Fic. Prompt 12. What Would Mrs Weasley Do?. Part 1.
Title: Just Another Nancy Boy?
Author/Artist: wwmrsweasleydo
Prompt: 12
Pairing, or gen: Slash pairings - Highlight to read *Dudley/Charlie, Dudley/OMCs, Dudley/Justin*
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Homophobia (including situations which may be triggers around rejection), violent sport, swearing, reference to pornography.
Word count/medium: 12,000.
Summary/Excerpt: When they find out Dudley's gay, everyone makes assumptions about the type of man he's after.
Author's or Artist's notes: Thank you emansil_08 for the beta.
Many thanks to asnowyowl for the prompt, for starting this fest off and for being a wonderful writer. Fandom is poorer without her.
The title is taken from Placebo's Nancy Boy .
This was meant to be a short PWP, but Dudley had other ideas. It even ended up smut-free. Maybe there will be an explicit sequel some time.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. We are very grateful for permission to play with them.
JUST ANOTHER NANCY BOY
Dudley prodded the pasta on his plate. He looked over the dinner table at his parents and it wasn't only the grease glazing his father's meal which made him nauseous. He speared a cube of the cucumber his mother had lovingly prepared for him and shakily lifted his fork to his mouth.
He felt a gentle patting on the back of his left hand and looked into Petunia's concerned face. He wasn't sure what he was so worried about, because he knew how very much she loved him. They both did. His parents had always done everything they could for him. Surely theirs was unconditional love and no matter what he told them, they would always love him. They had loved him, after all, when he had been a bully and a thief and a fat, ugly liar.
But they hadn't known the whole truth about him then. Perhaps it would be better if they didn't know now. He chewed on the tiny piece of cucumber before trying to force it down his closed, dry throat. He had decided that it was time to tell them; there was nothing to worry about. He just had to say it.
He coughed to clear his throat and then said, "Mum, Dad. I have something to say."
"Fire away, son," Vernon spluttered around his meatballs, "no formality here!"
They smiled at him. In unison.
"It's not a big deal," Dudley said. He shrugged one shoulder and stared down into his salad. "Doesn't really matter."
"Come on, Duddikins," Petunia cooed, stroking his cheek in an encouraging way. "We want to know every little thing about our precious boy. It's all important to us."
They did need to know; he did need to tell them.
"It's just ... um ... that I'm gay. That's all."
Silence. Dudley looked up to see whether it was a good silence. It wasn't. His father's face had gone purple and his lower jaw was working uselessly, paling lips failing to make the shapes of words. His mother's eyes were huge and her mouth tiny, pursed into a pucker.
Then Vernon sucked in a loud, wheezing breath and that reanimated his wife. She leapt to her feet and circled the table, checking his vital signs while smacking him between the shoulder blades.
"My son's no freak pervert!" Vernon managed to choke out.
"Oh Dudley! How could you?" Petunia didn't look at Dudley. She gazed in terror at Vernon's darkly-coloured face. "It's not funny! Take it back!"
Dudley's guts coiled in on themselves; this was all wrong.
"Look what you've done to your father! What a stupid thing to say. Tell him you were joking."
"I'm not." Dudley's mind was spinning and trying to shut down. He didn't have the control to lie. Where was the unconditional love his parents had always claimed that they had for him? This could not be happening. "So I'm gay? What does it matter?"
"Stop it, Dudley! Just stop being bloody gay! You know how your father feels about weirdoes."
Vernon spat out the word, "Unnatural!" at the same time as Dudley protested weakly, "I'm not a weirdo."
Petunia sighed happily. "There you are, Vernon. He says he's not a weirdo. It's all a silly misunderstanding. I knew we'd brought you up properly. I expect you meant that you were happy, didn't you, darling?"
"He's not a shirt-lifter, then? Not one of them?" Vernon placed one hand at his waist and raised the other limp-wristedly like a teapot. His breathing slowed down and his colouring began to settle.
Dudley had a quick decision to make. He could lie to his parents, make them happy, tell them it had all been a cruel joke; or he could tell the truth and force them to accept him and love him in spite of his being different to them.
"My name is Dudley Dursley," he said solemnly. "And I am an homosexual."
Vernon gripped his fork in a threatening manner and glared at his beloved only son. "Get out of my house," he growled.
Dudley, naturally, fled. Just before he slammed the front door he heard his father telling his mother that it was all her bloody fault for being too soft on the boy.
He stumbled, shocked, across the road to his car. Then he lay down on the back seat and closed his eyes while his world fractured. He had long known that not many people liked him, but he had truly believed that the devotion of his parents compensated for that. Only it wasn't real. He was a disappointment to them and they had withdrawn their love for him. Mummy didn't love him any more. Dudley curled himself up into an ungainly ball and sobbed.
Angus Tyler-Gibson had been the first thing which Dudley had ever wanted and not been given instantly by his parents. Tyler-Gibson was two years older than Dudley and the best boxer in the school. He was tall and broad, with thick arms and hard fists. Those hairy, muscled arms had only ever embraced Dudley once, though - when Tyler-Gibson was holding him still so that his sidekicks could thump him.
Tyler-Gibson, unfortunately, was not just straight, but also a bigot. After the beating, Dudley had been overcome by the unfairness of it all. It wasn't fair that he couldn't have what he wanted; it wasn't fair that Tyler-Gibson had snarled at him to stop watching every bloody thing he did like a fucking pansy; it wasn't fair that Dudley was receiving what he usually dished out. He tried to blame all sorts of things and people - eventually coming to the conclusion that the fault was his own bloody warped taste in crushes, just as the summer holiday started when that weird magical thing had reached deep into his unhappiness and frozen him.
When he sat up in his car and wiped his face - checking the time and realising that he should have been on his way to work ten minutes before - he couldn't decide whether to blame his parents for not loving him properly, or agree with his father that the fault lay in his own unnatural lusts.
Thank goodness he had the car. It had been an eighteenth birthday present: proof of their parental affection. Well, they couldn't take it away from him now even if that affection had dried up. So, he would at least have somewhere to sleep. He couldn't think of anywhere he could go.
There was one person who would understand of course. There was someone else who had been entitled to the Dursleys' nurturing care and who had been denied it because he had been different from them, someone Dudley could have protected, instead of assisting his parents' persecution, someone who had repaid that bullying by saving Dudley's life. Only Dudley didn't know where Harry was nor how to contact him.
He ran a couple of red lights and got to the club with enough time to get his suit on and join Desmond outside just before the doors opened.
"Cutting it fine," Desmond rumbled at him. But then he added, "Not like you. You've always been nice and conscientious."
The compliment warmed Dudley through like a mug of hot chocolate. Desmond was big and black and bald, with deep brown eyes and a muscular chest which Dudley wanted to lay his head on. Desmond was also married with six children and a penchant for poof jokes, so Dudley knew better than to try.
At the end of his shift on the door, Dudley crept back to his car's back seat and slept fitfully there in the car park until it was time for him to drive to the gym for his morning's training session.
