Summary: Harry woke in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, transformed into a young, curvy girl with D-cup breasts and a plump arse. With no explanation, the Order sent him back to Privet Drive for "protection. "But the magical world had forgotten a truth once known: Avada Kedavra was a mercy. There are fates far worse than death, and Harry Potter, who survived that mercy, is about to find out.
Chapter 2: How Human Starved of Control Retaliate
Sunlight crept through the warped blinds in narrow, golden slats, spilling across the cracked floorboards of the smallest bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive. The warmth in the room was stale and thick, saturated with the scent of dried sweat, breath, and something far more intimate. The air had not moved all night, but it didn't need to. It carried everything he had done to himself.
Harry stirred.
His body felt heavy. Not the weight of sleep, but of use. His arms ached where they had twisted into the sheets, clenched through wave after wave of release. His thighs trembled when he moved. Between his legs, the soreness pulsed steadily. His pussy throbbed with the memory of how he had touched himself, how he had moaned and begged into the pillow until his body collapsed. The lips were swollen, sticky with the remnants of slick that had dried against his thighs and the fabric beneath him.
He shifted slowly. The cotton dragged against his skin, pulling a shiver out of him. A soft, high moan escaped without warning. His nipples brushed the pillow, oversensitive and raw. They still ached from the attention he had given them, from the way his fingers had rolled and squeezed until his chest clenched around the pressure.
The sheets were a mess.
The mattress was damp beneath him, soaked through with the evidence of the night. The air smelled of sweat and sex and desperation. His thighs were still coated with drying release, smeared where his hips had rocked against the bed. He brought one hand to his stomach, feeling the slight, steady rhythm of his breath.
There was no shame.
He remembered every second. The feel of his fingers pushing deep. The heat of his palm grinding against his clit. The way the mattress gave under him. The sound of his breath breaking. The whisper of names, the pleading, the promise that he would take more.
He was still soaked in it.
A hard knock hit the door.
"Get up, you disgusting little waste!" Petunia's voice rang out sharp and angry through the hall. "You think just because you've grown a pair of tits, you get to lie around like some pampered slut? You still live in this house, and you still do chores. Girl or boy, I don't care. You don't get to sleep in every day like you're somebody."
Harry didn't flinch.
He rolled onto his back, his legs parting slightly. The soreness returned in full, throbbing between his thighs, sharp and hot. The scent of his arousal lingered, rising off his skin, clinging to the sheets, crawling into his lungs. It was everywhere.
He reached for the towel draped at the foot of the bed. Unfolding it carefully, he stepped off the mattress. His bare feet met the floor with a soft, sticky sound. Every movement made the soreness flare, and he welcomed it.
He walked to the door, wrapping the towel loosely around his waist. He didn't bother tightening it.
He unlocked the door slowly and opened it.
Petunia stood right outside, face already twisted in disgust.
"You locked the door? How dare you lock the door from the inside?"
Harry looked at her calmly, his voice flat and dry.
"I'm a girl now."
Her mouth opened, eyes flashing, caught between denial and fury.
"My Dudders would never—never think of something so filthy. He's not like that. Don't you dare start hiding behind your filth and blaming my boy."
Harry said nothing. He only looked at her.
Petunia's lip curled.
"You're still a freak, no matter what you look like now. And you'll still scrub the floors before the day's done."
She turned, stomping down the hallway, muttering louder as she went.
"Thinks he's special. Useless little tramp. Just like her."
Harry watched her disappear around the corner.
Then, without a word, he stepped into the hall and walked to the bathroom.
He didn't look back.
The bathroom stood just across the landing.
He stepped into the hallway, a towel hanging loosely around his waist. The air against his bare skin made him shiver slightly. His breasts shifted with every step, brushing the towel, the weight pulling at his shoulders in a way that still felt wrong. Or maybe not wrong. Just new.
The door opened with a creak. He stepped inside and locked it behind him. The latch clicked quietly, offering no real comfort, but it was something.
The same bathroom as always. Pale green tile. White walls. Toothpaste-streaked sink. The light buzzed faintly above the mirror. The bathtub crouched along the back wall, showerhead curled above it like a metal snake.
He turned and sat on the toilet.
The towel slipped open, bunching around his hips. The porcelain was cold. His thighs parted as he tried to relax. His body still felt tight, unfamiliar, swollen in all the wrong places.
