Toy Story played on the television, all bright colors and childhood innocence. Woody argued with Buzz about what was real and what wasn't, the sort of conflict meant to comfort children too young to know betrayal.
Harry sat still on the couch, legs parted slightly, bare feet curled into the carpet. The remote rested on the cushion beside him. The movie had been halfway through when he entered the room, pausing on a frame where Woody stared up at the sky, as if he knew he was about to be replaced.
Dudley had been watching it.
Harry had picked up the remote and pressed the rewind button. He watched the opening credits slide past, the cheerful theme song kicking in as if nothing in the world could go wrong.
Now, it played from the beginning. But Harry wasn't really watching.
He threw the remote on the cushion beside him. The movie played on, but his eyes were distant, locked not on the screen but somewhere just past it.
The grey T-shirt stretched awkwardly across his chest, tight enough that the curve of his breasts lifted the fabric outward with each slow breath. His nipples had long since gone stiff again. Every movement of the shirt dragged across them like a soft rasp.
Below, the faded jeans clung desperately to his hips. The waistband dug in. The denim was tight everywhere, but especially between his legs, where the thick seam ground against his swollen folds. It was soaked now. There was no point pretending otherwise. He didn't even flinch anymore when it rubbed. He just exhaled and let the ache spread.
He hadn't touched himself, but only because he couldn't risk it. Not with the curtains cracked open or his moaning. One curious neighbor glance was all it would take, and someone would be calling the police about the girl writhing alone on the Dursleys' sofa.
And what would he even say? That he used to be a boy? That Voldemort, a dead man who murdered his parents and was supposedly killed by him when he was still in nappies, came back to life and cast some kind of twisted, forbidden spell on him the moment he grabbed a Portkey? That he escaped a graveyard with another boy's corpse in one arm, and with his own body warped into something soft, curvy, and wrong as they were flung through space?
That he was sent back to this house, where even the word "magic" was treated like filth, aroused and broken, barely able to breathe in a place that had never let him have a single peaceful year?
Even the wizarding world wouldn't believe him. Muggles? Not a chance.
He let his head fall back against the cushion, neck arched, breathing through his nose. Sweat tickled the back of his scalp. His jeans pressed again, slow and merciless. The pressure built without mercy, just friction and heat and the ghost of memory.
Woody's voice cut through his thoughts. Something about being a toy, about being forgotten.
Harry let out a soft breath. Forgotten. That felt familiar.
But then his gaze shifted. Buzz flew across the screen. The little alien toys watched in awe. And for the first time in a long while, Harry's thoughts took a sharp, strange turn.
If toys could move, could he make one? A magical sex toy?
As Muggle sex toys with batteries or motors might not work in the magical world. Those never worked around magic anyway. Electricity fizzled out near wards, so he had been told by Mr. Weasley. Even calculators go blank as a certain muggleborn ravenclaw had brought one to Hogwarts once.
But spells did.
Real enchantments. Not just animation charms, but layered work. He could animate something. Shape it as he desired and give it one sole purpose. Turn it into a form that moves only to pleasure him. It would obey. Just a spell-bound object that pulsed with all kinds of enchanment.
Runes could help him adjust the rhythm as they etched into the surface. He remembered the way the Quidditch showers worked. The locker door only opened for the right magical signature. Not because of politeness or privacy of each Quidditch player, but because years ago some Slytherins had stuffed the Gryffindor lockers full of exploding dungbombs.
Charms could warm it. Soften it. Infuse the outer surface with a texture that feels real. He knew the Cushioning Charm by heart. The Warming Charm, too. And he could combine both, wrap them around a base Transfiguration spell. Maybe something like the Engorgement Charm to let it adjust size on command. Or the Jelly-Legs Jinx reversed, to simulate subtle vibrations.
And most important of all, obedience.
He could do that, bind it to his voice.
It would slow down and speed up when he told it to. Thrust deeper when he needed it. Pulse and stretch, and tighten without ever asking why.
He had made himself come so hard the night before that he could barely stand. His thighs ached. His wrists trembled. His fingers had cramped up somewhere during the second round, knuckles tight from the angle, slippery with slick. He had gasped into the pillow until his throat went raw. His fingers fucked himself until his thighs shook. But it hadn't been enough.
The lust didn't decrease. It only kept rising.
His body gave out. His cunt had stayed wet, twitching, begging, but there was nothing left in him to answer.
A toy wouldn't get tired. It wouldn't slow down when his arms went weak or stop just as he started to come again. It would keep going, methodical and merciless, until the mess soaked the mattress and his voice gave out.
That was what he desired.
He needed real sex toys to study, and he knew someone who could bring him some.
He needed to learn how to enchant and use multiple charms on the same object at once.
A soft, mad kind of excitement sparked under the lust.
But not yet as he e couldn't go back to the wizarding world like this. And he would not leave this place peacefully.
He looked around the living room. The soft hum of the television. The silence from upstairs. The air was heavy with silence as if a fat woman were pregnant with triplets, with everything that had already happened.
Petunia and Dudley had locked themselves away. He hadn't even started to intact his debts yet.
He would ruin this house from the inside. Not with magic or burn it down. But with shame. With debauchery so deep it rewrote their lives. So when they looked back on these days, there would be no words to justify what they were. Just a terrible memory and the knowledge that something had done something not normal.
The movie flickered. Buzz climbed into a rocket-shaped claw machine, drawn in by the blinking lights and the promise of a spaceship. Woody followed, trying to pull him back out before anyone noticed.
Inside, the little green aliens stared at Buzz with silent awe. Outside the glass, Andy passed by without a glance, completely unaware that his toys were trapped just a few feet away.
Harry's eyes stayed on the screen, but his focus was fading.
His bladder throbbed beneath the curve of his belly. The pressure was sharp now, urgent and full. He could feel the denim pressing into him harder than before, the fabric stretched too tight, warm from sweat and friction. He had to pee. He needed to move.
