Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Sexual acts between schoolboys, manual sex, mild horticulture, anal sex, casual homophobia, swearing.
Thanks to "songquake" for the beta job!
Petunia was careful about the company her Duddikins kept. One of the advantages of paying the absurdly high fees of Smeltings was the knowledge that her angel wouldn't be in contact with the type of boy who couldn't afford them. She had always approved of the Polkiss boy, for example. His parents were extremely normal. The primary school years had been a little worrying; Dudley had picked up some rough friends then. She was sure, though, that he never saw those awful boys these days.
Bozza picked up Piers by his scrawny hips and hoisted him onto the top of the school's back wall. Then he and Mutt linked their tattooed knuckles and between their lifting and Piers' pulling, they got Big D over.
They were all a few quid lighter, and several ounces of blow better off; they'd had fun hanging round the skate park looking menacing, and the Smeltings boys still had plenty of time to register for second prep.
"Getting the stick," Dudley muttered to Piers. Smeltings Sticks made great weapons, but they were a bit of a give-away if you carried them round town. There was no need for their potential victims to suspect that they were at the posh school.
"You've got leaves in your hair," Piers remarked. He reached up as though he was about to pluck them out.
Hurriedly, Dudley batted him away. "Y'poof!" he snarled.
"See you in prep." Piers stepped away. "Watkins minor gave us his Greek to copy."
"Nice one." Dudley swaggered up the stairs, pushing a couple of First Years out of the way.
As he retrieved his stick from his study bedroom, he noticed that there was something on his pillow. Something red. He moved over to the bed. It was a flower. He didn't know anything about flowers (he wasn't a pansy) so he didn't know what it was called. His expensive education meant that he could name its parts: stamen, sepal, stem ... What the fuck it was doing on his pillow, though: that was a mystery.
He lifted it casually and somehow didn't quite manage to drop it in the bin, instead sticking it out of sight between two sheets of tissue paper at the back of his dictionary. If that happened to press it, never mind. He didn't care one way or another.
He had a full and active life: Nerds had to have their heads flushed, geeks had to be persuaded to write his essays, wimps had to hand over their tuck and weirdos simply refused to wedgie themselves.
He tried to concentrate on these, the important things in life, but confusion about that flower distracted him. Someone must have put it there. There weren't any girls in the school. There had to be an explanation. It must mean something.
After supper he had to be weighed by the school nurse. He left his group of friends playing cards and slunk off for his daily humiliation.
"Are you exercising?" she asked.
"I have been boxing most days, Miss," he replied with politeness and proper respect. Stupid cow.
She was female and she was in the school. She was old, though; it would be gross if the flower had come from her. Not as disgusting as it would be if a boy had given it to him. That would be really gay.
"Not bad," she said as she wrote up his notes. "Don't go putting it all back on again in the holidays. Your mother still has those diet sheets?"
Dudley wasn't sure why he was still losing weight. He certainly didn't stick to her diet. He reckoned he must burn off the calories in the candy when he beat up the suckers who provided him with it.
It was nearly lights out; he only had enough time to get ready for bed. The bathroom was nearly empty, just a few stragglers like himself. He unzipped his washbag to get his toothbrush out and quickly closed it again. He checked around him. Too many boys. So, he slipped into one of the toilet stalls to open it up again.
Another flower: a small one, white this time. He rested its soft petals against his cheek. He couldn't stand there all night like some sissy sniffing snowdrops. Not that he knew the names of any flowers. He slipped it into a pocket and then completed his ablutions.
It took him a long time to get to sleep that night, and when he did the dreams were explosive.
After breakfast (bloody grapefruit again) he went to get his books from his locker. There were two flowers lying together under the heavy pages of the dictionary now. With his hand on the locker door he did wonder, just for a second, whether he would find a third. He didn't, of course; nobody knew the combination of his padlock. It didn't make him sad at all. His heart didn't sink with a small jolt of disappointment. He wasn't a girl.
In Geography, he opened his atlas and then slammed it shut again. A daffodil lay across South America. He didn't blush like a woofter, his heart didn't beat any faster. He looked up to check that nobody had seen it and caught Piers, who was sitting next to him, looking away quickly.
He had Boxing Club after lunch. It was inconvenient timing, because that was the best time for breaking bounds and going down to the park to nick cigarettes off the comp kids. It couldn't be helped. In the changing room, he pulled his boxing gloves out of his Games bag, and dozens of blossom petals fell to the floor. Hurriedly, he scooped them up. He couldn't leave them all over the tiles looking all queer like that. He put them in a rugby boot, not wondering how he would get them out of there and into the collection in the dictionary in his study bedroom at all.
