Entry tags:

dudley dursley, fic, het, millicent bulstrode

FIC 'Below the Belt' for trickofthedark
Recipient: trickofthedark (AKA Didodikali)
Author: anguis_1
Title: Below the Belt
Summary: All Dudley wanted to do was deliver the letter and return to his perfectly normal, relatively pleasant existence. Luckily for him, fate and Millicent Bulstrode intervened.
Rating: R
Pairing: Dudley Dursley/Millicent Bulstrode
Word Count: 6,522 words
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her publishers own Harry Potter and his world. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Didodikali/Trickofthedark, your fic, "Widdershins," had me sold on Dudley/Hermione, but then a little plotbunny came hopping by, and this is the result. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks to everyone who made this fic possible.

***

Below the Belt

Dudley thought that Diggle fellow had said that his cousin was a hero (although, come to think of it, the man had seemed a touch less than sober when he had pounded on the safe house door late one evening, babbling ecstatically about giants and snakes and warthogs--he had been particularly emotional about the warthogs--and Harry Potter). He must have been mistaken, as the scruffy man in front of him had not reacted with praise and adulation at the mention of Harry's name.

"'arry Potter?" He spat, narrowly missing Dudley's freshly polished shoes. "Look 'ere, this bloke wants to find 'arry bleedin' Potter!" These words were directed at a hulking man who appeared from a shadowy alleyway. In Dudley's estimation, he was the most intimidating man in a dress he'd met since accidentally wandering into Soho on the wrong side of midnight.

"Out of the goodness of me 'eart," the smaller man continued, "I'll show you the quickest way to find 'arry Potter 'round 'ere." He smiled a gap-toothed grin and jabbed his wand into Dudley's gut. "Put your money and wand on the ground and take three steps back, and you won't 'ave no trouble findin' 'im once we're away."

When she heard the commotion out in the street, Millicent Bulstrode's first reaction was to check that the locking charms on the shop door still held. Knockturn Alley had been cleaned up considerably since the Ministry had come under new administration, and reputable customers ventured in during the hours of bright sunshine, but once darkness started to pool in the crevices between the buildings, the remnants of the old clientele emerged from their squalid refuges and reverted to their old ways. Satisfied that her shop was not in imminent danger, she fogged the glass with her breath and rubbed a patch clean to get a better view of the action. A large man in Muggle clothes was being accosted by a short, weedy man in dirty brown robes, while another wizard circled around behind.

The man suddenly threw a punch at his attacker, but his fist stopped, abruptly and painfully, five inches from the other man's grinning face. Nonplussed, he tried again, with the same result. He glanced around. No one was coming to his aid or even stepping out to have a look, so he kept swinging gamely, trying to slip a fist under or around the invisible Shield Charm, while the wizard behind him began flinging a barrage of spells in his direction. Most of them went high and wide, but one struck the man's back with a slash of red. Millicent frowned. A few minor curses were all in good fun, but a wounding spell in a two-against-one fight with an unarmed man was downright unsporting. After further study, she thought she recognized the assailants as Lynch and Howe. They had peddled Dark bric-a-brac of questionable origins on Knockturn Alley when Fudge had been in power, and were considerably angry when their source of income had been outlawed by the new Minister. They had turned to petty thievery and, rumour had it, the occasional burglary.

Millicent settled in to watch the show. They'd get the stranger's money eventually, but she'd be willing to wager that he would make them work for it. He didn't dance around as much as her father used to do when he tried to teach her to box (a task at which he'd failed abysmally, as her grandfather had already convinced her of the superiority of wrestling). This man stood his ground and took his time winding up for punches that would have set a Hippogriff back on its haunches, barely flinching when another hex stippled his back with small, smoldering holes. Every time a blow stopped short in mid-air, Lynch's wand shuddered. He wouldn't have to hold out much longer, though, as the stranger was beginning to sway, his fists swinging more and more erratically.

Howe was getting impatient, though. "Crucio!" The man toppled, writhing in pain. Even inside her shop, Millicent had to stop her ears with her fingers to keep the unearthly keening from grinding away her resolve not to care. One of his flailing arms swept Lynch's feet out from under him. Lynch cracked his head against the cobblestones, and Millicent was relieved as the curse was lifted and silence descended once more.

Howe pawed through the man's pockets and palmed a wallet before hoisting his limp partner over his shoulder and lumbering off into the back alley from which he had appeared. Millicent waited, but there was no further movement. A death outside her shop would certainly not be favorable advertisement, and she couldn't afford to lose the few regular customers she had. After a brief internal debate, in which the practical businesswitch managed to sway the mind-your-own-damn-business-witch, she unlocked her door and slipped cautiously out into the street.