But he didn't as his body felt rooted. Not frozen, but just unwilling from sheer laziness.
He didn't want to miss the movie and rewind it again. He didn't want to leave this moment. The cushion was hot under him. His thighs were slick where the jeans clung to his skin. The ache in his cunt hadn't faded. If anything, it pulsed louder now, a heat wrapped in shame, sharpened by every breath.
He could have stood. He could have gone to the bathroom, walked upstairs, and cleaned himself like a normal person.
Instead, he let go.
It didn't happen all at once. The muscles gave way slowly. The warmth spread almost gently, blooming between his legs and soaking through the crotch of the jeans. The sound was soft, barely audible over the television. A slow trickle became a steady release.
The denim darkened. The wetness spread.
And he exhaled.
It should have felt humiliating. It didn't.
The pressure was gone. The ache was softer now. His skin was wet, the cushion underneath growing warmer, but his chest felt lighter. Like something inside him had shifted and finally made space.
He let his head rest back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. His lips were parted slightly. His breathing slowed.
This was comfort and peace. Just the silence that came when everything else had already gone too far.
The movie's final scene played out in front of him.
It was Christmas now. The toys were gathered in the quiet warmth of Andy's new bedroom, listening to the sound of wrapping paper tearing and excited shouts from downstairs. Woody and Buzz stood side by side under the tree. They weren't rivals anymore. They had made it back, and Andy had ever known they were missing.
Harry watched as they laughed together. Plastic faces smiling feeling safe again.
Then came the line. Andy had a new present. A box. A bark. Laughter followed, and for a moment, the toys looked at each other in wide-eyed panic. A puppy.
The screen faded upward into soft blue sky, bright and cloudless.
The credits began to roll.
Harry didn't move. He watched the credits roll.
His jeans clung to him like a second skin, soaked through. He touched the front with his palm. It was warm. Heavy. He let his hand stay there for a moment, pressing down lightly to feel.
Then, slowly, he stood.
The denim peeled away from his thighs with a soft, sticky sound. The fabric clung, dark and damp, where the wetness had soaked through. It resisted as he pulled, sticking around his knees and crotch.
He unfastened the waistband, pushed the jeans down to his ankles, and stepped out of them. Cool air touched his legs, sharp against the skin. The mess clung to his thighs, sticky and sour. His red pubic hair was matted, darkened by dried piss, clinging to the swollen lips beneath.
The cushion under him squelched faintly as he shifted. It was soaked through. He could feel the wet warmth pressed into his skin, the fabric beneath him heavy with it. The smell was faint but sharp, bitter with ammonia.
He looked down.
His thighs were slick, streaked with dried urine. The curls between his legs were tangled and damp. The skin there was flushed, irritated from the soaked fabric. His cunt twitched once, not from pleasure but from naked exposure.
On the coffee table, Dudley's breakfast sat abandoned. A half-eaten sandwich. A lukewarm glass of cola. Beside the plate was a folded cloth napkin, still untouched. Proper, starched, probably laid out by Petunia that morning without a second thought.
Harry reached for it.
The fabric was stiff and creased, clean and pale against the clutter. He opened it and began to wipe himself. He started with his thighs, then moved between his legs slowly. He felt no shame. Just the need to not be sticky anymore.
When he was finished, he bent and pressed the napkin into the worst of the stain on the cushion. He dabbed until it stopped feeling wet, then folded the cloth again and set it down beside the plate, not perfectly placed but not carelessly either.
Then he walked back to the couch and sat down.
The T-shirt clung to his chest, damp with sweat. It barely reached past his hips now. His thighs were bare. His skin still smelled faintly of urine and heat, but he didn't care. He leaned back, legs parted, one knee drawn slightly up onto the cushion.
He didn't feel exposed.
He felt calm.
The movie was over. The house was silent. And then the front door creaked open.
Harry didn't move.
He heard keys drop onto the hook, followed by the dull, dragging sound of Vernon's footsteps down the hall. A grunt, then a muttered curse under his breath. The fridge opened. Closed. Cabinet doors slammed with more force than necessary. Vernon was home.
Harry stayed exactly where he was. Legs parted. Shirt clinging damply to his chest. Nothing below the waist. The cushion beneath him was still warm from his skin and faintly wet. The air brushing across his thighs didn't feel strange anymore. Being naked, waiting for his last tormentor, or should he say victim, in front of the TV, was strangely thrilling.
The footsteps turned back toward the living room.
Then stopped.
Harry didn't have to look up. He knew Vernon had stepped into the doorway. He could feel the weight of his presence like a change in pressure.
The silence stretched.
"Where the hell are your pants?"
It was the first thing Vernon said. There was shock in his voice, but not confusion. Just that familiar disgust barely hiding behind it.
Harry turned his head slowly. His face was calm. His voice was flat, even, unaffected.
"They were too tight," he said. "So I took them off."
He gestured toward the corner. His jeans lay crumpled near the baseboard, the stain still dark where the piss had soaked through.
Vernon's face twitched. Red climbed up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. His grip tightened around the glass in his hand. His jaw clenched.
He drew in a sharp breath.
Harry didn't look away. He watched the signs gather like a storm, the way Vernon's shoulders rolled back, the way he shifted his weight, the way his throat worked as he prepared to shout.
He knew the rhythm by heart.
Before Vernon could speak, Harry cut in.
"You gonna shout?" he asked quietly. "What if the neighbors hear?"
Vernon's jaw clenched.
Harry tilted his head just slightly. "You think they won't wonder why you're screaming at a half-naked girl in your sitting room?"
For a moment, Vernon looked stuck between two instincts. Rage twitched behind his eyes, but restraint settled over his face like sweat. His grip on the glass loosened just slightly.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't kind. And it wasn't forgiving either. It was slow and mean and sure of itself.
He stepped forward, his voice lowering to a gravelly murmur.