Over lunch in a coffee shop he struggled to keep his eyes open. He couldn't keep sleeping in the car. He had a title match at the end of the month. Ed Stafford, his trainer, was canny and Dudley could tell that he already knew something was wrong. Dudley was hoping to avoid telling him exactly what that something was. After his parents' reaction, he wasn't expecting a lot of tolerance and understanding from the notoriously macho members of the boxing fraternity should any of them ever discover his sexual preferences.
He had no friends to turn to, because they had all gone off to University. He had chosen to dedicate himself to his sport instead. The nights as a bouncer paid for his days of training; his hours weren't enough to cover rent, though. If he got a day job, too, then his boxing would suffer.
He stirred his tea and chomped his way through a tuna baguette, resisting the lure of the scent of deep-frying which filled the place. Stafford would definitely bawl him out if he messed with his diet at this stage. He owed it to himself, anyway, to be as fit as he could be, after all the hours he had put in and all the sacrifices he had made.
This tiredness wouldn't help. He had to find somewhere to sleep properly. He thought about Piers' sprawling house, with all its empty rooms and extra bathrooms. He couldn't just turn up there, though, could he? Not with Piers away.
He made a complete mess of training that afternoon, pulled his back out at work that evening and spent another uncomfortable night on the seat of his car. At the end of the next morning's training session, Ed Stafford told him they needed to have a serious talk that afternoon.
Dudley found himself fantasising about beds. The guest beds were always made up and ready at the Polkiss' house. They were soft and clean with lots of pillows. Mrs Polkiss had always liked Dudley. Well, she'd tolerated him more than most people had. Dudley knew his brain wasn't a sharp one even without the back pain and sleep deprivation. Now it was a foggy mess. He couldn't trust his own judgement any more anyway: he'd been stupid enough to think that his parents were truly fond of him. Still, he had nowhere else to go, so he went to Piers' house that lunchtime.
Mrs Polkiss looked startled when she saw him standing sheepishly on her front lawn.
"Piers isn't here," she said.
"I know."
"I'm sorry, Dudley, he's in Oxford."
"At the University. I know."
"He won't be home until Christmas now." She started closing the door.
"Yeah. He said in an e-mail."
"You've heard from him?" She smiled for the first time. "How is he? What's he doing?"
Well, Dudley couldn't answer that honestly and stay on the right side of her, so instead he told her that Piers had joined some Societies, was studying hard and eating sensibly. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea.
His thick fingers felt clumsy on the delicate bone china handle of her teacup. He could co-ordinate every muscle in his arm and fist to land a perfect punch, but something that small made him sweat.
She offered him cake and he was terribly tempted - he remembered how good her Victoria sponge was and this one looked to have home-made lemon curd in it - but he refused.
"I'm on a diet," he demurred.
"Oh, are you?" Mrs Polkiss leant forward. She was always on one diet or another. "Is it any good?"
"It's to build muscle."
She sighed and shifted back against the armchair. "Muscle weighs more than fat, you know."
"Yeah. It's for the boxing."
"You look to be in good shape. I worried about the strain on your heart when you were a child."
"Low fat, high fibre, plenty of complex carbs."
"And the exercise."
"And the exercise," he agreed. There was a pause: a silence which grew steadily less comfortable.
"I'm sorry," Mrs Polkiss said eventually. "You must have had a reason for coming here. I never asked ..."
"Oh, yeah." Dudley's throat dried. He couldn't ask. Not without Piers even being here. "Um, thank you for the tea, Mrs Polkiss. I should be heading back. I've got a training session" and a bollocking from Stafford "to be getting back to." He stood.
"You've really turned into quite a nice young man, Dudley Dursley. I despaired of you for a long time, thought you were a bad influence on my Piers, but here you are, living a healthy life and holding down a job, and you've learnt some manners. Your mother must be very proud."
Dudley blamed the sleeplessness and the sugar cravings. Why else would he have burst into tears at that moment?
Mrs Polkiss sprang to her feet in alarm, then she eased him back into the sofa and showered him with tissues and pats to the shoulder, all the while asking in a strained voice "Whatever is the matter?" over and over.
Eventually he dried up and accepted another cup of tea. He saw her slip the sugar cubes into it and pretended he hadn't. She watched him expectantly.
He inhaled one deep, wet breath, before admitting, "They've chucked me out."
A shaking hand flew to cover Mrs Polkiss' mouth. "Whatever for?" she whispered.
He realised that she was wondering what kind of beast she had allowed into her front parlour, a demon which even a doting mother could no longer love. She knew how much trouble he had caused through Smeltings and before, knew that his parents had forgiven him everything; she could not imagine anything vile enough to cause them to reject him.
He hadn't wanted to tell her, but he couldn't bear her look of terror any longer; she'd always been decent to him.
He looked at the carpet, reliving in his mind how badly wrong things had gone the last time he had admitted this to anyone - the only time he had ever done so.
Tensed ready to leave the house immediately, his cheeks colouring, he mumbled, "It's 'cos I'm gay."
"You're what?"
"Gay, you know, queer, homo ..."
"Yes, I do know. I wasn't sure whether that was what you'd said." Mrs Polkiss took in a deep breath. "I can't believe it," she said. "That's disgusting."
His guts plummeting, Dudley forced himself to his feet.
"That a mother should be so closed-minded and reactionary. There's nothing wrong with being attracted to men, Dudley, you mustn't let them make you think that there is."
Dudley sat back down. He gazed at his best friend's mother in awe.
"You poor boy," she continued in the softest of tones. "Do you have anywhere to go?"
"I've been sleeping in my car."
"But you simply must move in with us! For as long as you like!"
"Just 'til I sort myself out," he protested weakly, trying to scramble together a little dignity.
"Your father always was a little irascible, but I'm horrified that Petunia should have rejected you like this. You poor, poor boy."
"Thanks so much, Mrs Polkiss."
"I'm going to go round and have a word with her. It's time she stood up to that brute of a husband of hers - forgive me - I can't believe that she would put some stupid notion of conformity above --"
"No! Please. Don't."
"Whyever not?"
"I don't want them to know that I told you. It'll be worse if they think people know and are talking about it! Please don't tell anyone. I've changed my mind about coming out. I'm going back in the closet. It has not gone well. I don't want to do it anymore. I'm ever so grateful to you for giving me somewhere to stay. Only please don't tell anybody."
"You must move your things in straight away!" She had crossed the room in her excitement and was clasping his huge hands between her tiny, bony ones.
"I didn't bring anything," he explained. "I bought, like, toothpaste and deodorant yesterday and I've been showering at the gym, but I don't have any - oh hell! What time is it? I should be training. I'll be in trouble."
"None of Piers' clothes will fit you," she was fussing, "and Mr Polkiss is even shorter."
"I've got to go. Thank you so much."
"You come straight back here after training. I'll have your bedroom ready for you. There's a nice pink one with floral curtains and a big mirror; that might suit you." As she walked him to the door, Mrs Polkiss asked, "Do you have, you know, a someone special? Will he be visiting you here?"
"Er, no. Like a boyfriend? I wish." Dudley backed down the garden path towards his car.
Mrs Polkiss looked disappointed for a moment, but only a moment, before she began bouncing on her toes and clapping in an excited manner. "Oh, oh, oh!" she said.
