FIC: "Magnetism" for anguis_1

[atdelphi]

Recipient: Anguis
Author/Artist: ???
Title: Magnetism
Rating: PG
Pairings: Dudley Dursley/Millicent Bulstrode
Word Count: about 3700
Medium: fic
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View):  *None*.
Summary:Where do you go when everything you have learnt was right has turned out be wrong?
Author's/Artist's Notes: A thank you to the lovely C for Betaing my story on very short notice. You are a gem.

1. Dudley leaving

"Why didn't you make more of an effort, Dudley?" said Petunia Dursley.

Dudley ripped a mouthful from the bacon sandwich he was eating and chewed while watching his mother wipe down the already gleaming counter top for the third time. She did it with short, annoyed movements, all of them ending with the same hard flick of the wrist, making the rag snap over the surface. He wanted to rip the stupid rag out of her hand just to make her stop the bloody cleaning.

The sharp smell of the detergent she was using snaked into his nose, and the sting of it made the mouthful of bacon sandwich in his mouth start to grow while his throat constricted. He tried to swallow, managed, and felt the lump of bread make a slow decent through his oesophagus. It hurt as it went down, and he had to contain the urge to thump his chest in an attempt to get the food down. Instead he reached for the glass of lemonade in front of him and took a large gulp. It hurt even more when the liquid hit the bread, but it did hurry things along.

"Camellia is a lovely girl. At the very least you could have offered to take her outside and shown her around for a bit."

Camellia wasn't lovely. She was spoilt, nosy and whiny. The one thing she had going for her was the fact that she was the only child of Harold Lane who owned a company that made steamrollers.

A company that was worth millions.

Besides, what he was supposed to have shown her, he didn't know.

The identical brick houses in long rows, as far as the eye could see?

The lawns that were cut so short that just a little bit of sunshine turned them brown if they weren't constantly watered?

Or the gardens where the owners had gone really wild and crazy planting an occasional rose bush or two, rather than having just the grass?

"Mum-" he started.

"Your Mother is right, boy. She would be an asset to you."

Camellia-and what the hell kind of name was that anyway?-wouldn't be an asset to him. She would be an asset to his mum and dad.

Drills.

Steam rollers.

It was all the same to them since it equalled money and that was the reason they'd tried to push him into getting to know her.

Dudley looked at his father. He was almost chewing on his moustache from pure agitation. That was almost fun because that hadn't happened since Harry moved out.

No, he was wrong. It wasn't fun at all: it reminded him of the bad old days. He pushed his chair back and rose.

"I need to get going. I promised a mate I’d meet him at the pub."

The lie came easy enough, but it had strong effect. His mum turned, threw his dad a panicked glance before giving Dudley a pleading look.

"Dudley, I told Mr Lane you found Camellia very attractive and that you planned to get in touch with her today and ask her out. He was very pleased."

Dudley looked at his parents, feeling his heart pound fast and heavy, his eardrums swooshing with the rushing of blood.

"You might have checked with me first," Dudley said. He tried to sound calm but he was so angry his voice cracked, and the tone slid upwards at the end of the sentence, just like it had used to do when he'd hit puberty.

"Hear now, Dudley. You can't expect to find a better girl than Camellia," said his father. "She is everything an up and coming young man needs. Very representative. She's thin, elegant, knows the right people-"

Dudley turned his back on his parents, left the kitchen and almost ran for the front door grabbing his jacket as he went. It was that or start a row. A row about this might be the one ending things between him and his parents for good.

He deliberately banged the door hard enough for the doorframe to rattle as he left the house though.

When he reached the garden gate he had no idea where to go and just stood there.

Should he try to find a mate and visit the pub?

Piers wasn't living at home. He was studying economics at Oxford-who would have thought? Malcolm was in jail for internet fraud. Gordon wasn't much fun since he’d got his girlfriend up the duff some years ago.

The cool autumn air was nice though, so he could just take a walk and return home to his flat. He liked the smell of damp earth, rotting leaves and dirt.

But he didn't want to go home. He didn't want to sit alone, drinking beer and watching the telly.

He shoved his fists down his jacket pockets to protect them from the cold. In the right pocket he felt something hard wrapped in cloth.

He pulled the item from the pocket. It was a small, red velvet bag. A piece of gold string held the opening closed. He opened the bag and looked at the unremarkable marble inside.