"If that's what you want," he said, "then that's what you'll get."
Harry didn't blink. He waited.
Vernon's hand trembled once before steadying. His gaze dropped to Harry's chest, then lower, to the space between his legs. The shirt barely covered anything. His cunt was visible in the shifting light, still glistening slightly where he had wiped but not hidden. The dampness in the cushion beneath him hadn't fully dried.
A growl rumbled in Vernon's throat.
"Had a good look at one Evans girl in this house," he muttered. "Might as well see how the other turned out."
His eyes crawled over Harry's chest again.
"Take off the shirt," he said.
Harry held his gaze.
Then stood.
He didn't rush. He moved slowly, letting the hem of the grey T-shirt lift inch by inch as he raised his arms. The fabric peeled upward, catching for a moment over the weight of his breasts before sliding free. They bounced as they dropped, full and flushed from the heat. His nipples were already tight, glistening slightly in the low light.
He let the shirt fall from his hands.
It landed on the floor beside him.
Now completely bare, he stood in front of Vernon. His chest rose and fell with a slow, steady rhythm. Between his legs, the lips of his pussy gleamed softly. The damp red curls above it clung to his skin, curled from moisture and the heat that hadn't gone away.
He didn't pose. He didn't cover himself.
He just stood there.
Vernon stared at him like something between a predator and a man too stunned to act.
Harry tilted his head, his voice soft. "Is this what you wanted to see, Uncle?"
Vernon didn't answer. He just unbuckled his belt.
His trousers fell to the floor with a heavy rustle. His cock sprang free, thick and ruddy, the shaft heavy and veined, with a slight upward curve. Coarse gray hair curled at the base. The head was fat and flushed dark red, already wet with precum that beaded at the slit and began to slide down the swollen crown.
Harry looked up from his knees. His breath came shallow, lips slightly parted, but his eyes stayed calm, unflinching.
Vernon sneered.
"You really think you're something now, don't you?" he said. "New body, new holes, same little freak playing at being a woman."
Harry didn't flinch or speak.
Vernon stepped closer, wrapping his hand around the thick base of his cock. His fingers didn't meet around the girth. He gave himself a slow stroke, watching Harry with a look of contempt.
"Boy," he muttered, voice low and full of heat, "women don't play men's games. They lose. Every time."
He tilted his hips forward, bringing the head just inches from Harry's lips.
"So go on. All women think they're in control. Even you can pretend, you little freak."
Harry's lip twitched. He didn't move for a moment. Then he leaned in and dragged his tongue along the slick head, slow and deliberate. His movements were lazy, almost taunting, as if tasting something unfamiliar but intriguing. Vernon hissed through his teeth, but Harry didn't speed up.
He circled the head again, then flicked his tongue over the slit, tasting the sharp tang of precum. His lips parted and took in just the tip, stretching around the fat crown. Then he pushed deeper, slowly easing down the thick shaft.
Saliva pooled and began to trail from the corners of his mouth. His jaw ached, stretched wide around the girth. The head pressed against the back of his throat. He didn't stop.
Vernon growled deep in his chest.
He gripped Harry's hair and shoved him forward, forcing his cock all the way in. Harry gagged, throat tightening, but he didn't pull back. He held still, breathing through his nose, eyes watering, letting Vernon take control.
"That's it," Vernon muttered. "Nice and deep. Take all of it, you dirty little freak."
Harry's lashes fluttered. His lips stretched tight around the thick shaft. Wet sounds filled the room as Vernon began to thrust, slow but forceful, dragging his cock in and out of Harry's throat. Each movement pushed spit down his chin. Each shove hit the back of his mouth with a messy, obscene sound.
He choked again. Vernon pulled out roughly. Saliva clung to the head in long strings, stretching to Harry's lips.
"Get those tits together," Vernon said.
Harry obeyed without hesitation.
He cupped his balloon-like and heavy breasts. The weight settled into his palms as he pressed them together, soft skin molding tightly around Vernon's cock as he stepped in again. The shaft slid between them with ease, still slick with spit and warmth, the swollen head peeking out with every thrust.
Harry adjusted his grip, pushing from underneath to keep the flesh firm and snug around the thick length. His nipples, already hard, grazed along the slick underside, dragging faint tingling through his chest with each slow stroke.
He let out a quiet moan, breath catching, almost lost beneath the wet, steady slap of skin against skin.
"You know why your aunt married me?" Vernon muttered. "Wasn't for love. Wasn't for money. It was for this cock. The first time she saw it, she got on her knees like you are now."
He laughed breathlessly.
"Know why she married me?" Vernon muttered, eyes locked on the way his cock slid between Harry's tits. "Wasn't love. Sure as hell wasn't money. She just couldn't stand her little sister getting everything first."
He gave a slow thrust, the slick head pushing out the top of Harry's breasts before sinking back down. Spit and heat coated the shaft, making each stroke obscene.
"Lily was already married. Showing off that Potter boy like some golden prize. Petunia panicked. Couldn't show up to the wedding alone."
He grunted, watching the flesh wrap around him, snug and warm.
"So she dragged me into it. Said I'd be her boyfriend for the day. Just wanted to look like she had something of her own."
His hips rolled forward, slow and steady. The thick shaft pulsed between the soft weight of Harry's D-cup breasts.
"I told her I'd go. But only if she earned it."
He leaned forward slightly, voice tightening.
"She got on her knees the night before. Mouth wide open, begging like a bitch. Took it all down and then spread her legs. Fucked her right there."
Harry moaned softly, the vibrations traveling up through his chest.
"Everyone saw me at the wedding, standing there like her proud little prize," Vernon muttered, thrusting between Harry's squeezed tits. "What they didn't know was she'd already been fucked. Pegged and used the night before like the desperate little thing she was."
He gave a slow, rolling thrust, his cock slick and flushed between the soft mounds.
