of them. Genuine daring and creativity, you'll see."
As Dudley settled in next to Nicole, he didn't notice how the chair jabbed him as it threatened to buckle underneath him, or how his elbow nearly knocked over three drinks at once on the rickety table. Dudley knew the shape those bright green stars made in the sky. He knew if you saw them, you were as good as dead.