Then, just as he started to relieve himself, a soft, unexpected noise escaped from between his legs.
A fluttering puff of air.
He froze.
His face heated instantly. He looked around like someone might have heard.
It hadn't come from his backside. It had come from inside.
A fart.
The air must have been trapped from last night. He hadn't even known that was possible until it happened. The sound was strange, almost comical, and his cheeks flushed hotter as the echo faded into silence.
Was he the first wizard in history to sit on a toilet and accidentally fart with his pussy?
He let out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh.
No. He was almost certain he wasn't.
There had to have been others. All the bizarre magical accidents, all the transformation curses, the mishandled potions, the gender-swapping mishaps. Surely some poor bastard had ended up like this before. Probably more than a few.
Hell, maybe this was the true explanation for the inherited madness of the wizarding world. All those families twisted up with trauma and pride, and not one of them willing to talk about the time they farted with their cunt while trying to learn to pee sitting down.
He wiped carefully. Too carefully. The skin down there was still too soft, too sensitive, too swollen from how much he had touched it. He winced and did his best to finish up without making it worse.
When he stood and flushed, he kept his head down.
He turned to the sink, rinsed his hands, then splashed his face. The cold helped. A little.
He found his toothbrush still jammed in the cracked mug on the counter, right where he used to leave it. A fine layer of dust clung to the handle. He rinsed it under the tap, smeared on a bit of toothpaste, and started brushing. His jaw ached, and his hand trembled slightly by the time he finished. He spat, rinsed, and leaned forward with both palms on the sink, still refusing to look up at the mirror.
He shut off the tap and turned to the tub.
The knobs were old and stiff. He twisted them open, listened to the pipes rattle and groan. Water sprayed from the wall-mounted head in a thin arc, warming slowly. He tested it with his hand, then stepped under.
The cold hit first. His breath sucked in sharply. His nipples tightened at once, painfully erect. His skin jumped, but he didn't move. He let the water flow down his body. Over his shoulders, his breasts, his ribs, his belly. Down to his thighs and the hot, still-aching cleft between his legs.
He parted his thighs and let the stream wash over it. Slick from last night rinsed away in cloudy trails. The pressure stung where his folds were still sore. He pressed his palm to the wall and braced himself.
The soap bottle was nearly empty. He poured too much into his hand anyway. It slipped between his fingers as he tried to lather. He rubbed his arms, his tits, wincing when his nipples caught under his palms. He didn't know how much pressure was too much. Everything responded too quickly.
Washing between his legs took effort. He moved slowly, unsure. The skin there didn't feel like his. It twitched under his touch. He cleaned what he could and rinsed fast. The heat there lingered, rising with every pass of his fingers.
When the water shut off, he stood in silence, the sound of dripping and draining filling the space.
He stepped out, dripping. The towel went back around his waist.
He dried quickly. The cotton dragged over his tits and thighs and left a warm sting behind. The soreness pulsed back to life.
He caught sight of the mirror, still fogged. His silhouette stared back at him. Curves where there shouldn't be. Gaps where something used to be. He didn't wipe it clear.
He stood for a long moment. His hand rested on the sink.
"My Duddykins would never," he muttered in a false prim tone, mimicking Petunia's voice with deadpan disdain.
He shook his head.
They had always called him the freak.
Maybe he hadn't been the freak at all. Maybe it had always been them. The Dursleys. With their forced smiles and fixed routines, they pretended not to see what was right in front of them. Pretending that silence meant safety. That if they ignored something long enough, it would go away. They called it normal, but it wasn't. It was the fear of not being normal. They hadn't needed magic to twist the world around them. They'd done it by being extremely normal.
Before he left this house, whenever that day came, he was going to make sure they felt it.
He didn't know how or what yet.
But they would be just as ruined as he was.
He unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.
The air was quiet. The house held its breath.
He walked back to his room without a sound.
This time, he pushed the chair beneath the doorknob. Just in case.
The door clicked shut behind him. The air inside felt even heavier now, thick with the clinging scent of sweat, breath, and something far more personal. It hadn't cleared. The sheets were still damp. The mattress sagged where he had writhed through the night, chasing something he hadn't dared name.
He didn't look at the bed.