"The wedding was just for show. A formality. Nothing left to claim by then. I already owned her."
Vernon's laugh was breathless and cruel.
"Your aunt was always insecure. Bitch used to beg for it. Pathetic little thing. And even then, she was a weak fuck. Couldn't take it deep. Always crying afterwards."
He thrust harder now, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing with each movement. His cock slid through Harry's tight grip, spit-slick and twitching, pushing between soft, flushed skin.
"Look at you," he growled. "Already better than her, and you're not even trying."
Harry's lips brushed the head as it slid between his tits. He licked it each time it passed, eyes glazed but locked on Vernon's face.
"You're different. You were born to be used. Just like your mother should've been."
Harry didn't flinch.
Vernon looked down at him, voice lowering.
"You think I didn't want to fuck that bitch the moment I saw her? Red hair, tight little body, nose in the air like she was too good for the likes of me." His voice thickened. "I would've bred her. Made her mine. Even with a ring on her finger, I'd have bent her over and filled her till she was leaking. And if she got pregnant? Good. I'd have fucked her arse through it anyway."
Harry's lips parted, breath ragged, but he didn't look away.
"You could've been mine," Vernon said, voice dark and hot. "Raised you like a proper man. Not some freak playing dress-up."
Harry stared straight at him, voice steady.
"Uncle."
Vernon froze.
"Say it again."
Harry didn't blink.
"Uncle."
A guttural sound tore from Vernon's chest. He grabbed the base of his cock and shoved it into Harry's mouth again, hard and deep. Harry opened wide, throat already sore but stretching for it. His lips sealed tight, tongue flat against the underside, eyes locked on Vernon's face, unblinking.
He gagged as the thick shaft pushed past his limit. Spit bubbled from his mouth, sliding down his chin. His throat convulsed, swallowing around the girth, muscles tightening as he tried to stay in control.
The pulse throbbed, insistent.
Vernon's hips rolled slowly, pressing deeper.
Harry held there, breath caught, face flushed red.
Then, with a sharp breath through his nose, he pulled himself back, his mouth slipping off with a wet pop, a long string of spit still connecting his lips to the slick, gleaming head.
His chest heaved.
He gasped for breath, chin soaked, eyes glazed.
Vernon stared down at him, panting. His cock twitched.
"Tease," he snarled.
Harry dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and smiled faintly.
"You didn't say please."
Vernon growled low in his throat, stepping forward again. He pressed the thick shaft down between Harry's breasts, slick with saliva, sliding it through the soft, trembling flesh. Harry cupped his tits tightly around it, pushing them together, the head peeking out with each thrust.
Wet sounds filled the air.
"You were made for this," Vernon spat, voice rough and full of heat. "Whatever has happened has turned you into a soft little hole. You think I don't see what you are now?"
Harry moaned, the vibrations traveling up his throat. His nipples brushed against each other, the friction almost too much. He flicked his tongue at the head whenever it pressed, lapping at the precum that gathered there.
"I'll stretch that cunt wide open," Vernon went on, breath quickening. "You be the second Evans whose virginity will be taken by me. Don't cry like your aunt, then."
The words hit deep.
Harry whimpered, squeezing his thighs together, slick already running down the soft inner skin. The heat between his legs throbbed with urgency. He was gasping for breath, the pressure unbearable, his chest heaving in broken rhythm.
He let his tits fall from his hands and shifted forward, turning over onto his hands and knees. The movement made his breasts sway beneath him, full and heavy, nipples flushed dark and painfully stiff. His spine dipped into a deep arch, arse lifting high. Between his parted thighs, his pussy was flushed and swollen, slick lips glistening and spread, drooling arousal down to his trembling knees.
He didn't speak.
He just looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide, lashes damp, mouth parted in breathless, silent invitation.
Vernon stepped forward, looming. His hands clamped around Harry's hips, rough and possessive, fingers digging into the soft curve with brutal finality. The head of his cock nudged the soaked entrance, thick and swollen, the ridge already smeared with spit and the shame-slick arousal dripping freely from Harry's cunt.
The heat between Harry's legs pulsed violently as the blunt pressure held steady, and Vernon let out a deep, guttural groan, savoring the feel of tight heat against his tip.
Then he shoved in.
Harry screamed.
His arms collapsed beneath him, face hitting the cushions as Vernon's cock split him open in a single savage thrust. The stretch was brutal, burning. His cunt clenched hard, muscles instinctively resisting the thick invasion, but they gave with painful pressure. The resistance snapped deep inside.
Something tore. A thin membrane, fragile and slick, ripped with a sudden wet give.
Blood smeared between them, red streaks painted across Vernon's shaft and Harry's thighs, mixing with slick.
Harry choked on a sob, the pain sharp and radiating, blooming like fire through his hips as his pussy struggled to accommodate the girth buried to the base inside him.
"F... fuck!" he gasped, voice hoarse and cracking. "That hurt. Fuck."
Vernon didn't stop.
He ground forward harder, hips pressing down, forcing the last inch in with a loud, wet squelch. Harry's back arched on reflex, his thighs shaking, legs spread wide and quivering beneath the weight.
"Uncle, fuck," he sobbed, spit sliding from the corner of his lips. "Too big. I can't take it. You're tearing me apart."
His cunt clamped down helplessly, fluttering around the fat cock stretching him beyond his limit. Pain and fullness bled together into a dizzying haze, his body overwhelmed. His hands clawed at the cushions, fingers curling in blind surrender.
"So full," he whimpered. Tears streamed silently from his lashes, dotting the couch. "It won't fit. It's too fat…"
Vernon loomed behind him, panting. His palm slid up the back of Harry's trembling thigh, then grabbed tight at his waist. The other hand lifted slowly, held high for a second.
The first slap cracked across Harry's arse.
He jerked forward with a yelp, his body stumbling into the couch. His arms caught the cushions again, elbows bent, shoulders trembling. The sting bloomed fast, sharp, and hot across his skin.