Millicent nudged the prone form with her foot. "You alive?" A groan. "Good. You'd best be off before they come back." She made it all the way to her doorway before looking back. He hadn't moved, but the shadows were lengthening inexorably towards him. Once blanketed in darkness, his body would be an amusing diversion for those whose hunger for unorthodox pastimes was insatiable.

She stomped back grudgingly and heaved him none too gently to his feet. He was doing a very good impression of a wrung-out flannel, so she slung his arm over her shoulders. A small shiver of pleasure tingled the back of her neck as he leaned heavily on her, but it sputtered out when he hunched over and began gagging. She prepared to disengage herself quickly if the need arose.

"If you get sick on me, I'll drop you here and leave you to the next Dark wizard looking for a bit of fun," she threatened. He swallowed convulsively and, with terror writ plainly across his face, choked down his rising gorge.

Millicent staggered a bit coming into the shop; he had a few inches on her in height and girth, and he made an ungainly burden. As they lurched into the back room, she swished and flicked, sending small objects flying this way and that--into drawers that slammed shut, behind rustling curtains, and under every available piece of furniture. The man muttered what under better circumstances might have been an unflattering remark Millicent would have felt compelled to answer with something unpleasant; but, as it was, she was barely able to Summon a chair before his legs buckled and he sat down.

Under the mud and blood smeared across his face, he was whiter than her best sheets, so she handed him a chocolate bar from a stack on her desk. "Here, start on this while I get some things to patch you up."

He recoiled violently, snatching his hand away and sending the chocolate skittering to the floor and into a cobwebbed corner. He eyed its resting place with suspicion, suddenly looking more alert. "What are you trying to do to me?"

"Do to you? I'm trying to help you, much against my better judgment I might add."

He huffed. "The last time I ate sweets from one of your lot, I nearly choked to death on my own tongue."

Millicent paused. Suddenly, it all made sense--the clothes, the lack of wand, the odd-yet-vaguely-familiar pugilistic stance. "You're a Muggle!"

"It's not some disease, you know." He scowled. "Just 'cause I don't go around attacking people with a pointy stick doesn't mean I'm dirt."

"I didn't mean anything by it--I was just surprised. Muggles aren't exactly welcome around here, that's all." She picked up another bar of chocolate and unwrapped it. "Now, you're going to eat this chocolate, whether you take it yourself or I shove it down your throat for you."

He didn't have the strength to argue and figured that a swift death from poison might be preferable to the hot poker that seemed to be slowly eviscerating him from the back. The chocolate was smooth and dark and melted into a pool of bittersweetness on his tongue. Oddly enough, it seemed to take the edge off the pain still quivering through his nerves.

Meanwhile, Millicent retrieved her home potions kit and a dog-eared copy of 1001 Herbs for Horrific Hardships from a cupboard at the other end of the room. She didn't use analgesics as a rule; distraction was the best medicine for pain she had to offer, so she tried to start a conversation, endeavoring not to make it sound too much like an interrogation.

"My name's Millicent Bulstrode. What's yours?"

"Dudley Dursley."

That exhausted Millicent's usual conversational repertoire, so she cast around for something else to say. She could think of only one thing. The mere recollection of him, steaming like a carthorse in the cool, twilit air and pounding away doggedly at Lynch's spell, kindled something within her surprising in its intensity and unsettling in its namelessness. For a moment, she remembered another boy--thickset, with fire in his eyes--but there was no use troubling ghosts tonight.

"Are you a boxman?"

"A what? Ow! What the hell are you doing?"

"Cleaning your wound. If you want to die of blood poisoning, I can just not bother, and you can let it go septic. It'd certainly save me some effort." Millicent frowned. On second thought, she'd expended more than enough time on him already--it would be a shame to let that go to waste. She continued scrubbing with renewed vigour, relishing his wince.

"Can't you use your magic wand?"

"I never was very good at healing charms, so I'm doing it with soap and water. If you want to risk getting your eye boiled in its socket, I can try it with my wand."

As she went for her wand, Dudley panicked. "No! You're doing just fine, really you are! I wasn't trying to criticise."

Millicent smirked. "I didn't think so. Now, start talking and stop complaining. Are you a boxman? Do you box?"

"Oh, yeah, I used to be a boxer. I wasn't half bad, either, in a fair fight." He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breathing to alleviate the lightheadedness creeping over him.

She anointed a length of bandage with the dregs of a calendula-based potion she thought she remembered was for healing wounds (though it could have been an emetic for all she knew; the instructions had been gnawed away by a colony of arthroscoots that had taken up residence in her potions kit) and bound it over the laceration across his forehead.

"What do you do now?"