Dudley got into the car as she jogged towards him. He wound down the window so that he could hear her say, "I know who you'd like. We've got this lovely young chap at the tennis club. He's just your type. Adrian he's called. I'll invite him round. You'd be absolutely perfect for each other."
Dudley thanked her weakly and then drove off. Once out of their lane he put his foot down on the accelerator and drove as fast as almost-legally possibly to the gym, with one eye on the clock on the dashboard and a sensation of doom in his belly.
He dashed into the gym twenty minutes late and went straight to Ed Stafford's office. He couldn't believe he'd lost track of time like that, not when he was in trouble already. He knocked on the door.
When he opened it, Dudley was surprised to find Stafford looking not angry but concerned.
"Sit down, Dursley," the wiry grey-haired man said gently.
"Sorry I'm late, I --"
"Sit down." He indicated a red plastic chair, then perched on the edge of his desk, facing it. As a former feather-weight who trained a lot of heavy-weights, he found it helpful to position himself where he could look down on them.
He didn't look like he wanted to be stern today, though. As Dudley sat, his trainer started to talk. "You can't go on like this, can you, Dudley? I know you're at that age where temptations arise and things happen, but this is an important match we've got at the end of the month. You do understand that, don't you?"
Dudley nodded.
"You're listless and you've stopped concentrating. Now, why don't you explain what's going on and maybe I can help?"
Dudley felt his eyes begin to fill and his nose thickening; crying now would be disastrous. He was a boxer, not a handbag designer. He was meant to be strong and hard. If he started to blub then he would lose any respect his trainer had for him. It was just so hard for him to deal with people being kind to him. Two in one day.
He sniffed hard. "I'm not sleeping properly, that's all. Or I wasn't, but I've sorted it out now."
"Sorted it out?" Stafford gave him a sharp look. "We're not talking drugs here, are we? Because I will not tolerate --"
"No! No, sir. It's just that I'd been sleeping in my car and I've got somewhere to stay now. I wouldn't risk my career for some downers or something. I'm serious about boxing. You know that, don't you?"
"Sleeping in your car? Why?"
Dudley didn't want to answer. He could see which direction this chat was taking and he really didn't want to tell anyone else that he was gay - not after his parents' reaction. Mrs Polkiss had been alright about it, but Stafford would be different. Sports professionals were unforgivingly macho, particularly boxers; Dudley was used to the locker room banter. The last thing he needed was for the rest of the club to think he'd been eyeing them up in the showers. Which he had.
"I left home. Moved out," Dudley mumbled.
"Not great timing. Apologise to your parents and move back in."
"It's alright. I've got somewhere to stay." Dudley shuffled uncomfortably to his feet. "Can I go and get changed now?"
"In a minute. I thought your parents were supporting your decision to follow a career in sport?"
"They were."
"What changed?"
Dudley sighed and sat down. He was too bloody tired to think up any feasible lies. He looked straight up at the white tiles of the false ceiling to avoid seeing his trainer's face as he said: "Please don't tell anyone else this."
"Go on," Stafford encouraged gently. "I can keep a secret."
"They kicked me out 'cos I'm gay," Dudley said in a rush.
"Ah," Stafford replied cryptically.
Dudley had to look at Stafford because he couldn't work out what his reaction meant.
"Nazis!" Stafford spat. Then his face took on some calculating lines. "Oh," he said. "Look, the thing is." He patted Dudley's knee. Dudley hadn't expected the little boxer to ever want to touch him again. "We went through all this with our Darren last year. We never kicked him out," he added hastily. "There are ways of coping and ways of making things worse. You moved in with your boyfriend?"
"No, sir, I haven't got a boyfriend." Dudley wasn't quite sure yet what was going on.
"Good, good. No sex between now and the big fight, right?"
That was going to be easy enough. Dudley had managed to go his whole life so far without sex, a few more weeks wouldn't be difficult. He nodded.
"That includes, um , with yourself."
That was a different matter! Dudley nodded again anyway, thankful he wasn't being lynched or barred.
"I tell you what, though. A night out could do you good."
"I work nights, sir."
"Yes, of course you do. A lunch date then."
"A what?" The conversation had run away without Dudley managing to jump on board.
"Next week, you should have a lunch date. With my Darren. You're just his type."
Dudley whistled in the shower after his training session; his luck was changing. He had a place to stay, his trainer was supportive and he'd even somehow managed to get set up with two different blokes. By the end of the month he might have got a home, a title and have lost his virginity. He didn't even crave cake any more.
He combed his wet hair back and checked himself out in the mirror. The clothes were grubby, of course, but he didn't think he was going to make too bad an impression on his new hosts. He sucked his gut in. One day he would look like that all the time. He just had to stay focussed.
There was a strange smell as Mrs Polkiss opened the front door. She wittered on about getting him his own key as she lead him through the hallway, her voice getting higher, the smell getting stronger. It was a sweet smell, like perfume, but it wasn't coming from her.
"Oh, yes," she said, with a nonchalance which was clearly false, "Adrian happened to drop by while you were out. Did I mention Adrian? He's one of the waiters at the Tennis club."
Dudley located the source of the smell in the sitting room. He was in his early twenties, with bleach-blond hair styled into waves, small, slim and sitting on the piano stool, legs crossed at the ankle.
"Adrian, this is Dudley."
Adrian rose and minced towards him, Dudley froze.
"Enchanté," Adrian enunciated through his nose, floating his manicured hand towards Dudley.
"Er ..." Dudley replied. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to shake that hand or kiss it, and he didn't want to do either.
"I'll get a nice pot of tea brewing," Mrs Polkiss said and, to Dudley's horror, she then left the room!
"Aren't you a big boy?" Adrian commented, his eyes roaming over Dudley's frame and his hand still wafting in mid-air. "Lovely." He pouted. "We should go out some time. Together."
"I'm very busy," Dudley croaked. Belatedly he made a grab for the hand in front of him and gave it a quick shake. It felt like touching a girl. He didn't like it.
"Do you like musicals?" Adrian asked, practically skipping as he walked all round Dudley and sized him up. "Fabulous, aren't they? We could get tickets for something in London, maybe stay over in a hotel afterwards."
This person was a friend of the Polkisses and he was their guest, Dudley couldn't afford to insult him. The last thing he wanted to do was to go out with him, though. If he'd wanted to date someone effeminate he would have chosen a girl, and then he could still be living at home.
"I'm not allowed. Not before a big match," he managed - inordinately grateful to Stafford for reminding him of that rule this afternoon.
"I would love to watch you box," Adrian purred, stepping closer. "I love the shine of sweat on a big, muscular man."
Me, too, Dudley thought.
"Mrs P was right. You're just my type." Adrian ran his girly fingers down Dudley's forearm.
But you're not mine at all! Dudley thought desperately.
"Cat got your tongue? The strong silent sort, are you?" Adrian edged even closer and his cologne was overpowering.
Luckily Dudley was spared having to reply by Mrs Polkiss walking in with a laden tray of tea and cake. There was no way Dudley was going to be able to resist the comfort of the sugar this time.