Then another. Harder.
His thighs twitched violently. He bit back a noise, lips trembling against the upholstery.
Vernon leaned down, his breath thick against Harry's neck.
"You think I didn't notice?" he growled. "Strutting around in those tight little shorts, tits bouncing under that pathetic shirt?"
His hand rose again.
The third slap echoed harshly across the room, louder than the last.
"You wanted this, didn't you?"
"Yes," Harry gasped, voice raw. "I wanted it. I want you to fuck me. No more teasing. Just give it to me right."
Vernon grabbed his hips with both hands, dragging him backward until Harry's arse was flush against his thighs. The base of his cock pressed firm against Harry's slick, aching entrance.
"You're gonna take it," he growled. "And you're gonna thank me for every inch."
The thick head rubbed through Harry's soaked folds, gliding easily through the mess of spit, slick, and blood. He aligned himself again, angled for the tightest spot, and pushed forward.
Harry was shaking, fingers curled tight into the couch, toes digging into the floor.
Then Vernon thrust in again.
Harry screamed, louder this time.
His arms buckled once more, chest collapsing into the cushions as his pussy was forced open by the thick shaft. Pain flared raw and immediate. The stretch was relentless, the cock hot and wide, grinding deep inside until Harry's hips shook violently under the pressure.
His hole clenched in protest, but the cock kept driving in, thicker and deeper with every inch.
"F-fuck," Harry choked out, his voice catching on another sob. "It's too much."
Vernon locked his grip on Harry's hips, not letting him move. His cock throbbed inside, surrounded by tight, quivering heat.
"You asked for a proper fuck," Vernon growled, starting to pull back. "So don't cry when you get it."
He slammed forward again. The full length of his cock punched into Harry's soaked cunt, the base slapping wetly against his swollen lips. The impact rocked Harry's entire body, forcing a cry from his throat as he jolted forward, fingers clawing for purchase on the couch.
His breasts swung wildly beneath him, heavy and flushed, dragging back and forth with every bounce. His nipples, stiff and dark, scraped against the fabric with each motion, leaving faint wet spots where they brushed.
"Listen to that," Vernon muttered. "Dripping like a bitch in heat. You were built for this."
Harry moaned, voice raw. "Please. Don't stop. Use me. I can take it."
The rhythm turned savage.
Vernon fucked him hard now, each brutal thrust driving deep, hips slapping against the curve of Harry's arse. The weight of his balls smacked loudly against Harry's pussy, adding another layer to the noise — sharp, wet, rhythmic. Every inch of the thick shaft pounded inside with punishing force, stretching Harry's cunt wide and deeper with each stroke.
"You like being my toy?" Vernon spat. "My little cumdump on the living room floor?"
"Yes. I like it. I like it," Harry sobbed. Each word came broken and breathless, interrupted by the next deep thrust. "I like being fucked like this. I want you to ruin me."
Vernon leaned forward, his sweaty gut pressing heavily into Harry's back. One hand slid around his neck, thick fingers wrapping tightly under his chin and jaw, pulling his head up. The other hand gripped Harry's hip so hard his skin dented under the pressure, dragging him backward into every brutal stroke.
"You're not her son," Vernon hissed against his ear. "Not anymore. You're mine now. My hole. My mess. My fucktoy."
Harry whimpered. The shame sat molten in his gut, twisting and curling deeper with each word.
His cunt clenched hard, spasming around the cock slamming into it. Slick gushed down the backs of his thighs, a hot mess pouring from his stretched pussy and soaking the carpet below. His arms trembled. He couldn't hold himself up anymore. His chest sagged fully onto the couch, heavy tits flattening under him, cheek pressed into the cushion, lips parted, drooling spit onto the fabric.
"You like it deep?" Vernon growled. "You want to feel it in your guts?"
"Please," Harry moaned. His eyes rolled back, lashes damp. "God, yes. All the way. Just keep going. Don't stop."
Vernon let out a deep, animal sound. His thrusts turned frenzied, hips snapping harder, faster. The room filled with the wet, filthy sound of skin pounding against skin. Harry's cunt squelched with every deep stroke, loud and obscene, leaking fluid around the thick cock hammering inside him.
Then Vernon slammed forward and held.
Harry felt it.
Thick pulses.
The cock inside him throbbed violently, then burst.
Hot cum flooded his pussy in deep, forceful spurts. Vernon groaned low, grinding deeper, pushing hard against the back of Harry's hole as he emptied himself inside. Harry sobbed at the heat, at the sensation of being filled. His cunt fluttered helplessly around the cock, milking it, swallowing every last drop.
His thighs shook. His legs gave out. His whole body quivered as cum overflowed, slick dripping down between his cheeks and onto the floor in slow, creamy rivulets.
He was full. Stuffed. Used. Devastated.
"Fucking perfect," Vernon breathed, still inside him.
Then he pulled out.
The sound was wet and obscene. His cock slipped free with a squelch, followed by a thick stream of cum drooling from Harry's stretched, reddened hole. It ran in slow, messy drips, coating his thighs and spilling down onto the soaked carpet.
Harry didn't move.
He stayed collapsed on the floor, chest heaving, arms limp, legs spread open. His pussy gaped wide, the inner lips stretched raw and flushed. The slow, steady drip of semen slid from his cunt in sticky trails, shining in the low light before vanishing into the carpet.
Vernon stepped back, breathing heavily. His cock hung slick and half-hard, twitching, streaked with blood and cum. A string of white clung to the head and dropped to the floor.
Harry didn't move.
He lay ruined. Breasts flattened beneath him, face turned into the cushion, mouth open. His thighs remained spread. His pussy stayed open, leaking cum in long, glistening strands.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths. Each exhale scraped through his sore throat. His entire body twitched with aftershocks, legs weak, muscles spasming from the emptiness inside him.