Harry had given the marble to him the last time they'd met, then he'd forgotten about it.

It had been an awkward meeting. Dudley had wanted to say something, anything that ...

But he hadn't been able to. It had ended with them shaking hands and Dudley holding on to Harry's hand too long. Then, after Harry had pulled loose, and they had looked anywhere but at each other for a while, Harry had cleared his throat and handed him the small bag.

"If you want to visit me sometime. The marble inside the bag will bring you to my house when you touch it," Harry had said, hesitated and then added: "It feels a bit like side along apparition."

Dudley had done that a couple of times when he and his parents had been in exile.

He'd hated it.

It had taken him hours to recover from the feeling that he'd been sucked into himself through the bellybutton.

What had Harry called it again? Door key? House key?

Whatever.

He wasn't going to use it anyway.

The door behind him banged open so hard that he jumped at the sound. He turned and his father was coming at him with a face that had turned puce. His mother was following him, her neck craning so she was able to look over his dad.

"Dudley, we need to talk."

He didn't want to talk. He stared into the velvet bag. The marble would get him out. He turned the bag upside down and the marble fell into his hand.

He was sucked into himself so fast he felt like his brain was squashed out of his head when his skull went through his bellybutton.

2. Dudley arriving

He had no idea where he was.

He was sitting on his arse, on the grass, in an unkempt garden he didn't recognise, and he was about to start heaving. He turned on all fours and did. First he threw up, and then he dry-heaved until his stomach ached, and he still felt like the time he'd had too much cotton-candy and pop-corn, and then screamed on the top of his lungs until his mum and dad had let him go on the Rotor.

He'd suffered from motion sickness for days afterwards.

He got to his feet and staggered away from the puddle of gall that was slowly being absorbed by the earth, leaving only the half-digested pieces of bacon sandwich in full view.

The sight made him heave a couple of times more.

That's when he glanced at the house. Through the window he could see a redheaded woman who looked liked she'd stuffed a football under her sweater. Then he saw Harry sitting at the table looking at the woman with a smile on his face.

He looked relaxed. Calm.

He looked happy too.

Dudley had never seen him like this before. Hell, he'd never felt the way Harry seemed to feel at his moment. He wished he had, but he hadn't.

If he rang the doorbell he would remove that, whatever Harry was feeling, as soon as Harry saw him. He'd done that a lot through the years: removing and destroying stuff of Harry's.

But not today, he wouldn't. Not ever again. He shivered and felt nauseated again, thinking of how he'd behaved.

He turned away from the house and walked out onto what seemed to be the main road of the village. He had no idea where he was. A sign saying 'Godric's Hollow' was of no use since he'd never heard of the place before.

He walked past a church with a graveyard. Then ruins of a cottage with a sign outside.

Then he finally found somewhere to go: a pub.

An old fashioned sign made of heavy dark wood with a picture of great hulking bull with huge horns.

The Striding Bull was written in golden letters above the animal.

Odd name for a pub, but as long as they served alcohol he wasn't going to complain. Not like his Mum and Dad would. They always complained. No matter how good the food was, the drink was, the any-bloody-thing was, they complained.

He wouldn't complain though since he could now get pissed, and if they had a room, he could get some sleep, and then figure out what to do about this mess tomorrow.

He opened the door. It was a heavy, worn oak door and that creaked as it swung open.

It was warm and cosy inside, with a fireplace containing the biggest fire he'd ever seen burning inside the grate. Comfortable looking chairs and sofas. A big bar with a lot of bottles. Bottles with labels he didn't recognise and was going to try before the night was over.

And behind the bar, a barmaid. A barmaid who was nowhere near small.

A woman who wouldn't break in half if, say, a man liked it a bit rough.

She had huge tits that were threatening to burst her blouse. They were so big that a bloke could stick his head between them and hide if he wanted to.

He hoped she had the arse to match.

Easy enough to check out. He just needed to get a bit closer to her.

3. Millicent serving

Millicent gave the room a once over. It looked good. Clean, tidy and enough clients to make a good profit without the pub being too crowded and noisy. A lot of Muggles too, and Muggle money was as good as real money once it'd been exchanged at Gringotts.

The door opened, and she threw a glance at the doorway.