"After university, I found I didn't have that need to fight. Besides, brawlers wear out and fall apart faster than most, and I found my face wasn't that bad after all." His lips hinted at a wistful smile, and, despite the bandages, grime, and a nose that must have been broken at least once, Millicent couldn't see how he had ever found his face unattractive.

"Now I'm a private consultant." He grimaced as Millicent set to scouring his bloodied hands, and then continued talking at a faster pace to turn his mind from the pain. "I help people who want to improve their business. It's like a game, figuring out how to get people to buy. . . ." As his words trailed off, he slumped forward and planted his face in a bowl of bruised woundwort. Millicent swore, loudly and colourfully, startling a three-legged tabby that had curled up by the fire. The cat turned and hissed reproachfully at Millicent before hopping off into the next room with a disgusted air. Still, it would make it easier to concentrate on fixing him up without having to dredge up questions to keep him talking.

His white button-down shirt was beyond repair--she felt justified in that judgment as it wasn't her shirt--so she started at the hole and tore. His broad, pale back had taken the brunt of the curse damage. It was dotted with round sores from a Blistering Hex, crisscrossed with welts, and raw with half a dozen sizeable burns, and a deep gash still oozed a sluggish trickle of blood. Luckily he was more than generously padded, so nothing vital was injured, but he had bled out quite a bit. She packed the gash with a handful of woundwort snagged from beneath his cheek, smeared the rest with Doctor Hexall's Heal-All, and hoped that she hadn't muddled it too badly.

****
Dudley awoke smothered in greenery. His first thought was that he had fallen asleep while eating a salad, but the feathery leaves that had slipped between his lips were bitter and definitely not daubed with salad cream. He attempted to sit up, but a peculiar ache thrummed so insistently through his limbs that he left them as they were and lolled his head back into the bowl. He remembered the man, no, the men. He'd been wearing down the scrawny one in the tatty robes, but then there had been pain quite unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It was blinding like a solid hit to the nose and deafening like a clout to the ears, but a hundred times worse than anything he'd endured, in or out of the ring. Everything was rather fuzzy after that, but he did remember the woman. Millicent. His eyelids sprang open. Where had she gone?

She was there, across the room, vanishing a trail of blood and dirt from the floor with her wand. The firelight gleamed off the thick, black plait coiled at the nape of her neck and shadowed her deep-set eyes. Her robes were a deep green and emphasized the exaggerated contours of her abundantly endowed figure. Catching sight of his opened eyes, she furrowed her brow and approached him warily.

"Why were you wandering Knockturn Alley at this hour?"

"All I wanted to do was to find my cousin, Harry Potter. I need to give him something." He looked at her hopefully. "Do you know him?"

After quizzing him thoroughly, and apparently finding his story convincing, Millicent Floo-called the Ministry of Magic's Dark Arts Reporting Desk, and, five minutes later, a sodden, irritated Harry Potter stepped out of the fireplace.

"If you're complaining about Lynch and Howe again, you'd better have some proof," he growled. "Otherwise I'm putting you on our non-response list."

"Is that proof enough?" Millicent pointed at Dudley, who was listing slightly, with blood and calendula juice already leaching through his lopsided bandages. Harry stilled, and his eyes narrowed as recognition crept over his face.

"Bulstrode, you should've learned by now not to take in strays."

She bristled, but restrained herself. It wouldn't do to antagonize the man who was still processing her last burglary report. Instead, she forced a grimacing grin and retorted, "But this one was so cute, I couldn't resist." Her eyes narrowed. "Besides, he was attacked by those two thugs you can't catch."

"That I can't catch? I can catch them well enough, but I've yet to catch them doing something illegal. Sometimes I wonder if you report them because you enjoy making work for me."

"Don't flatter yourself. I saw them attack this man, and he's a Muggle, for Merlin's sake! Howe used the Cruciatus, not to mention all sorts of other curses. If you're unwilling to do anything--"

"They attacked him? He probably provoked--"

"Look, I don't care. All I want to do is give you this, go home, and forget this ever happened." Dudley's sudden outburst startled Harry and Millicent into silence. He held out a creased envelope to Harry, who eyed it with distaste. "It's from my mum."

"And why would your mum suddenly decide to write to me?"

"It wasn't suddenly. I think it's from a while ago. I found it when I was going through her things. My father couldn't bear to do it, so I said I would, and, well, this was addressed to you."

"Uncle Vernon couldn't bear to paw through your mum's things, so he made you do it? He was probably shagging her on the kitchen table to keep her occupied."

All thoughts of trying to achieve at least a neutral, if not amicable, relationship with his cousin vacated Dudley's mind. He charged at Harry, bellowing, "Don't you--" And then, for the eighteenth time that night, his knuckles crunched into an invisible Shield Charm.