"Turn around," Vernon said. His voice was low and rough, closer to a growl than a command.
Harry obeyed.
His arms shook as he pushed himself up and rolled onto his back. His breasts shifted with the movement, heavy and swollen, smeared with sweat and cooling streaks of cum. His nipples stood hard and flushed, painfully sensitive from friction and neglect. His legs opened again without hesitation, thighs slack and parted.
The mess between his legs continued to leak. Thick cum clung to his inner lips and slid slowly down the curve of his arse. His pussy was still stretched open, raw and wet, glistening as the mixture of slick and semen drooled onto the stained carpet.
Vernon stepped over him, casting a wide shadow across his chest. His breathing was heavy. His cock was already thickening again, flushed and angry, twitching with each hard throb. A bead of fluid welled at the tip, slipping down the shaft where slick still clung in a film of sweat and leftover heat.
Harry tilted his head back. His lips parted slowly. His tongue peeked out, wetting them, eyes fixed on Vernon with quiet hunger.
"Make me dirty," he whispered. "Please."
Vernon grunted.
He wrapped a fist around his cock and stroked once, then again. His grip was tight, dragging fluid from the head, making the thick shaft glisten. He growled as the tension snapped.
With a deep groan, he came.
The first hot spurt struck Harry's cheek. The second hit the corner of his open mouth. The third landed across his throat, thick and heavy, then spilled down between his collarbones. More followed. Ropes of cum painted his chest, streaked over the tops of his breasts, and gathered in the valley between them.
Harry moaned quietly, shivering.
He raised both hands and began to smear the mess across his skin. His palms moved in slow circles. He rubbed the cum over each breast, dragging it over the soft curves, circling his nipples with slick fingertips. The pressure made him shudder.
He lifted one hand to his lips and sucked his fingers clean. His tongue curled between them, slow and deliberate, licking every drop.
"Tastes like home," he whispered. His voice was hoarse, broken by exhaustion and something deeper.
Vernon stared down at him, breathing hard.
"You're truly a freak," he muttered.
Harry looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His lips were glossy. His chin was wet. His voice stayed quiet.
"You made me a freak."
He returned his hands to his chest, spreading the mess further. He dragged it up his throat, across his collarbones, over his chest and shoulders. It clung to his skin in thick, gleaming streaks. His fingertips traced wet paths over his body, and more cum pooled under his back where it had run off his ribs.
The carpet beneath his arse stuck to his skin. His thighs shifted against it. His pussy continued to twitch, still leaking. The steady drip slid down the creases of his legs, soaking into the fibers below.
Vernon stepped back slightly, a sneer still curling on his face. He didn't speak again.
But he didn't look away.
Harry lay there, stretched out. His chest gleamed with cum, his face marked with sweat and spit. His thighs glistened, sticky with fresh mess. His pussy was red and open, still twitching, stretched wide from use. His breath was shallow. His limbs hung limp at his sides.
He looked ruined.
But his eyes still sparkled. Glazed and bright, but alert. Something sharp burned there, something feral and willing.
And Vernon wasn't finished.
He stepped forward again. His cock was swelling back to full, thicker and darker now, hanging heavy between his legs. The shaft was flushed deep red, veins raised under the slick sheen still coating his skin. His hand flexed at his side, the muscles in his forearm twitching. His eyes stayed locked on Harry's ruined body, gaze darker than before, hungrier.
"On your stomach," he said, voice flat, scraped raw from exertion.
Harry didn't answer. He shifted slowly, dragging his body over the damp carpet. The sticky mess clung to his skin. He turned over and lay flat, chest pressing down against the floor, tits spreading wide beneath him. His arms stretched forward above his head, face resting sideways. His breath came ragged, flushed cheeks sticking to the fibers.
Then he raised his hips. His arse lifted high. His legs parted automatically, knees wide. The position made him open and vulnerable, cunt still twitching. His hole remained stretched, lips puffy and slick, drooling Vernon's earlier load in thick, white strands that ran down his thighs.
Vernon dropped to his knees behind him. His hands returned to Harry's waist, gripping with force, fingers sinking into the soft flesh at his sides.
Harry rolled his eyes, voice dry and hoarse.
"You're getting fucking sloppy. Moaning about how tight I am, but your rhythm's all over the place. Weak."
Vernon snarled behind him. His hand left Harry's hip and came down in a loud, cracking slap against his bare arse.
Harry jerked forward, breath knocked out of him.
"Ungh—"
A red mark bloomed instantly across one cheek. Before he could recover, the second slap landed, harder. The sharp sting raced through his skin and down his thighs.
Vernon gripped him tighter.
"Keep talking," he growled.
His hips snapped forward. His thick cock speared Harry in one brutal thrust, burying to the base. Harry gasped, the stretch sudden and jarring. His slick walls clenched instinctively around the fat shaft, still sore and swollen from before.
Each thrust landed deeper, the cock punching against his cervix with every motion. The ache was sharp, but Harry pushed back into it, matching the force with a twisted hunger.
"I'll show you rhythm, you filthy little whore," Vernon snarled. "Even when you're screaming, your mouth's still begging for cock."
Harry moaned. The words struck somewhere deep, lighting a wild fire in his gut. He shoved his hips back again, grinding his slick cunt against Vernon's pelvis, forcing the cock deeper.
"Begging?" His voice cracked, thick with breathless heat. "You blew your load in two sad little spurts earlier. That was your big, bragged-about fuck? What a joke."
Vernon's grip turned vicious. His fingers dug deep, bruising the flesh as his thrusts turned punishing. Each stroke forced a filthy squelch from Harry's overstretched hole, the slick churned and shoved out with every movement.
"I could fuck you raw, leave you bleeding, and you'd still run that foul mouth," he hissed, his breath hot against Harry's shoulder.
Harry let out a breathless laugh. "Then do it already, you limp bastard."