The new guest was a Muggle. A blond, curly haired Muggle with a broad jaw and small, deep set eyes underneath bushy eyebrows.

He was also big.

Really big.

The kind of brute who carried a lot of muscle around, but who didn't bother to get rid of any subcutaneous fat, creating a bear-like, hulking body.

He wouldn't look at her twice.

Guys like him never did. He would go for the skinny blond Muggle girl at the corner table or her red-headed, equally skinny, friend. And those girls, in turn, wouldn't look twice at him since he wasn't up to their standard. They would want the lean, pretty-boy type. The Malfoy kind. Or possibly the Potter kind.

Unless Big-Boy here started to flash wads of cash, of course. Then the girls would become interested.

Money made men handsome ... or at least more attractive.

But he was Muggle, so why even care?

Big-Boy stepped inside the pub, and she watched him from the corner of her eye as he moved towards the bar.

"Something to eat? A drink?" she asked as he sat down by the bar opposite her.

She wiped the bar top in front of him clean of imagined spots as she checked him out.

He was even bigger up close.

"Both. What have you got?"

What would he like? A big guy like him?

"Shepherd's pie; bacon, eggs and fried potatoes; or onion soup with bread, and that's it for choices."

He gave her a once over and smirked.

"Shepherd's pie it is, then."

"And what would you like to drink?"

"An ale, please. Any kind you've got will be fine."

A good sturdy meal and not picky with brands. Good. Because she didn't serve rabbit food and didn't intend to start now. Not even for Big-Boy.

"Good choice," she said and went to the kitchen to tell Shunpike to prepare the order.

4. Dudley falling

Dudley watched her disappear into the kitchen, and her arse was just as impressive as her tits. She was a big girl all over. His mum and dad would be shocked if he brought a girl like her home to meet them. She wouldn't be anything like the girl they wanted for him.

A fat bar maid wasn't up to their standards.

His dad would agree with his mum even though he was fat himself. The only one who would be on his side was Aunt Marge. He could hear her now.

"That's a good choice, Dudley. A good sturdy sort that one. I never could stand women who only eat lettuce and drink water. A woman should have some meat on her to be a good breeder. Just look at your mother. Not that I would dream of criticising, but she only ever had you, didn't she?"

The neighbours would gossip. His friends would laugh, and since she lived in the same village as Harry, chances were that she was one of his lot to boot and that would make his parents real pleased, wouldn't it?

She looked the part too.

She came out of the kitchen again, carrying his order, and dammit--dark hair and dark eyes in a square face with a firm chin and the rest of her: that long skirt and the corset over the blouse keeping things in place ... a man couldn't ask for more.

That was the moment he decided.

His parents had been wrong about everything. So had his friends, and worst of all: so had he.

Just once in his life he wanted to get things right and this might be a good place to start.

Because the truth was he wasn’t turned on by thin. He was turned on by big.

And he didn't intend to spend his life not being turned on.

5. Millicent falling

He had a healthy appetite. He was wolfing down his meal with a flattering enthusiasm and gusto.

If she wasn't imagining things, he was also looking at her boobs. The way he was looking at them was quite flattering too.

"I've never seen you around these parts before?" she said, hoping she hadn't misread him.

He swallowed the last of his ale.

"It's the first time I'm here. I meant to visit a cousin of mine."

That was interesting. He would belong to one of the Muggle families in the area, but which one? Or was he related to one of the half-bloods so he knew about them?

"So, who are you related to then? I probably know them, at least by name."

"His name's Harry Potter. I haven't seen him for a while."

Her skin started to prickle and she could feel her cheeks heat.

Potter. Of all the people in the village he was Potter's cousin which meant that her chances, assuming she'd ever had any to begin with, were slim.

She shouldn't care. He was Muggle.

"Do you know him?" Big-boy asked.

No use lying.

"Yeah. He was in my year at school. We didn't move with the same crowd though."

"So ... you are--"

"A bit of a witch, yes. Ask anyone." She turned away from him and pretended to straighten a couple of bottles.

"I'm just ordinary," he said from behind her. "Nothing like Harry."

She couldn't help it. She laughed. Not a nice laugh, she could hear that herself, and she was glad her back was turned to him.

"Potter and his gang weren't special. Crazy, but not special," she said. "Few are. It's nothing to do with someone being a bit of a witch or not."