Somehow he managed to stay vague and let Adrian do all the talking without accidentally appearing to agree to anything. Adrian was staying to supper, so Dudley pretended that his shift at the club started earlier than it actually did and escaped. He wasn't going to miss the food, stuffed full of baked goods as he was.
He didn't even have the comfort of Desmond's company, instead he had to work with Maria-Bella, and listen to her whining about her kids' fathers. At least she was more manly than Adrian.
He sank gratefully into the soft linen of a real bed that night, too tired to think. But he woke up worrying about Adrian and how he was going to escape his clutches while staying on the right side of Mrs Polkiss. He smelled bacon frying, too. Eating muesli with that in the air was going to be torture.
Bacon reminded him of Harry frying it on childhood mornings and made him feel guilty all over again. He hoped that Harry was ok. He had heard nothing from him in over a year. He had expected to have a chance to elaborate on not thinking Harry was a waste of space. It would have been a difficult conversation - Dudley wasn't really comfortable with apologising, he wasn't used to it - but it was a conversation which they certainly needed to have.
It would be easier now, Dudley realised, because he no longer felt any loyalty to his parents. It might be weird for Harry, though, finding out that the bully he'd shared a house with was gay. He'd never fancied Harry, but Harry wouldn't know that. He would wonder. Dudley had always been strong enough to make Harry do whatever he wanted him to. If he'd wanted to force himself on Harry then he could have done, probably. Not that he ever had.
Maybe not, maybe the magic would have been protection enough. They had all been a bit old fashioned-looking, the wizards Dudley had seen; would that be true of their attitudes, too? What would Harry and his friends think of Dudley? That he was unconventional like them? Or that he was an abomination who should be blasted from the face of the earth?
It would be dreadful if his sexuality made Harry reject him, too. He could really do with some family to turn to. It was looking like this free bed he'd found was going to have a high price attached to it.
Adrian was all the poofs in Desmond's jokes, like the camp comedians and pantomime dames that his father sneered at, the benders his school friends had imitated. None of them would think Dudley any different, though, if they knew his secret.
Mr Polkiss had never said much to him, just given him a polite nod and returned to reading the paper. This morning was no different. Mrs Polkiss offered some bacon and when he refused politely told him that he was a good boy.
Stafford accused him of being distracted, but he was pleased with Dudley's energy levels. At the end of a fitness session, as Dudley heaved himself over to the water bottles, he checked that they were alone and then told him that he had a little treat in store for Dudley.
It was a visit from his Darren, of course. Dudley had nearly forgotten about that little complication. Darren was due to "pop in" to drop off the sandwiches which Stafford had engineered leaving at home, on his way to the library late that morning. Library? Already Dudley had a bad feeling about this.
He was sparring with Lester (hairy back, thick arms, shoulders you could curl yourself round) when a skinny youth with a floppy fringe slunk through to Stafford's office. Dudley was a lot happier looking at Lester. Lester, of course, was straight and Darren, of course, was Stafford's son, and Dudley needed to keep his trainer happy. So sadly, giving Lester a post-fight rub-down wasn't an option and nor was avoiding Darren.
Dudley showered and made a bit of an effort with his hair, before pulling on his track suit and going to Stafford's office. Darren was the only person in there - looking a bit lost and balancing a clear plastic sandwich box on his flat palm.
He startled when Dudley walked in. He was a little taller than his father, but much thinner. The black skinny jeans he wore emphasised that. He had high, jutting cheek bones and blue eyes somewhere under his hair which were quite pretty; if only Dudley had been interested in pretty.
"Er, hi," Dudley tried.
"Yeah, I, yeah." Darren was jumpy, clearly keen to get out of the gym as soon as possible. "Don't suppose you know where my Dad is. I'm supposed to give him these. He's Ed Stafford. Sorry. Yeah."
"I'll take them for you, make sure he gets them."
Dudley held out his hand, but Darren dropped the box onto the desk.
"Thanks," he said. "I've got to go. Don't know why he can't just buy ready-made ones. He usually does. Mum insisted this time. I've got to go."
It was too easy; Dudley could just let him go. Stafford was going to ask what had happened, though, and probably keep sending the poor boy on spurious errands until Dudley asked him out.
"I think that might be about me," Dudley admitted.
"What might?" Darren was lifting up a heavy looking record bag. It looked like it might be full of books. Dudley didn't like books much, but this kid clearly did.
"Your parents making you come into the gym."
Darren looked confused and rather wary.
Dudley looked around furtively. This was a terrible place to be having this conversation: the other boxers were just a few feet away. He turned round and shut the door to the office, hoping he wasn't going to make the pretty-boy even more scared than he clearly already was.
"Your Dad's trying to set us up," Dudley explained.
Darren looked nervously at the door.
"Sorry about that. I'm not out here yet. I just told your Dad and he --" Dudley stopped talking, because Darren looked like he was having an epiphany.
"Of course!" he said as comprehension spread through him. Then he repeated himself - "Of course!" - only the second time his voice was full of exasperation. "You would be exactly the sort of GDM my father would expect me to be looking for." Darren sat down heavily in his dad's chair, resting his elbows on the desk next to the sandwich box. "Of course. I'll bet he was delighted when you outed yourself, wasn't he?"
"Well, he was alright about it." Dudley stayed standing and near the door to avoid intimidating the slight youth. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"At least he accepts my sexual orientation as a fait accompli unlike my mother," Darren went on. He was clearly more comfortable than he had been earlier. "She's of the Brideshead Revisited school of thought." He sighed, then looked up into Dudley's bemused face. "Waugh? Evelyn Waugh? Oh, never mind, I just mean she expects me to grow out of it and get married to a woman and have babies eventually." Dudley managed to pull a disgusted face at that, which made Darren laugh. His teeth were too even. "Dad doesn't really get it, though. Keeps trying to find me a GDM."
"Sorry, a what?"
"You know, like Crisp. Quentin Crisp? The Naked Civil Servant? Never mind. The Great Dark Man. It's what all gay men are supposedly looking for - someone butch and rugged. Crisp's depressing conclusion was that we're all bound to be disappointed because what a real man wants is a real woman, not a man. Self-flagellating nonsense in my opinion and anyway I'm looking for something far more on the classical Greek lines. A meeting of minds. An education. I don't want - no offence - some hulking great muscular brute."
"I do," Dudley said quietly.
Darren laughed again. "Brutal bear passion? Dad's got us both wrong, then." He stood up. "Look, I'm going to run away if you don't mind."
"Not at all. I mean, it was nice to meet you, but ..."
"Yeah. Good luck with everything. This is just such a completely alien environment for me. I've avoided this place for years. I was quite convinced that I was going to be queer-bashed the moment I stepped within the perimeter." Darren smiled at Dudley. "So you've been a nice surprise."
"Even though your Dad was trying to match-make us."
"Well, at least he's accepted me. I just need to work on getting him to understand a bit better." Darren laughed lightly. "Don't worry, I'll tell him you tried it on like you were meant to. I take it you're one of his trainee pugilists."
"I'm Dudley."
"Dudley? I'll be sure to mention what a delight Dudley is."