Vernon didn't speak. He answered with another slap. This one cracked across the opposite cheek, loud and brutal. The sting was instant, sharp pain blooming hot and raw.
Then he thrust again, hard enough to knock Harry's chest forward into the floor. His arms shook from the impact, elbows straining.
The rhythm turned savage.
Every brutal shove sent Harry's knees dragging across the carpet. His hips were slammed forward, then yanked back. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. The wet smacks from his soaked cunt echoed louder with each violent thrust.
"You're just a twisted, cum-drunk hole," Vernon growled. "Grinning with my load all over your face like it's something to be proud of."
Harry's moan broke from his throat, deep and ragged. His pussy clamped down, spasming around the cock battering inside him. "Better than Petunia," he gasped. "At least I make you work for it."
He panted, voice rising. "She just lies there and moans like a dying cat and cries afterwards. Your whole disaster of a family is pathetic."
He laughed again, short and sharp. "And Dudley? That fat little pig's been jerking off in my old underwear like it's sacred. Today, he came in his fucking shorts just from rubbing over the fabric. Then ran off crying like a spanked brat."
Harry's voice dropped, venomous. "Poor Petunia. Stuck with your useless dick. I bet it doesn't even twitch for her sagging tits or that flat, sorry excuse of an arse."
Vernon let out a roar, wild and guttural. He bent over Harry, sweat slicking their bodies together. His chest crushed down against Harry's back as he drove into him with brutal, unhinged force. Every thrust landed fast, wet, and punishing. The carpet underneath them squelched from the soaked mess.
Harry's pussy clamped hard again, tighter now. The fluttering in his gut surged. He screamed, voice tearing from his throat.
His back arched as his body spasmed.
He came hard, violently, a hot gush of fluid squirting out from around the cock, still slamming into him. It sprayed across Vernon's thighs, soaking them, splattering onto the carpet already ruined beneath them. His legs kicked once, then buckled.
"Fucking freak," Vernon growled.
With one final thrust, he buried himself deep and came. His hips jerked, cock pulsing hard as he poured thick, hot cum inside Harry's cunt. The mess overflowed quickly, leaking around the base, spilling out in wet rivulets that streamed down Harry's trembling thighs.
Harry collapsed fully. His arms gave out beneath him. His cheek pressed into the soaked floor, one eye half-shut, a smug smile twitching on his cum-marked lips.
He let out a long, uneven breath.
"Took you long enough, you bastard."
…
25 minutes earlier
Dudley hadn't planned to stop. He told himself he was heading to the kitchen. He wasn't sneaking. He wasn't trying to hear anything.
But the sound made him freeze.
A wet, dragging choke.
Then a groan. Low. Deep. Masculine.
He hesitated by the living room door, then edged closer. It wasn't shut all the way. Just cracked. The hallway light spilled in a thin sliver over the carpet. And the noise came again.
A muffled gag. Then a wet cough. Then a voice he knew too well.
Vernon.
"Nice and deep. Take all of it, you dirty little freak."
Dudley's heart pounded.
He moved closer, careful not to breathe too loudly. His fingers curled around the edge of the door as he leaned in, peering through the narrow opening.
What he saw made his stomach twist and his cock twitch.
Harry was on his knees.
His back arched slightly, tits hanging full and heavy, glistening with sweat. Red hair clung to his damp temples. His lips were stretched wide around his dad's cock, which looked massive up close thick, flushed, and soaked with spit. Vernon stood over him, one hand tangled tight in Harry's hair, the other gripping the back of his head, holding him down hard.
Harry gagged again, throat flexing. Spit spilled from the corners of his lips, coating his chin and dripping onto his chest.
Dudley's mouth went dry.
He couldn't move.
Harry's eyes were watery, lashes clumped with moisture, but he didn't pull away. He let himself be used, throat bulging as Vernon thrust deeper. His hands clutched Vernon's thighs, not in protest, but for balance.
"She got on her knees the night before. Mouth wide open, begging like a bitch. Took it all down and then spread her legs. Fucked her right there."
Harry let out a thick moan around the cock stuffed in his mouth, the vibration rippling up Vernon's length.
The sound made Dudley's knees buckle.
His hand moved to his zipper, fingers trembling.
He tugged it down slowly and reached into his boxers. His cock was hard, twitching in his grip, already wet at the tip. But when his fingers curled around it, he couldn't stop the bitter stab of comparison. Smaller. Weaker. Nothing like the thick slab Harry was choking on.
Still, he stroked himself.
Then a memory hit him.
That morning. His mother's moans. Faint but real. Coming from the kitchen.
He hadn't believed it at first. Thought she was hurt.
But when he peeked, Harry had her bent over the counter. Smacking her arse and making her count. Her face flushed and lips parted, whining with every slap.
His cock twitched harder in his fist.
He gripped tighter and kept stroking.
And he didn't stop watching.
His eyes never left the scene.
Vernon pulled out. Harry gasped, spit stringing from his lips to the flushed head. His lips were swollen, his chin dripping, his face flushed red. But he smiled.
"Uncle."
Dudley's heart lurched.
He imagined himself in Vernon's place. Harry was on his knees, looking up at him with that same ruined, needy face. That same smirk. Telling him he wasn't good enough. He'd show him.
"Call me daddy," Dudley whispered under his breath, hand moving faster.
Inside, Vernon had already forced Harry onto all fours. His cock, still wet with spit, hovered behind Harry's arse. The air grew heavier with each wet slap of skin.
Dudley matched his strokes with the thrusts he saw. Each snap of Vernon's hips echoed down Dudley's spine. But in his head, it wasn't Vernon anymore.
It was him.
He saw himself behind Harry, slapping that arse red, shoving his cock in deep. He pictured Harry gasping beneath him, legs spread, tits swaying, crying out—
"Please, daddy. Don't stop. Use me."