Instead, he crossed the narrow room, stepping over a worn patch of carpet and past the edge of the mattress. He reached for the window, the one that overlooked the back garden, and shoved it open with both hands. The frame groaned, but the breeze slipped through, soft and cool against his bare skin.
The room exhaled. So did he.
He crossed the room slowly, stepping over the soft indent in the carpet near the bed, and crouched beside the low chest of drawers against the wall. He pulled open the top drawer.
The clothes inside were exactly as he'd left them in June. Folded shirts. Worn jeans. Familiar things meant for a body that no longer existed. These were made for a boy with narrow shoulders, a flat chest, and hips that didn't curve or catch. Looking at them now felt like looking at someone else's life.
Still, he reached for the grey T-shirt he used to wear on hot days. The collar was stretched, the fabric thinned at the seams, and there was a small tear near the hem. He slipped it over his head.
It caught halfway down.
The cotton stretched tight across his chest. His breasts shifted under the fabric, nipples dragging against the inside with a friction that sent a quick shiver through him. He tugged it into place. It clung awkwardly to his new shape, leaving a narrow strip of bare skin above his navel.
He didn't adjust it.
From the second drawer, he pulled out a pair of faded jeans. He stepped into them and began to pull.
They resisted immediately.
The denim strained at his thighs. The waistband bit into the curve of his hips. He wriggled, adjusting, pulling slowly until the button just barely met its hole. The zipper came up with effort, pressing sharply into the sore, sensitive flesh between his legs.
He stood still and shifted his weight.
The seam settled directly against his pussy, tight and unrelenting. He took a step. The fabric dragged across swollen skin, rough and unforgiving. A jolt climbed up his spine. His breath caught.
He took another.
It was worse this time. Pressure, heat, a flicker of something that hadn't left him since last night. It felt like he was still caught in it, still being touched, even now.
He pressed one hand to the top of the dresser, bracing himself.
The jeans rubbed again.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hard.
His eyes flicked toward the mirror above the desk near the window, still fogged faintly from the warm air. He didn't look directly. Not yet. He wasn't ready to see what he looked like in these clothes. Not after everything.
His stomach gave a low, curling growl.
This ache was different. Not between his legs this time. Lower. Deeper. Hunger. His body had burned through everything during the night. Now it wanted something solid. Something ordinary.
He raked his fingers through his damp hair, pushed it off his forehead, and opened the bedroom door.
The hallway was still.
He padded across the landing and started down the stairs, hand brushing the rail. Each step made the denim shift against him. The seam pressed, rubbed, pulled. His thighs trembled.
He didn't stop.
The scent of toast drifted up from the kitchen below.
The tile floor was cool beneath his feet when he reached the bottom. The house was quiet, except for the faint sound of running water and the distant clinking of cutlery.
Harry licked his lips.
He turned toward the kitchen.
The day had begun.
And he was starving.
The floor creaked beneath his bare feet as Harry made his way down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the polished rail. Morning light filtered through the frosted glass beside the front door, soft and pale. The silence in the house felt brittle, stretched thin after everything that had happened the night before.
His clothes barely counted.
The old gray tank top clung damply to his skin, riding up along his ribs. It didn't cover much. His breasts shifted with every step, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide how his nipples pressed against it. The shorts — once Dudley's, years ago — hugged his thighs now, cut tight and high. The waistband sat low, and just above it, the soft red curls of his new body peeked into view.
He moved slowly. Not confidently, exactly. But with a purpose. Every rub of the fabric between his legs stirred something that hadn't gone away. Not since the night. Not since the door had stayed unlocked.
The smell of toast drifted from the back of the house.
He padded down the narrow hall. The linoleum in the kitchen glinted with reflected sunlight. The living room to his left sat still, the door slightly open. The stairs behind him creaked once more as he reached the threshold and pressed the kitchen door inward.
Petunia stood at the sink.
Her sleeves were rolled. Her hands moved over a plate in slow, careful circles. Water ran softly beside her. The light from the back window cut across the countertop and her wrist. She didn't hear him enter. Or maybe she did, and said nothing.
Harry stood in the doorway.
He leaned against the frame, one hip tilted. The hem of his tank rode high above his stomach. His breasts moved with every breath. He watched her for a few seconds in silence.