Dudley opened the door and held it for Darren as he left. He had no arse at all: hopeless.
On to Part Two.
Author/Artist: wwmrsweasleydo
Prompt: 12
Pairing, or gen: Slash pairings - Highlight to read *Dudley/Charlie, Dudley/OMCs, Dudley/Justin*
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Homophobia (including situations which may be triggers around rejection), violent sport, swearing, reference to pornography.
Word count/medium: 12,000.
Summary/Excerpt: When they find out Dudley's gay, everyone makes assumptions about the type of man he's after.
Author's or Artist's notes: Thank you emansil_08 for the beta.
Many thanks to asnowyowl for the prompt, for starting this fest off and for being a wonderful writer. Fandom is poorer without her.
The title is taken from Placebo's Nancy Boy .
This was meant to be a short PWP, but Dudley had other ideas. It even ended up smut-free. Maybe there will be an explicit sequel some time.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. We are very grateful for permission to play with them.
JUST ANOTHER NANCY BOY
Dudley prodded the pasta on his plate. He looked over the dinner table at his parents and it wasn't only the grease glazing his father's meal which made him nauseous. He speared a cube of the cucumber his mother had lovingly prepared for him and shakily lifted his fork to his mouth.
He felt a gentle patting on the back of his left hand and looked into Petunia's concerned face. He wasn't sure what he was so worried about, because he knew how very much she loved him. They both did. His parents had always done everything they could for him. Surely theirs was unconditional love and no matter what he told them, they would always love him. They had loved him, after all, when he had been a bully and a thief and a fat, ugly liar.
But they hadn't known the whole truth about him then. Perhaps it would be better if they didn't know now. He chewed on the tiny piece of cucumber before trying to force it down his closed, dry throat. He had decided that it was time to tell them; there was nothing to worry about. He just had to say it.
He coughed to clear his throat and then said, "Mum, Dad. I have something to say."
"Fire away, son," Vernon spluttered around his meatballs, "no formality here!"
They smiled at him. In unison.
"It's not a big deal," Dudley said. He shrugged one shoulder and stared down into his salad. "Doesn't really matter."
"Come on, Duddikins," Petunia cooed, stroking his cheek in an encouraging way. "We want to know every little thing about our precious boy. It's all important to us."
They did need to know; he did need to tell them.
"It's just ... um ... that I'm gay. That's all."
Silence. Dudley looked up to see whether it was a good silence. It wasn't. His father's face had gone purple and his lower jaw was working uselessly, paling lips failing to make the shapes of words. His mother's eyes were huge and her mouth tiny, pursed into a pucker.
Then Vernon sucked in a loud, wheezing breath and that reanimated his wife. She leapt to her feet and circled the table, checking his vital signs while smacking him between the shoulder blades.
"My son's no freak pervert!" Vernon managed to choke out.
"Oh Dudley! How could you?" Petunia didn't look at Dudley. She gazed in terror at Vernon's darkly-coloured face. "It's not funny! Take it back!"
Dudley's guts coiled in on themselves; this was all wrong.
"Look what you've done to your father! What a stupid thing to say. Tell him you were joking."
"I'm not." Dudley's mind was spinning and trying to shut down. He didn't have the control to lie. Where was the unconditional love his parents had always claimed that they had for him? This could not be happening. "So I'm gay? What does it matter?"
"Stop it, Dudley! Just stop being bloody gay! You know how your father feels about weirdoes."
Vernon spat out the word, "Unnatural!" at the same time as Dudley protested weakly, "I'm not a weirdo."
Petunia sighed happily. "There you are, Vernon. He says he's not a weirdo. It's all a silly misunderstanding. I knew we'd brought you up properly. I expect you meant that you were happy, didn't you, darling?"
"He's not a shirt-lifter, then? Not one of them?" Vernon placed one hand at his waist and raised the other limp-wristedly like a teapot. His breathing slowed down and his colouring began to settle.
Dudley had a quick decision to make. He could lie to his parents, make them happy, tell them it had all been a cruel joke; or he could tell the truth and force them to accept him and love him in spite of his being different to them.
"My name is Dudley Dursley," he said solemnly. "And I am an homosexual."
Vernon gripped his fork in a threatening manner and glared at his beloved only son. "Get out of my house," he growled.
Dudley, naturally, fled. Just before he slammed the front door he heard his father telling his mother that it was all her bloody fault for being too soft on the boy.
He stumbled, shocked, across the road to his car. Then he lay down on the back seat and closed his eyes while his world fractured. He had long known that not many people liked him, but he had truly believed that the devotion of his parents compensated for that. Only it wasn't real. He was a disappointment to them and they had withdrawn their love for him. Mummy didn't love him any more. Dudley curled himself up into an ungainly ball and sobbed.
Angus Tyler-Gibson had been the first thing which Dudley had ever wanted and not been given instantly by his parents. Tyler-Gibson was two years older than Dudley and the best boxer in the school. He was tall and broad, with thick arms and hard fists. Those hairy, muscled arms had only ever embraced Dudley once, though - when Tyler-Gibson was holding him still so that his sidekicks could thump him.
Tyler-Gibson, unfortunately, was not just straight, but also a bigot. After the beating, Dudley had been overcome by the unfairness of it all. It wasn't fair that he couldn't have what he wanted; it wasn't fair that Tyler-Gibson had snarled at him to stop watching every bloody thing he did like a fucking pansy; it wasn't fair that Dudley was receiving what he usually dished out. He tried to blame all sorts of things and people - eventually coming to the conclusion that the fault was his own bloody warped taste in crushes, just as the summer holiday started when that weird magical thing had reached deep into his unhappiness and frozen him.
When he sat up in his car and wiped his face - checking the time and realising that he should have been on his way to work ten minutes before - he couldn't decide whether to blame his parents for not loving him properly, or agree with his father that the fault lay in his own unnatural lusts.
Thank goodness he had the car. It had been an eighteenth birthday present: proof of their parental affection. Well, they couldn't take it away from him now even if that affection had dried up. So, he would at least have somewhere to sleep. He couldn't think of anywhere he could go.
There was one person who would understand of course. There was someone else who had been entitled to the Dursleys' nurturing care and who had been denied it because he had been different from them, someone Dudley could have protected, instead of assisting his parents' persecution, someone who had repaid that bullying by saving Dudley's life. Only Dudley didn't know where Harry was nor how to contact him.
He ran a couple of red lights and got to the club with enough time to get his suit on and join Desmond outside just before the doors opened.
"Cutting it fine," Desmond rumbled at him. But then he added, "Not like you. You've always been nice and conscientious."
The compliment warmed Dudley through like a mug of hot chocolate. Desmond was big and black and bald, with deep brown eyes and a muscular chest which Dudley wanted to lay his head on. Desmond was also married with six children and a penchant for poof jokes, so Dudley knew better than to try.
At the end of his shift on the door, Dudley crept back to his car's back seat and slept fitfully there in the car park until it was time for him to drive to the gym for his morning's training session.