She turned and looked at him. He was watching her, his small eyes glinting in the candle light.

"You look special enough to me." He said it so quietly she barely heard him, and she had no idea if he was making fun of her size. Her stomach churned at the thought, just as it had when she was at Hogwarts having to listen to the comments in the corridors as she walked past.

"Want anything else?" she asked instead of answering him.

He glanced at her and nodded.

"Yeah. I would like ... what's that bottle over there?"

He pointed. His hands were big with thick fingers and connected with a massive wrist. She wouldn't be able to reach around it.

"That would be whiskey. Old Ogden's. Quite strong. Anything you might fancy, or do you want something more lightweight ... Big-Boy?"

That made him frown. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. The question was if the wheels turned in the right direction, and if they turned fast enough.

Was he more of a Malfoy or was he a Crabbe?

"I like strong. And big."

Perhaps more of a Malfoy. She had considered him a Crabbe up until now. She smiled at him and went to fetch the bottle. Maybe he wasn't making fun of her.

Maybe he really liked big.

Maybe she didn't care about him being Muggle after all.

Maybe.

She smiled and winked when she put the glass in front of him and poured him a drink.

"You've worked here long?" he asked.

"Almost three years."

"You like being a barmaid then?"

"I own the pub. The other village pub had to close down six month after I opened."

He took a sip of the whisky. He liked whisky especially the smoky, peaty ones. This whisky had more of the flavours he liked than he ever felt before at the same time as it went down much smoother. Amazing stuff!

"How did that happen?" he asked after licking his lips.

"I had better food, better service, a better choice of beverages and kept my establishment cleaner."

He smiled at her then.

His smile was nice even if it seemed as if he didn't use it too often.

6. Dudley deciding

Dudley looked at the room and all the customers again.

He'd liked what he saw when he entered, and he still liked it. If he'd lived here, wherever Godric's Hollow was, he'd be in this pub all the time.

And she owned it.

He'd like owning a pub. Serving. Bouncing. He glanced at the customers again. They didn't look like they needed much bouncing, but you couldn't have it all, could you?

He hated working at Grunnings. He hated having his dad lord over him. He should be his own man.

He looked around for the barmaid again. She was serving a couple of new arrivals on the other side of the bar. He hurried to empty his glass, and when he caught her eye he held the empty glass up for her to see.

She walked over to him again, broad hips swaying. He wondered if her arse was dimpled. He liked dimples. He also liked the wiggle when he slapped a big round--

"Want another one?" she asked.

He nodded and pushed his glass towards her so she could pour for him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Millicent Bulstrode of the Yorkshire Bulstrodes. No connection with the Scottish ones."

He decided to ignore the ancestry crap. She must've forgotten that he wasn't one of them, and she was running a pub, so her family must be down on their luck anyway.

"Millicent is a pretty name. I'm Dudley Dursley." He held out his right hand, and she took it. Her hand was cold, so he put his other hand over it. She stiffened but didn't pull it back.

"You're cold," he said.

"It's just from handling the bottles," she answered.

"If you're cold I'd be happy to warm you," he said, ignoring her explanation.

She blushed so maybe he was getting this right.

"My flat's always chilly," she said, and peeked at him.

"Oh. I was thinking you might have a room I could let for the night but maybe I could come with you and see what I can do about keeping you warm?"

She turned beetroot red.

He did have it right this time.

7. Millicent deciding

He wanted to come home with her.

Her cheeks were heating, and she was staring at her hand caught between his two. Her chubby hand between his two large ones.

He was Muggle, and her parents were already angry with her because she supported herself owning a pub. She swallowed hard at the thought of their reaction if she would bring a Muggle home with her. She felt giddy and prickly just thinking of it.

But he was so big. He also liked big, and she liked him. A lot.

Her parents were wrong about magical abilities too. Snape had been a half-blood, and he'd been the best she'd ever seen at magic.

Granger was really good too. The bitch.

She bit her lower lip and the pain made her decide.

"I close up shop in two hours."

He smiled and pulled at her hand, and she leaned closer to him curious about what he was going to say.

"I'll wait for you," he said.

"You'll help me get rid of the stragglers then?" she asked

"Sure, I will," he said and then he cupped the back of her head and kissed her. The kiss was very short, hard, and he tasted of whisky.

The taste suited her just fine.

Click here to leave a comment