"Morning," he said. His voice was quiet.
She flinched.
The plate tilted. She caught it, but the sponge dropped into the water with a soft splash. Her spine stiffened. She didn't turn.
"Put on something decent," she said. "You look like a cheap girl off the street."
Harry pushed away from the frame and stepped into the kitchen. The tile felt cold beneath his feet.
"Look at me when you say that."
She didn't. Her hands moved blindly, reaching for another plate. Her fingers slipped on the ceramic.
He stopped near the table, close enough that his shadow stretched across the sink.
Still, she wouldn't look.
The air was thick between them.
"You said I was indecent," he said. "Called me a freak. Filth. And yet you never seem to stop looking."
Petunia's hands froze in the dishwasher.
He tilted his head. "Afraid I look too much like her now?"
Her breath hitched.
He saw her shoulders lift with it. She didn't answer.
Harry took one step closer. No shouting. Just the weight of silence behind his words.
"I asked you a question."
She turned her head, just barely.
Her eyes fell to his chest first, then lower. They stopped at the strip of exposed skin above the waistband. Her expression shifted.
"Do I look like your sister yet?" he asked.
Petunia paled. Then flushed. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Harry didn't smile. He didn't have to.
The kitchen felt unusually quiet, like it was holding something back. Water still trickled from the tap, catching the morning light in silvery threads. Petunia stood at the sink, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the soft blue apron tied tightly at her back. Her thin arms were pale and tensed as they hovered over the dishes. She hadn't turned around. She hadn't said a word.
Harry stepped forward.
His bare feet made almost no sound against the tile. His shadow stretched across the floor behind her. The air between them shifted. She felt it. He saw her shoulders flinch, just slightly.
"Why did you never talk about her?" he asked. "She was your sister."
Petunia's body stiffened. Her hands paused above the water. The plate she had been scrubbing slipped beneath the surface. She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the soapy basin.
Harry moved closer, slowly.
"You don't get to call me sick," he said, voice low. "You were her sister. Is this how sisters treat each other's children?"
He stepped beside her now, just far enough to see her profile.
Petunia's jaw was tight. Her lips were pale. Her eyes darted to the side, but not to his face. She was looking somewhere near his collarbone, carefully avoiding the rise of his chest or the bare line of skin above the waistband of his shorts.
"No," he said. "Not nephew."
Her breath caught.
He leaned a little closer.
"Niece."
That word made her recoil. Barely. Just a hitch in her spine. But he saw it.
"You looked through me when I was a boy. You made me invisible. Unwanted. Untouchable." His voice didn't rise. It darkened. "But you're looking now."
Petunia said nothing.
Harry reached up and touched her cheek.
She flinched sharply, but didn't move away. Her skin was cool where the air touched it, but warm beneath. She held still, rigid, breathing shallowly through her nose.
"I used to lie awake wondering what I had done wrong," he said. "Why the woman who shared my mother's blood couldn't even look me in the eyes."
He let his thumb trace slowly along her cheekbone.
"But I think it was never just hate."
Her chest rose. Fell. She didn't answer, but her eyes finally met his. There was something in them he hadn't seen before. Not just fear. Not just shame. Something worse.
Recognition.
"Do I look like her now?" he asked.
Her lips parted, breathless. Her gaze fell again. Back to his chest, then lower.
She shook her head, but it lacked conviction.
"That's enough," she whispered.
Harry did not move.
"Say it louder," he said. "Maybe if you speak it like you mean it, it'll stop being a lie."
Her mouth opened again, but nothing came out at first. She swallowed hard.
"I said that's enough," she repeated, barely stronger. Her voice trembled. Her arms hung by her sides now. Her hands dripped water onto the floor.
She didn't run.
She didn't scream.
Her eyes stayed on his lips.
He closed the gap between them and kissed her.
It wasn't soft. His mouth collided with hers, claiming her lips without hesitation. His tongue slipped inside. She gasped, body jerking, but her hands caught his forearms. Her grip was weak, unsure, but she held on. Her breath hitched through her nose. Her lips didn't close.
She kissed him back.
For a single moment.
When he pulled away, her lips were damp and open. Her eyes looked glassy. Lost. Her knees gave a small tremble beneath her skirt. She backed into the counter slightly, one hand reaching behind to steady herself.