Over lunch in a coffee shop he struggled to keep his eyes open. He couldn't keep sleeping in the car. He had a title match at the end of the month. Ed Stafford, his trainer, was canny and Dudley could tell that he already knew something was wrong. Dudley was hoping to avoid telling him exactly what that something was. After his parents' reaction, he wasn't expecting a lot of tolerance and understanding from the notoriously macho members of the boxing fraternity should any of them ever discover his sexual preferences.
He had no friends to turn to, because they had all gone off to University. He had chosen to dedicate himself to his sport instead. The nights as a bouncer paid for his days of training; his hours weren't enough to cover rent, though. If he got a day job, too, then his boxing would suffer.
He stirred his tea and chomped his way through a tuna baguette, resisting the lure of the scent of deep-frying which filled the place. Stafford would definitely bawl him out if he messed with his diet at this stage. He owed it to himself, anyway, to be as fit as he could be, after all the hours he had put in and all the sacrifices he had made.
This tiredness wouldn't help. He had to find somewhere to sleep properly. He thought about Piers' sprawling house, with all its empty rooms and extra bathrooms. He couldn't just turn up there, though, could he? Not with Piers away.
He made a complete mess of training that afternoon, pulled his back out at work that evening and spent another uncomfortable night on the seat of his car. At the end of the next morning's training session, Ed Stafford told him they needed to have a serious talk that afternoon.
Dudley found himself fantasising about beds. The guest beds were always made up and ready at the Polkiss' house. They were soft and clean with lots of pillows. Mrs Polkiss had always liked Dudley. Well, she'd tolerated him more than most people had. Dudley knew his brain wasn't a sharp one even without the back pain and sleep deprivation. Now it was a foggy mess. He couldn't trust his own judgement any more anyway: he'd been stupid enough to think that his parents were truly fond of him. Still, he had nowhere else to go, so he went to Piers' house that lunchtime.
Mrs Polkiss looked startled when she saw him standing sheepishly on her front lawn.
"Piers isn't here," she said.
"I know."
"I'm sorry, Dudley, he's in Oxford."
"At the University. I know."
"He won't be home until Christmas now." She started closing the door.
"Yeah. He said in an e-mail."
"You've heard from him?" She smiled for the first time. "How is he? What's he doing?"
Well, Dudley couldn't answer that honestly and stay on the right side of her, so instead he told her that Piers had joined some Societies, was studying hard and eating sensibly. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea.
His thick fingers felt clumsy on the delicate bone china handle of her teacup. He could co-ordinate every muscle in his arm and fist to land a perfect punch, but something that small made him sweat.
She offered him cake and he was terribly tempted - he remembered how good her Victoria sponge was and this one looked to have home-made lemon curd in it - but he refused.
"I'm on a diet," he demurred.
"Oh, are you?" Mrs Polkiss leant forward. She was always on one diet or another. "Is it any good?"
"It's to build muscle."
She sighed and shifted back against the armchair. "Muscle weighs more than fat, you know."
"Yeah. It's for the boxing."
"You look to be in good shape. I worried about the strain on your heart when you were a child."
"Low fat, high fibre, plenty of complex carbs."
"And the exercise."
"And the exercise," he agreed. There was a pause: a silence which grew steadily less comfortable.
"I'm sorry," Mrs Polkiss said eventually. "You must have had a reason for coming here. I never asked ..."
"Oh, yeah." Dudley's throat dried. He couldn't ask. Not without Piers even being here. "Um, thank you for the tea, Mrs Polkiss. I should be heading back. I've got a training session" and a bollocking from Stafford "to be getting back to." He stood.
"You've really turned into quite a nice young man, Dudley Dursley. I despaired of you for a long time, thought you were a bad influence on my Piers, but here you are, living a healthy life and holding down a job, and you've learnt some manners. Your mother must be very proud."
Dudley blamed the sleeplessness and the sugar cravings. Why else would he have burst into tears at that moment?
Mrs Polkiss sprang to her feet in alarm, then she eased him back into the sofa and showered him with tissues and pats to the shoulder, all the while asking in a strained voice "Whatever is the matter?" over and over.
Eventually he dried up and accepted another cup of tea. He saw her slip the sugar cubes into it and pretended he hadn't. She watched him expectantly.
He inhaled one deep, wet breath, before admitting, "They've chucked me out."
A shaking hand flew to cover Mrs Polkiss' mouth. "Whatever for?" she whispered.
He realised that she was wondering what kind of beast she had allowed into her front parlour, a demon which even a doting mother could no longer love. She knew how much trouble he had caused through Smeltings and before, knew that his parents had forgiven him everything; she could not imagine anything vile enough to cause them to reject him.
He hadn't wanted to tell her, but he couldn't bear her look of terror any longer; she'd always been decent to him.
He looked at the carpet, reliving in his mind how badly wrong things had gone the last time he had admitted this to anyone - the only time he had ever done so.
Tensed ready to leave the house immediately, his cheeks colouring, he mumbled, "It's 'cos I'm gay."
"You're what?"
"Gay, you know, queer, homo ..."
"Yes, I do know. I wasn't sure whether that was what you'd said." Mrs Polkiss took in a deep breath. "I can't believe it," she said. "That's disgusting."
His guts plummeting, Dudley forced himself to his feet.
"That a mother should be so closed-minded and reactionary. There's nothing wrong with being attracted to men, Dudley, you mustn't let them make you think that there is."
Dudley sat back down. He gazed at his best friend's mother in awe.
"You poor boy," she continued in the softest of tones. "Do you have anywhere to go?"
"I've been sleeping in my car."
"But you simply must move in with us! For as long as you like!"
"Just 'til I sort myself out," he protested weakly, trying to scramble together a little dignity.
"Your father always was a little irascible, but I'm horrified that Petunia should have rejected you like this. You poor, poor boy."
"Thanks so much, Mrs Polkiss."
"I'm going to go round and have a word with her. It's time she stood up to that brute of a husband of hers - forgive me - I can't believe that she would put some stupid notion of conformity above --"
"No! Please. Don't."
"Whyever not?"
"I don't want them to know that I told you. It'll be worse if they think people know and are talking about it! Please don't tell anyone. I've changed my mind about coming out. I'm going back in the closet. It has not gone well. I don't want to do it anymore. I'm ever so grateful to you for giving me somewhere to stay. Only please don't tell anybody."
"You must move your things in straight away!" She had crossed the room in her excitement and was clasping his huge hands between her tiny, bony ones.
"I didn't bring anything," he explained. "I bought, like, toothpaste and deodorant yesterday and I've been showering at the gym, but I don't have any - oh hell! What time is it? I should be training. I'll be in trouble."
"None of Piers' clothes will fit you," she was fussing, "and Mr Polkiss is even shorter."
"I've got to go. Thank you so much."
"You come straight back here after training. I'll have your bedroom ready for you. There's a nice pink one with floral curtains and a big mirror; that might suit you." As she walked him to the door, Mrs Polkiss asked, "Do you have, you know, a someone special? Will he be visiting you here?"
"Er, no. Like a boyfriend? I wish." Dudley backed down the garden path towards his car.
Mrs Polkiss looked disappointed for a moment, but only a moment, before she began bouncing on her toes and clapping in an excited manner. "Oh, oh, oh!" she said.