His breathing hitched. His hand tightened. The fantasy burned bright, raw, and vivid. He imagined slapping Harry's cheek, gripping his hair, and hearing him choke and moan all at once.
Inside, Harry's voice rang out again.
"You blew your load in two pathetic spurts earlier. That's your big, bragged-about fuck?"
Vernon snarled and slammed forward harder. The couch creaked beneath them. The impact sounded punishing.
Dudley groaned quietly, biting his sleeve.
He pictured Harry saying it to him. That same look. That same sharp tongue. He'd shut him up. Make him choke on it. Make him beg.
His balls tightened.
Dudley came with a stifled grunt, legs quivering. Hot ropes spilled into his palm, some splashing his shirt, some dripping over his knuckles. His head dropped forward against the doorframe. He barely managed to muffle the noise into his arm.
Just then, the doorknob turned.
The door creaked open.
Dudley froze. Wide-eyed. Cock still out. Cum still leaking over his hand.
Vernon stood there, panting. His pants were gone, thighs glistening with sweat. His cock hung half-hard and wet between his thighs, still streaked with spit and cum.
His eyes locked on Dudley.
There was a pause. A silence so sharp it almost screamed.
Then Vernon looked him over. The flushed face. The soaked hand. The twitch in Dudley's softening cock. The sticky sheen on his shirt.
Vernon didn't say a word.
But the way his face turned purple said everything.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Vernon's voice was low, but furious. Controlled only because the neighbors might hear.
Dudley stammered. His hand pulled away, sticky and trembling. He tried to zip up, but fumbled.
"I… I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me," Vernon snapped, stepping closer. "You were jerking off right outside the fucking door? Watching me fuck him?"
He glanced back into the room, then looked at Dudley again, voice tight with disgust. "You filthy little perv."
For the first time in his life, Vernon's anger wasn't the casual, lazy cruelty he tossed around like scraps. This was real. Hot. Furious. His hand balled into a fist at his side.
Footsteps clacked down the stairs.
Petunia.
She came down slowly in her dressing gown, the hem brushing her bare ankles, her mouth drawn into a tight line. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene below. First, Vernon, standing bare-chested with sweat slick across his stomach. Then the living room door was ajar behind him. And finally, Dudley, who stood frozen, hand slick and glistening, trousers halfway down his thighs. His cheeks were blotched red, and his eyes wouldn't meet hers.
Her jaw locked.
"You disgusting bastard," she said quietly, every syllable clipped and flat. Her voice had no edge to it. It was too cold for that.
Vernon spun around, his chest rising and falling fast. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me," she said, stepping closer. Her steps were measured, deliberate. Her slim frame didn't lend her power, but the disgust in her eyes made Vernon take a step back regardless. "You let that old coot send that freak back here. And now our son is standing here, hand full of cum, rutting like some filthy animal."
"I didn't tell him to—"
"You didn't stop it," she snapped. "I told you not to let your cock do the thinking. But you couldn't help yourself, could you? And now this is what we have. The boy, humping his thing in the hallway, and you standing there like you don't know how it happened."
From inside the living room, the couch gave a muffled squeak.
Petunia's head turned.
Her face changed in an instant. The pallor in her cheeks deepened. Her mouth twitched as if she'd tasted bile. She moved past Vernon and stepped into the threshold, eyes narrowing.
Harry lay sprawled across the couch cushions, legs wide apart, one bent up over the armrest. His inner thighs glistened with slick folds flushed and visibly wet, his cunt still twitching from recent use. The curve of his lower belly shone faintly under the soft yellow lamp light, streaked with fresh cum that dripped slowly down his slit and onto the couch beneath him.
He met her eyes, gaze bold, half-lidded and cruel.
Then, still holding her stare, Harry slid his fingers through the thick mess pooling at his entrance, gathering the white strands on his knuckles. The slow motion left wet sounds hanging in the air. He raised his hand, let the cum catch the light, thick and dripping between two fingers.
Then he pointed.
Not at her.
At the open window behind her.
The curtains had been pulled all the way back. The glass shone, clear and wide. Any neighbor, any passerby, anyone on the street could have looked inside.
Petunia's breath came out in a sharp hiss. Her fingers clenched at her sides, knuckles pale.
She turned her head to Vernon with pure revulsion on her face.
"You are not coming back into this house while he is here," she said, each word like a blade. "Not once. If I see you here again, I will have the locks changed by morning. The divorce papers will be printed by noon."
Vernon's jaw opened slightly. No words came out.
"Go," she said, barely louder than a whisper. "Go wash off. Go jerk off into the sink like the brute you are. But you don't touch me. And you don't even look at him again."
His eyes darted to her, then flicked toward Dudley. The boy hadn't moved. His shirt hung loose, and his half-erect cock twitched slightly as he stood in frozen humiliation, eyes cast downward, unable to speak.
Vernon stared at them both for a moment, something trembling behind his eyes.
Then he turned away. Each step was heavy. The hallway seemed to shrink around him as he reached the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound strangely final.
Petunia didn't look at Dudley at all. She turned on her heel and went back upstairs, feet silent against the steps.
From the living room, a laugh peeled out. Low and slow at first, then rising, sharp and unkind. Harry's voice rang out just enough to reach them both.
Then, with a sudden groan of springs and wood, the couch rocked again beneath him.
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Chapters 4 and 5 are already live on P*treon. This fanfic started as a one-shot, but the plot got deeper and deeper. The Privet Drive arc is now complete. Harry is now at Grimmauld Place, surrounded by the madness of the Black family. The library is full of forbidden books, twisted spells, and sex magic meant for those who were never meant to be sane. Plus, a troubled hero near many women (Tonks, Hermione and Ginny) who would help him take care of his needs.
Should Harry unlock latent Metamorphmagus abilities, discover a spell in the Black Library, or perform a ritual to restore his cock?
Thank you for reading. If this ruined your underwear in the best way… you're welcome.
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