Harry stepped behind her.
He didn't touch her yet. Not directly. His presence filled the space between them. She could feel it. Her fingers gripped the counter's edge. Her shoulders rose and fell.
Then he reached down and lifted the back of her skirt.
Her legs stiffened. She inhaled sharply.
"Stop," she said, voice small and breaking.
But she didn't move.
The soft cotton of her white panties clung between her thighs. A faint line traced where the fabric pressed up against her. Her hips twitched. Her breath came faster now.
He leaned in close to her ear.
"You should check your panties after this," he whispered. "See if they get wet from being spanked by your nephew."
She let out a sound. Not a word. Not a cry. Just breath, caught in her throat.
She didn't move.
He stood behind her, steady and silent, letting the words hang in the air like a fog she couldn't escape.
Petunia didn't speak either.
She was braced against the counter now, both hands gripping the edge, white-knuckled. Her skirt remained lifted, gathered loosely at her waist. The soft cotton of her panties clung to her. The curve of her hips trembled faintly under his gaze.
Harry raised his hand.
The first strike landed clean.
A sharp clap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet kitchen. Her whole body jolted forward. A choked cry slipped from her lips, strangled and soft. Her knees buckled, just slightly. Her fingers tightened on the counter.
Another.
His palm struck her again, harder this time. Her breath caught. Her back arched involuntarily, as if her body didn't know which way to flinch. The fabric of her underwear stretched tighter as her hips shifted. She tried to stay still, but her body betrayed her.
Harry leaned closer, his voice low.
"Count it."
She shook her head, eyes clenched shut. Her lips quivered.
He struck her again, louder this time.
"One," she gasped, barely audible.
The word scraped from her throat, as if it hurt more to say than to feel.
"Louder," he said.
Her jaw clenched.
"Two," she whispered, voice cracking.
Harry's eyes drifted downward. The fabric between her legs was damp now, slightly but unmistakably. It clung tighter than before. Her thighs trembled.
He ran his fingers over the same spot he had just struck, slow and deliberate. Her skin burned beneath his palm. She twitched, hips tightening again.
"This is what you deserve," he said, his voice calm. "For how you raised me. For everything you did and everything you let happen."
Another slap.
Her breath hitched into a sob.
"Three."
Her voice broke.
Harry stepped closer. His chest brushed her back. She was sweating now, barely holding herself upright, hands shaking as they clung to the countertop. Her cheek hovered just above the surface, breath fogging the laminate.
"I was a child," he said, his voice near her ear. "You locked me in a cupboard. Not for a day. Not for a punishment. For years."
Her shoulders flinched. She didn't speak.
"You cut my hair off and watched it grow back overnight. So you shaved it. Bald. And punished me for that too."
His hand slipped to the waistband of her panties. She didn't stop him. Her muscles were tight, her whole body humming with tension she couldn't release.
"You let Vernon scream at me. Beat the walls. Burn the letters. You told him I was dangerous because I made things happen. Things I couldn't control."
His fingers moved just barely, tracing the curve beneath the fabric.
"You watched Dudley hold my arms while his friends hit me. You let him chase me like a dog, every single day. And you said nothing."
Her breath came in broken bursts now, each one sharp and uneven.
"You knew what he was. You knew what you were."
He pulled his hand back and delivered one more sharp slap.
Her whole body jumped. Her knees buckled for real this time, her palms barely catching her weight. Her panties clung so tightly to her skin now that they looked wet in the creases.
Harry let his hand rest on her lower back.
"Look how red you are," he said softly. "And look how wet."
She whimpered.
Her hands trembled where they gripped the counter. Her skirt still lay bunched around her hips, her legs shaking beneath her.
Harry leaned closer.
"Go upstairs," he said. "Check your panties. See for yourself."
She stayed still.
For a moment, she didn't move. Then, with unsteady fingers, she reached behind and tugged her skirt down. She stood slowly, face flushed, mouth parted, breath ragged.
She didn't look at him.
She turned toward the hallway, skirt clutched in one hand, the other hovering like it had forgotten what to do.
Then she ran.
Bare feet slapped the stairs. One hand caught the banister, the other pulled at her clothes. She never looked back.
Harry remained where he was.
The kitchen was silent now, heavy with heat and sweat and the ghosts of old cruelties.