Dudley got into the car as she jogged towards him. He wound down the window so that he could hear her say, "I know who you'd like. We've got this lovely young chap at the tennis club. He's just your type. Adrian he's called. I'll invite him round. You'd be absolutely perfect for each other."
Dudley thanked her weakly and then drove off. Once out of their lane he put his foot down on the accelerator and drove as fast as almost-legally possibly to the gym, with one eye on the clock on the dashboard and a sensation of doom in his belly.
He dashed into the gym twenty minutes late and went straight to Ed Stafford's office. He couldn't believe he'd lost track of time like that, not when he was in trouble already. He knocked on the door.
When he opened it, Dudley was surprised to find Stafford looking not angry but concerned.
"Sit down, Dursley," the wiry grey-haired man said gently.
"Sorry I'm late, I --"
"Sit down." He indicated a red plastic chair, then perched on the edge of his desk, facing it. As a former feather-weight who trained a lot of heavy-weights, he found it helpful to position himself where he could look down on them.
He didn't look like he wanted to be stern today, though. As Dudley sat, his trainer started to talk. "You can't go on like this, can you, Dudley? I know you're at that age where temptations arise and things happen, but this is an important match we've got at the end of the month. You do understand that, don't you?"
Dudley nodded.
"You're listless and you've stopped concentrating. Now, why don't you explain what's going on and maybe I can help?"
Dudley felt his eyes begin to fill and his nose thickening; crying now would be disastrous. He was a boxer, not a handbag designer. He was meant to be strong and hard. If he started to blub then he would lose any respect his trainer had for him. It was just so hard for him to deal with people being kind to him. Two in one day.
He sniffed hard. "I'm not sleeping properly, that's all. Or I wasn't, but I've sorted it out now."
"Sorted it out?" Stafford gave him a sharp look. "We're not talking drugs here, are we? Because I will not tolerate --"
"No! No, sir. It's just that I'd been sleeping in my car and I've got somewhere to stay now. I wouldn't risk my career for some downers or something. I'm serious about boxing. You know that, don't you?"
"Sleeping in your car? Why?"
Dudley didn't want to answer. He could see which direction this chat was taking and he really didn't want to tell anyone else that he was gay - not after his parents' reaction. Mrs Polkiss had been alright about it, but Stafford would be different. Sports professionals were unforgivingly macho, particularly boxers; Dudley was used to the locker room banter. The last thing he needed was for the rest of the club to think he'd been eyeing them up in the showers. Which he had.
"I left home. Moved out," Dudley mumbled.
"Not great timing. Apologise to your parents and move back in."
"It's alright. I've got somewhere to stay." Dudley shuffled uncomfortably to his feet. "Can I go and get changed now?"
"In a minute. I thought your parents were supporting your decision to follow a career in sport?"
"They were."
"What changed?"
Dudley sighed and sat down. He was too bloody tired to think up any feasible lies. He looked straight up at the white tiles of the false ceiling to avoid seeing his trainer's face as he said: "Please don't tell anyone else this."
"Go on," Stafford encouraged gently. "I can keep a secret."
"They kicked me out 'cos I'm gay," Dudley said in a rush.
"Ah," Stafford replied cryptically.
Dudley had to look at Stafford because he couldn't work out what his reaction meant.
"Nazis!" Stafford spat. Then his face took on some calculating lines. "Oh," he said. "Look, the thing is." He patted Dudley's knee. Dudley hadn't expected the little boxer to ever want to touch him again. "We went through all this with our Darren last year. We never kicked him out," he added hastily. "There are ways of coping and ways of making things worse. You moved in with your boyfriend?"
"No, sir, I haven't got a boyfriend." Dudley wasn't quite sure yet what was going on.
"Good, good. No sex between now and the big fight, right?"
That was going to be easy enough. Dudley had managed to go his whole life so far without sex, a few more weeks wouldn't be difficult. He nodded.
"That includes, um , with yourself."
That was a different matter! Dudley nodded again anyway, thankful he wasn't being lynched or barred.
"I tell you what, though. A night out could do you good."
"I work nights, sir."
"Yes, of course you do. A lunch date then."
"A what?" The conversation had run away without Dudley managing to jump on board.
"Next week, you should have a lunch date. With my Darren. You're just his type."
Dudley whistled in the shower after his training session; his luck was changing. He had a place to stay, his trainer was supportive and he'd even somehow managed to get set up with two different blokes. By the end of the month he might have got a home, a title and have lost his virginity. He didn't even crave cake any more.
He combed his wet hair back and checked himself out in the mirror. The clothes were grubby, of course, but he didn't think he was going to make too bad an impression on his new hosts. He sucked his gut in. One day he would look like that all the time. He just had to stay focussed.
There was a strange smell as Mrs Polkiss opened the front door. She wittered on about getting him his own key as she lead him through the hallway, her voice getting higher, the smell getting stronger. It was a sweet smell, like perfume, but it wasn't coming from her.
"Oh, yes," she said, with a nonchalance which was clearly false, "Adrian happened to drop by while you were out. Did I mention Adrian? He's one of the waiters at the Tennis club."
Dudley located the source of the smell in the sitting room. He was in his early twenties, with bleach-blond hair styled into waves, small, slim and sitting on the piano stool, legs crossed at the ankle.
"Adrian, this is Dudley."
Adrian rose and minced towards him, Dudley froze.
"Enchanté," Adrian enunciated through his nose, floating his manicured hand towards Dudley.
"Er ..." Dudley replied. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to shake that hand or kiss it, and he didn't want to do either.
"I'll get a nice pot of tea brewing," Mrs Polkiss said and, to Dudley's horror, she then left the room!
"Aren't you a big boy?" Adrian commented, his eyes roaming over Dudley's frame and his hand still wafting in mid-air. "Lovely." He pouted. "We should go out some time. Together."
"I'm very busy," Dudley croaked. Belatedly he made a grab for the hand in front of him and gave it a quick shake. It felt like touching a girl. He didn't like it.
"Do you like musicals?" Adrian asked, practically skipping as he walked all round Dudley and sized him up. "Fabulous, aren't they? We could get tickets for something in London, maybe stay over in a hotel afterwards."
This person was a friend of the Polkisses and he was their guest, Dudley couldn't afford to insult him. The last thing he wanted to do was to go out with him, though. If he'd wanted to date someone effeminate he would have chosen a girl, and then he could still be living at home.
"I'm not allowed. Not before a big match," he managed - inordinately grateful to Stafford for reminding him of that rule this afternoon.
"I would love to watch you box," Adrian purred, stepping closer. "I love the shine of sweat on a big, muscular man."
Me, too, Dudley thought.
"Mrs P was right. You're just my type." Adrian ran his girly fingers down Dudley's forearm.
But you're not mine at all! Dudley thought desperately.
"Cat got your tongue? The strong silent sort, are you?" Adrian edged even closer and his cologne was overpowering.
Luckily Dudley was spared having to reply by Mrs Polkiss walking in with a laden tray of tea and cake. There was no way Dudley was going to be able to resist the comfort of the sugar this time.