Dudley had trouble concentrating through his afternoon lessons. He tried to hide it and he thought he'd probably succeeded because Piers didn't ask him what was preoccupying him. Come to that, Piers didn't look him in the eye at all. Perhaps Dudley had upset him somehow; it was unlike Piers to be all girly and oversensitive. Maybe Piers knew – but how could he? –that a boy had been giving Dudley flowers and it disgusted him. Life would be unbearable if Piers found out and hated him. Piers had been his best friend forever; Dudley couldn't face the idea of a life without him.
Just as he was about to put his books away at the end of lessons, his phone beeped. He loved this new text messaging thing, it was just a pity that only he and Malcolm could afford the latest mobile phones. One day all of his gang would have them and then he could rule the town much more efficiently.
His locker stayed open as he read Malcolm's text about some weird-looking lad who needed a kicking. When he opened the door wide, he was stunned to see a rose in there: a single, perfect red rose propped up against his exercise books. When he realised how long he had been gawping at it, he slammed the door shut and looked down the corridor to make sure that nobody had seen. He couldn't have them thinking he was a nonce.
When he was certain that he was alone (which involved leaning casually against the wall while the chess club nervously passed him), he popped his head back inside and inhaled deeply. Not in, like, a fairy way; not because the scent was sweet or anything. He wanted to put it in his dictionary with all the other flowers that he decidedly wasn't pressing: he wanted to desperately. Only, there wasn't a way to carry a long-stemmed beauty like that through school without anyone noticing and asking questions.
He drifted up to his room, having completely forgotten that he was supposed to be going to tea. His head was a mass of petals and questions. He unlocked his door and then wondered why he was there. He was about to go downstairs, but the door was already drifting open and before he could leave, he saw Piers and all he could do was wonder why ihe/i was there, and what he was doing with those tulips. If he hadn't been so overwhelmed he might have wondered also how he knew that they were called tulips; he never knew nancy-boy stuff like that.
Piers stared, at him, shocked, and he just stared back for a while. Then he heard voices on the stairs and – realising how this would look – he shut the door hurriedly, only pausing long enough to get himself into the bedroom with Piers first.
"You?" he asked.
"I ..." Piers replied.
It wasn't the most wordy conversation they'd ever had, but it was probably the most revealing.
"You," Dudley said again, but this time it wasn't a question.
Piers stopped looking at him and whispered, "Sorry."
"But why?" Dudley asked.
Piers just shrugged.
"Yes," Piers mumbled.
"What's it mean?"
"What do you want, Piers?'
Piers looked terrified and didn't answer.
"Me?" Dudley asked.
"Yeah." Piers swallowed. "Guess so." His eyes flicked guiltily up to his best friend's face to gauge his reaction. "Not in, like, a gay way," he clarified hastily. Dudley's face was unreadable.
"You don't want to, like, kiss me or anything?"
"Oh, God, no!"
Whatever it was Dudley felt, it wasn't disappointment. "No, right. That would be revolting."
"Yeah. Nothing gay like that."
"That would be gay, wouldn't it?" Dudley checked.
"Totally gay," Piers agreed.
They stayed standing in the centre of the little room, Piers still clutching the tulips, and watched each other.
"I'm not gay," Piers assured his friend after a moment's silence.
Dudley scoffed, looking horribly like his father. "I should think not!"
"Can I sit on your bed?" Piers asked.
Piers lowered himself onto the single divan. "Can you sit next to me?"
"Sure." The mattress dipped considerably.
They both stared at the wall in front of them.
"Erm, you know when – never mind," Piers said.
"Go on." Dudley patted Piers' knee in an encouraging, manly sort of a way.
"Well, blokes. Like us. Real men. Well, we stand by each other, right? We help each other out."
Dudley nodded decisively. That was a given.
"And red-blooded heterosexual men – like us – we have urges."
"Oh, yes, that's perfectly normal." Dudley was certain of that.
"That means that it wouldn't be gay at all if we, you know, helped each other with those urges."
"In what way?" Dudley looked at his best friend.
"Well, how do you usually work off your urges on your own?"
"Oh." Dudley's mind was suddenly filled with an image of Piers' bony hand stroking his cock; for some reason the hand was holding a tulip too. Dudley's mouth went very dry. "That's not what faggots do." It wasn't a question. He didn't want an answer.
"Where can I put these?" Piers asked breathlessly, lifting his bunch of tulips.
They wouldn't fit in the dictionary. Anyway, he wasn't sure that he wanted Piers to know how he had kept and treasured his previous offerings. He couldn't leave them out where a cleaner or someone might see them, though. He opened the drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe and took the flowers. His hands brushed along Piers' skinny arms as he did so. It wasn't the feel of them that aroused him, not as all. He wasn't bent.
When he sat back down on the bed, Piers leaned closer, he ran a hand over the front of Dudley's trousers. He smiled when he felt the bulge there. Dudley undid his belt, his usually sure fingers slipping away. He had lost so much weight this term that his waistband was loose. There was plenty of room for him to take hold of Piers' hand and shove it down inside.