He walked to the sink. The water still ran. He turned the tap off and stood in the quiet.
Then he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers.
"Fair's fair," he murmured.
His voice was even. Cold.
And his smile was slow.
If Dumbledore could see him now, standing barefoot in the kitchen of Number Four with the taste of revenge still warm on his tongue, he might have been horrified. Not because the boy he had raised was gone, but because something else had taken root in his place. Something he had seen once before.
The charm of it was what would terrify him most.
Because this wasn't the rise of a monster who had no love in him.
It was the return of a boy who had once known it and no longer cared.
And in the shape of the smile Harry wore, Dumbledore might have glimpsed a shadow he had once loved and failed to kill.
…
The upstairs hallway fell silent.
Petunia's footsteps faded one by one, followed by the sharp slam of her bedroom door — not in anger, but in escape. Then nothing. No creak of the floorboards. No hiss of breath. Just stillness. As if she had locked herself away to forget the touch of her nephew's fingers and the sound of her own breath as she moaned against the kitchen counter.
Harry did not chase her.
He stood by the sink with his back to the hallway, one hand resting on the cool rim of a glass, the other brushing damp strands of hair from his face. The water had stopped running. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the edge of the dish rack and casting fractured gleams across the tiles.
He let out a long, slow breath.
His body still hummed with warmth. Not just from arousal, but from something older. Something deeper. Control. He had twisted Petunia's shame into something she couldn't bury. He had cracked the quiet sanctum of her pride. Not shattered it, not yet. But the fracture lines were there, spreading.
He picked up the sponge.
It squelched in his grip, still warm from the water she had left behind. He circled it over the rim of the glass, slow and even. The motion calmed him. The silence of the house pressed around him like velvet, thick and soundless. Only the faint hum of the television came from the front of the house. A low stream of voices, punctuated by canned laughter. Hollow. Unwatched.
His tank top clung to his skin, dark with sweat. The fabric stuck beneath his breasts turned semi-transparent. His nipples pressed through, tender and raw from heat and friction. The shorts he wore had ridden higher with every movement. Now they barely covered him. The edge of the fabric sat tight over his cunt, red curls escaping beneath the hem. Every step made the seam press and drag across his lips, a pulse of friction that left him half-aware of every breath he took.
He rinsed the glass and set it on the rack.
Then another.
There was no need to rush. The world outside could wait. Inside the house, everything remained suspended. The kitchen was still humid from the heat of what had happened. His presence had reshaped the space. He felt it. The shift in balance. The weight of silence that wasn't fear anymore, but anticipation.
He could still feel her in the air. Her breath. Her sweat. Her perfume.
And he could smell her on his fingers.
The memory of her trembling, of her whispering stop too late, of the way her voice cracked when she counted.
He dried his hands on the dish towel hanging near the sink.
Then he lifted his wrist and licked a drop of water from it, slow and deliberate.
The television murmured on. He knew exactly where it came from. The living room was at the end of the hall, just to the left of the stairs. The sofa would be pulled forward toward the screen, the curtains half-drawn to keep out the morning glare. The room would be dim, with soft blue light flickering across the floor.
And Dudley would be in there.
Pretending he hadn't heard anything.
Pretending he hadn't pressed his face into the cushions when his mother's voice broke downstairs.
Pretending his cock wasn't hard when the slaps echoed off the kitchen tile.
Harry turned from the sink.
The hallway waited, still and dim.
Each step drew the fabric of his shorts tighter, every movement of his thighs brushing heat against the soft, swollen skin between his legs. The cotton clung to him now like it had been molded there, framing everything. The red of his tank top bled down into the flush still visible at the tops of his thighs.
He walked with rhythm. Slow. Deliberate. Nothing to prove.
He reached the edge of the living room.
The flicker of blue from the television danced faintly against the wallpaper. The door hung slightly open. Inside, the room was quiet, but not empty.
Harry stood at the threshold, one hand resting on the doorframe.
Then, without a word, he stepped through.
The light from the television flickered softly across the far wall, casting a slow, shifting glow that moved like breath over the floor. The living room curtains had been pulled halfway shut, just enough to dim the sunlight and let the screen dominate the space. The air hung still, heavy with warmth and the stale scent of crisps and silence. A bowl lay abandoned on the coffee table, tilted slightly, as if someone had dropped it without noticing. The program playing on the screen was loud and fast, full of talking heads and laugh tracks, but no one in the room was paying attention.