Somehow he managed to stay vague and let Adrian do all the talking without accidentally appearing to agree to anything. Adrian was staying to supper, so Dudley pretended that his shift at the club started earlier than it actually did and escaped. He wasn't going to miss the food, stuffed full of baked goods as he was.
He didn't even have the comfort of Desmond's company, instead he had to work with Maria-Bella, and listen to her whining about her kids' fathers. At least she was more manly than Adrian.
He sank gratefully into the soft linen of a real bed that night, too tired to think. But he woke up worrying about Adrian and how he was going to escape his clutches while staying on the right side of Mrs Polkiss. He smelled bacon frying, too. Eating muesli with that in the air was going to be torture.
Bacon reminded him of Harry frying it on childhood mornings and made him feel guilty all over again. He hoped that Harry was ok. He had heard nothing from him in over a year. He had expected to have a chance to elaborate on not thinking Harry was a waste of space. It would have been a difficult conversation - Dudley wasn't really comfortable with apologising, he wasn't used to it - but it was a conversation which they certainly needed to have.
It would be easier now, Dudley realised, because he no longer felt any loyalty to his parents. It might be weird for Harry, though, finding out that the bully he'd shared a house with was gay. He'd never fancied Harry, but Harry wouldn't know that. He would wonder. Dudley had always been strong enough to make Harry do whatever he wanted him to. If he'd wanted to force himself on Harry then he could have done, probably. Not that he ever had.
Maybe not, maybe the magic would have been protection enough. They had all been a bit old fashioned-looking, the wizards Dudley had seen; would that be true of their attitudes, too? What would Harry and his friends think of Dudley? That he was unconventional like them? Or that he was an abomination who should be blasted from the face of the earth?
It would be dreadful if his sexuality made Harry reject him, too. He could really do with some family to turn to. It was looking like this free bed he'd found was going to have a high price attached to it.
Adrian was all the poofs in Desmond's jokes, like the camp comedians and pantomime dames that his father sneered at, the benders his school friends had imitated. None of them would think Dudley any different, though, if they knew his secret.
Mr Polkiss had never said much to him, just given him a polite nod and returned to reading the paper. This morning was no different. Mrs Polkiss offered some bacon and when he refused politely told him that he was a good boy.
Stafford accused him of being distracted, but he was pleased with Dudley's energy levels. At the end of a fitness session, as Dudley heaved himself over to the water bottles, he checked that they were alone and then told him that he had a little treat in store for Dudley.
It was a visit from his Darren, of course. Dudley had nearly forgotten about that little complication. Darren was due to "pop in" to drop off the sandwiches which Stafford had engineered leaving at home, on his way to the library late that morning. Library? Already Dudley had a bad feeling about this.
He was sparring with Lester (hairy back, thick arms, shoulders you could curl yourself round) when a skinny youth with a floppy fringe slunk through to Stafford's office. Dudley was a lot happier looking at Lester. Lester, of course, was straight and Darren, of course, was Stafford's son, and Dudley needed to keep his trainer happy. So sadly, giving Lester a post-fight rub-down wasn't an option and nor was avoiding Darren.
Dudley showered and made a bit of an effort with his hair, before pulling on his track suit and going to Stafford's office. Darren was the only person in there - looking a bit lost and balancing a clear plastic sandwich box on his flat palm.
He startled when Dudley walked in. He was a little taller than his father, but much thinner. The black skinny jeans he wore emphasised that. He had high, jutting cheek bones and blue eyes somewhere under his hair which were quite pretty; if only Dudley had been interested in pretty.
"Er, hi," Dudley tried.
"Yeah, I, yeah." Darren was jumpy, clearly keen to get out of the gym as soon as possible. "Don't suppose you know where my Dad is. I'm supposed to give him these. He's Ed Stafford. Sorry. Yeah."
"I'll take them for you, make sure he gets them."
Dudley held out his hand, but Darren dropped the box onto the desk.
"Thanks," he said. "I've got to go. Don't know why he can't just buy ready-made ones. He usually does. Mum insisted this time. I've got to go."
It was too easy; Dudley could just let him go. Stafford was going to ask what had happened, though, and probably keep sending the poor boy on spurious errands until Dudley asked him out.
"I think that might be about me," Dudley admitted.
"What might?" Darren was lifting up a heavy looking record bag. It looked like it might be full of books. Dudley didn't like books much, but this kid clearly did.
"Your parents making you come into the gym."
Darren looked confused and rather wary.
Dudley looked around furtively. This was a terrible place to be having this conversation: the other boxers were just a few feet away. He turned round and shut the door to the office, hoping he wasn't going to make the pretty-boy even more scared than he clearly already was.
"Your Dad's trying to set us up," Dudley explained.
Darren looked nervously at the door.
"Sorry about that. I'm not out here yet. I just told your Dad and he --" Dudley stopped talking, because Darren looked like he was having an epiphany.
"Of course!" he said as comprehension spread through him. Then he repeated himself - "Of course!" - only the second time his voice was full of exasperation. "You would be exactly the sort of GDM my father would expect me to be looking for." Darren sat down heavily in his dad's chair, resting his elbows on the desk next to the sandwich box. "Of course. I'll bet he was delighted when you outed yourself, wasn't he?"
"Well, he was alright about it." Dudley stayed standing and near the door to avoid intimidating the slight youth. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"At least he accepts my sexual orientation as a fait accompli unlike my mother," Darren went on. He was clearly more comfortable than he had been earlier. "She's of the Brideshead Revisited school of thought." He sighed, then looked up into Dudley's bemused face. "Waugh? Evelyn Waugh? Oh, never mind, I just mean she expects me to grow out of it and get married to a woman and have babies eventually." Dudley managed to pull a disgusted face at that, which made Darren laugh. His teeth were too even. "Dad doesn't really get it, though. Keeps trying to find me a GDM."
"Sorry, a what?"
"You know, like Crisp. Quentin Crisp? The Naked Civil Servant? Never mind. The Great Dark Man. It's what all gay men are supposedly looking for - someone butch and rugged. Crisp's depressing conclusion was that we're all bound to be disappointed because what a real man wants is a real woman, not a man. Self-flagellating nonsense in my opinion and anyway I'm looking for something far more on the classical Greek lines. A meeting of minds. An education. I don't want - no offence - some hulking great muscular brute."
"I do," Dudley said quietly.
Darren laughed again. "Brutal bear passion? Dad's got us both wrong, then." He stood up. "Look, I'm going to run away if you don't mind."
"Not at all. I mean, it was nice to meet you, but ..."
"Yeah. Good luck with everything. This is just such a completely alien environment for me. I've avoided this place for years. I was quite convinced that I was going to be queer-bashed the moment I stepped within the perimeter." Darren smiled at Dudley. "So you've been a nice surprise."
"Even though your Dad was trying to match-make us."
"Well, at least he's accepted me. I just need to work on getting him to understand a bit better." Darren laughed lightly. "Don't worry, I'll tell him you tried it on like you were meant to. I take it you're one of his trainee pugilists."
"I'm Dudley."
"Dudley? I'll be sure to mention what a delight Dudley is."
Dudley opened the door and held it for Darren as he left. He had no arse at all: hopeless.
On to Part Two.