Piers squeaked a little, but it was a manly squeak. His fingers scrabbled against Dudley's skin, feeling for the elastic of his underpants, working their way underneath. The only sound in the room was their heavy breathing. Then Piers got his palm against Dudley's prick, which was almost fully hard now, and at the same time as Dudley released a thick moan, Piers said, "They don't call you 'Big D' for nothing, do they?" His fingers closed towards each other as best they could. Then he moved his hand up, then down, building a rhythm, getting a feel for the shape of Dudley's manhood.
It was so much better than when Dudley wanked himself. Heat tingled through every pore. Piers' grip gradually tightened and his wrist movement sped up. It felt good, so incredibly good. Dudley wondered, though, if his hand felt this good, then what about ...
He took a deep breath before, without warning, he shoved Piers down onto the bed. Piers squawked. Then he smiled. A red haze of lust clouded Dudley's vision. He pulled Piers' hand out of his trousers and flipped him onto his belly. Piers didn't really have any hips, so it was easy to pull his clothes down and bare his arse. Dudley was struck dumb by the sheer, bony beauty of it. Not in, like, a gay way. Of course. He just wanted to ram his cock into it.
He had a hopeful condom in his dinner suit jacket and lube on the shelf by the bed for jerking off with. As he collected them, Piers squirmed and humped the mattress, making happy little noises. Dudley coated his hand with lube. This was a bit gross, actually. He wasn't hugely turned on by sliding a finger into his friend's red, puckered hole. It didn't remind him of the lovely rose in his locker downstairs. Not at all.
He wasn't entirely confidant about what he was doing and his movements were clumsy, but after a few minutes he had managed to open things up enough to get three fingers inside. That was when his phone beeped. It vibrated in his pocket against his thigh. He ignored it, but then it beeped again.
"Fuck!" he said. He pulled it out with his relatively free hand (he'd been holding a buttock with it) and handed it to Piers.
"What's it say?" he asked.
"Huh?" Piers sounded lost, like he'd been somewhere else, like he wanted to get back there. "Don't stop moving!" he begged.
Dudley twisted his fingers round and Piers groaned happily. "Now read me the text," Dudley ordered.
"It ... uh ... oh christ! It says, it's from Malc. Him and Mutt are in the ... oh yes, there, yes ... they're in the dump, got someone for you to ... more, more, there, there ... oh yes!"
Dudley's hand kept moving. He didn't really know what anything meant, the only thing he understood was the pressure building in his pants. "They'll have to wait," he huffed. "I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna do it now."
He let go of Piers' bum reluctantly, unzipped and then had to fiddle about with the condom. He'd never done this before, any of it, anything like it. Piers got up onto all-fours. He couldn't keep his head up, though, it dropped down onto the bed. He was babbling to himself. Dudley nearly stuck a fingernail through the rubber at the sight of that delicious naked bottom stuck up in the air like that. He was too far gone to wonder whether that was a bit poofy. He lubed the condom.
He eased in. The phone rang. They ignored it. He pushed harder. Tight heat surrounded his dick. Piers hissed. The phone stopped. He pulled back and then thrust. Piers cried out. Downstairs the bell rang for the end of tea. He thrust and thrust, gripping Piers' hips. Piers shouted out and so did he. There must have been sounds in the rest of the world, but nothing mattered any more except his cock and the arse-hole which gripped it.
All of a sudden it gripped him tighter, in spasms. He came. He blacked out.
When he came round, Piers was underneath him and the phone was ringing. He shifted sideways and a red-faced, breathless, Piers crawled out. Dudley answered the phone, realising his mouth had dried out when he said, "Yeah?"
Malcolm's voice on the other end sounded a long way away: "We can't hold this weirdo much longer, D. You on your way?"
Dudley was far too knackered to beat anyone up now. All he wanted to do was to get under the covers with Piers and hug him while they slept. In a really manly way, of course.
"I can't hear you," he said, "it's cracking up. Something wrong with the signal." He pressed the red button that turned the phone off.
"Wake me up for second prep," Piers murmured, curling himself round Dudley's belly.
Dudley's eyelids drooped and just before he fell asleep he wondered drowsily whether that was the end of the floral tributes, or whether Piers would continue to surprise him. Flowers were nice. Not in a sissy way, of course. And not as nice as fucking. Nice, though.
Maureen Polkiss was careful about the company her Piers kept. She had always approved of the Dursley boy, for example. His parents were extremely normal.
As long as Piers only mixed with the right sort, then she was sure that everything would be fine. A mother couldn't help but worry. There were some terrible ruffians around. She looked out over her prize-winning flower beds. Some thug, for instance, had climbed into the garden in the middle of the night and stolen her most perfect blooms. There were uneven spaces all over the place; she could have cried.
If she and her husband hadn't saved and scrimped all these years to send Piers to such a good school, then he could have ended up being the sort of delinquent who would do a thing like that. It was such a consolation to her to know that they had ensured his respectability.