Dudley sat on the couch. He was slouched low, legs spread in that lazy sprawl he had always used, like the room belonged to him and always would. One arm hung off the side of the cushion. The remote rested against his stomach, rising with each shallow breath. His head tilted toward the screen, but his eyes were not watching.
The moment Harry stepped into the room, Dudley noticed. His gaze sharpened with sudden stillness, and Harry didn't need to look directly to feel it. That stare moved down his body like a hand, pausing in places it hadn't earned the right to linger.
Harry said nothing. He crossed the room at a slow, measured pace, the soft press of his bare feet barely audible over the television's hum. With each step, the cling of the red shorts grew tighter, the heat between his thighs making the fabric stick. The cotton framed him now like it had molded to the shape of his body. His tank top had soaked through beneath his chest, and the sweat had thinned the fabric until it clung to the curves it was never meant to hold. Every sway of his hips, every subtle shift of muscle, spoke of a comfort he didn't have to fake anymore.
He stopped at the edge of the coffee table, pausing just long enough to let the silence deepen. Dudley didn't speak. He didn't move. His fingers twitched once on the cushion, but otherwise, he held still.
Harry crouched.
He lowered himself slowly, one knee sinking into the carpet as he reached beneath the table. His fingers closed around a metal spoon, left from breakfast, forgotten and cold. He lifted it between two fingers like it mattered, like it was worth retrieving.
It wasn't. But the position was.
His body bent forward, the shorts stretching taut across his hips and pressing between his legs in a way that made everything visible. The seam framed the shape of his pussy with precision. From where Dudley sat, there was nowhere to look that wasn't a confession.
Harry stayed there longer than needed. Not frozen. Not posed. Just allowing him to be seen.
Then he rose. Slowly.
The fabric pulled away from his skin with a quiet peel of damp cotton. His tank top slid up an inch, exposing the soft skin above his waist. His legs shifted, brushing slightly against each other as he stepped around the table and approached the couch.
Dudley stiffened but didn't move. His legs remained open. The remote still sat on his stomach, though it trembled now with the uneven rhythm of his breathing. He held it like a shield, though it barely covered anything.
Harry sat beside him.
The cushion dipped with his weight. Their thighs touched. The contact was warm, unmistakable. Dudley flinched faintly at the sensation but didn't pull away. His fingers curled against the cushion, gripping harder, like the moment was already slipping away and he couldn't name why.
Harry didn't rush. He leaned back slightly, letting his presence settle next to Dudley's silence. The television filled the air with hollow noise, but neither of them heard it.
He turned his head just enough to catch the corner of Dudley's gaze, and then spoke, his voice quiet and close to the ear.
"It was you yesterday, wasn't it?"
Dudley didn't turn.
"The underwear I wore yesterday," Harry said, each word smooth and deliberate. "The ones I dropped in the basket right before my shower."
No reply. But Dudley blinked.
Harry scooted closer.
"When I came back, they weren't where I left them. I found them beside the basket. Crumpled and damp."
Dudley's chest rose sharply, then fell. He didn't move.
"There was cum in them," Harry added, tone steady. "Still quite warm and wet."
He paused. The silence between them grew denser.
"Were you in that much of a hurry?" he asked softly. "Couldn't wait? Couldn't even clean up after yourself?"
Harry tilted his head.
"Or maybe," he continued, "you wanted me to find them like that."
The question lingered in the space between them, warm and pointed.
Dudley didn't answer. But the remote shifted slightly on his stomach. The shape beneath his boxers twitched. The front of the fabric had begun to darken.
Harry's eyes moved to it. Then slowly back up.
"You could've hidden them," he said. "Stuffed them under your mattress. Tossed them out the window. But you didn't. You left them where I'd see them."
He let the silence drag. Then his voice dropped lower.
"And today…"
Dudley's head moved a fraction. Harry glanced over his shoulder, toward the kitchen door.
"You heard me."
Dudley's lips parted slightly. Still no words.
Harry stepped to the edge of the couch.
"You heard what I did to my dear auntie," he murmured. "Heard the slap of my hand. Heard her try not to make noise."
He leaned forward just slightly.
"You were out here the whole time wanking your incest dick, weren't you?"
Dudley's fingers twitched again on the cushion. His knees drew inward, ever so slightly.
"Did you cum?" Harry said, "While I punished your mother."
The words fell into the quiet like a match into dry leaves.
The remote lifted slightly with another twitch beneath it. Dudley's thighs tensed.
Harry studied his cousin's face, then closed the distance between them, and their legs touched.
Harry placed his hand on Dudley's thigh.
Not forcefully. Not suggestively. Just a quiet weight, warm through the cotton. His fingers rested high enough to be noticed but low enough not to be named. He didn't move them.
He didn't need to.
Dudley flinched beneath the touch, then went still. His breath caught. The remote bobbed slightly on his stomach. His legs twitched but didn't close.
"You've been like this since I came back," Harry said, voice low. "Haven't you?"
Dudley said nothing, but the twitch under Harry's hand answered for him.
"I just spanked her," Harry continued, his tone almost conversational. "Bent her over. Laid my hand across her ass. And you…"
His fingers lifted just slightly, tracing upward no more than an inch.
"Instead of saving your mother. You got hard duddykins."
Dudley made a noise, half denial, half breathless grunt. His eyes closed.
Harry leaned in, letting the side of his chest brush against Dudley's arm. His breath passed close along his cousin's jaw.
"Did you imagine it was me?" he asked. "My body under your hand instead of hers?"
Dudley's throat moved, dry and tight.
"Or did you just want your momma to be spanked more?"
Harry felt the pulse beneath his palm. The heat radiating through the shorts.
He shifted, voice softening.
"Mind if I change the channel?"
There was no answer. Only the silent tremble of a boy cornered by the weight of what he'd become.
Harry leaned across him, slow and steady. His breasts brushed against Dudley's arm, heavy with heat and damp cotton. His hair fell along the curve of Dudley's neck. One hand was planted against the back of the couch.
The other closed over the remote.
And pressed. Firmly and directly.
The pressure pinned the stiff line beneath it, and in the span of a heartbeat, Dudley shattered.
His hips bucked hard.
A strangled moan tore from his throat. The remote tumbled to the floor with a hollow thud.
Then his cock pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then a flood.
His entire body spasmed. Legs kicked. Back arched. His fists clawed at the couch for something to hold onto. The front of his boxers darkened fast, a spreading stain that soaked through the waistband and down his thighs. His breath came in broken gasps, and the smell of semen hit the air unmistakably.
Harry remained perfectly still.
He watched.
He felt Dudley's thigh tremble beneath his palm, watched the convulsions pass through him like waves. Watched his chest rise and fall, face flushed with humiliation, his shorts wet and clinging to the mess he couldn't contain.
Then, at last, Harry lifted his hand.
He looked down at the ruined fabric. Then up at the ruined boy.
"You couldn't even last through a question," he said softly. "All it took was a little pressure."
Dudley's head sank. His fingers hovered near his lap, too ashamed to even hide it.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
"But you did," Harry replied. "Just like yesterday."
He stood.
His tank top clung to his chest. The fabric between his thighs had darkened further, but he didn't care. His body was flushed and still, heavy with dominance.
He leaned in close.
"If you wanted to use my underwear," he said, lips near Dudley's ear, "you should've asked for it after all, since I can remember I have been wearing your hand-me-downs."
Dudley flinched like he'd been struck.
He pushed himself up clumsily, hands over his lap, feet dragging as he stumbled toward the hallway. His boxers stuck to his legs with every step. The smell of his orgasm followed him like a confession.
He didn't look back.
He vanished up the stairs.
A door slammed.
Harry didn't speak.
The air still shimmered with the weight of what had happened. The television continued to flicker, babbling nonsense, unaware of the silence pressing around it.
Harry stood alone in the quiet.
Then he muttered, half to himself, almost a scoff.
"I can't believe I used to get bullied by those two."
He sat back down.
Not to change the channel.
But to remind the room and everything in it that he was the only one left in control.
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Chapters 3 and 4 are already live on Patreon. Chapter 5 will be posted there soon, and Chapter 3 will be updated here shortly after.
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 who would help him take care of his needs.
Thank you for reading. If this ruined your underwear in the best way… you're welcome.
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