Millicent stepped behind Harry and had him in a full nelson before he could shift to block her. His wand fell to the floor and rolled away. She glared fiercely at the back of his head as she snarled, "That was a low blow, Potter, even for you. I ought to let him hit you. He'd probably improve your face some. Just because the Weaselette is playing hard to get doesn't mean that you can take it out on the rest of us. Even a troll could figure out what he means." She glanced at Dudley, who had forgotten his fists and was staring at her in either shock or awe. "I may not hobnob with the Minister, but I do have some manners, and I would never talk like that about someone's mum just after she died."

"Oh." Harry screwed up his mouth as if refraining from saying something really nasty. "I'm not sorry."

"Didn't think you'd be," Dudley replied. Seeing Millicent take his side and immobilize Harry with such ease had induced a powerful feeling of calmness that nothing could shake. "Just take it and read it. I'll not bother you again."

Millicent spoke to Harry again. "Now, I'm going to let you go. You're going to take that letter, pick up your wand, and leave immediately. If you so much as threaten us, I'm going to file a report, and the Daily Prophet will headline Auror brutality for a week. You may get off, but I bet you'd be passed over for that promotion you're panting after."

She released Harry with a shove. He stumbled, grabbed his wand, and disappeared with a loud crack.

"What an arse! He acts like such a spoiled brat sometimes." Dudley lowered his gaze as Millicent muttered imprecations.

"Never mind. It's . . . complicated." And with that, Dudley insisted on leaving. Millicent escorted him as far as Diagon Alley, where he thanked her and walked stiffly towards the Leaky Cauldron.

****
Three months later, Dudley Dursley was back to enjoying his perfectly normal life. His wounds had cicatrized with little trouble (almost magically, if he had thought about it, which he most certainly, absolutely, positively had not), and he had resolutely pushed the unpleasant incident with Harry into the furthest reaches of his mind. He was only occasionally troubled by dreams of full lips pulled into a wicked smirk, wide hips, strong, capable arms, and a firm, commanding voice. And magnificent breasts; he certainly couldn't forget them. He had just awakened from one of those dreams, damp with sweat and achingly hard, to a persistent tapping at the window above his bed. Before his arousal-fogged brain remembered that he was living in a fifth-storey flat, he heaved the window open. A whoosh and a flap and three seconds later he found himself nose-to-beak with a rather large, one-eyed owl.

Dudley tried to bolt, but, being knotted in the bedclothes, managed only to dislodge the owl and crash to the floor. The owl ruffled its feathers and spat out a rumpled piece of parchment that landed on Dudley's face.

Dudley Dursley,
I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm in a bit of a bind. You said that you knew how to make people buy stuff, which is exactly what's not happening in the shop I run. The situation's getting rather desperate. If you could spare a few minutes of your time, I would be very grateful if you would write me a few suggestions as to how I could better promote my wares.
Cyclops will wait for your reply.
Millicent Bulstrode
PS Don't let him near your sock drawer.

Dudley looked up belatedly to see the last of his clean dress socks disappearing into the owl's ravening maw. Its head swiveled as if searching the room for another tasty treat. On an impulse, he scribbled a note on the back of the parchment and brandished it at the bird, which snatched it up in its beak and flew back out the window.

Millicent,
Will not have your bloody bird destroying my flat. Will advise in person.
Dudley
PS I hope he gets indigestion.

****
Dudley nearly missed the entrance to Knockturn Alley. In the bright sunshine it was no longer menacing, and a few cheerful witches bustled down the street without so much as a glance behind them. He had wrapped up his work for a florist the previous day, and there were no engagements on the immediate horizon, so he was free for as long as he chose. He had a practiced excuse waiting on his lips, but really, the foremost thought in his mind was to determine whether the woman who tantalized his dreams bore much resemblance to the woman with the voracious bird. Also, very, very, very deep down, he felt a small tug of curiosity. As a child, his fear had always stamped out any curious impulses he may have had towards magic, but now the chance to be in charge and investigate it on his own terms was strangely inviting.

Faded enchanted lettering flickered feebly above her shop door. The Cockatrice. Curled around the words was a baleful dragonish sort of beast puffing little clouds of smoke into the air. Dudley pushed the door open and stepped into the dingy shop.

"Mind your head!" Millicent's warning rang out just before a metal projectile struck him between the eyes. He swatted at it and captured it with ease. Examining the object without releasing it was a bit tricky, but what he saw was curious indeed.

"Millicent, what sort of shop is this?" If he had paid more attention to his psychology professor, he might have been able to dismiss it as a product of his sexually frustrated imagination, but Dudley was certain he was not imagining the item that was trying to wriggle out of his grip.

"We sell a lot of . . . relational aids and products for self-gratification." Millicent had never been anything but blunt, and the past eight years had cured her of any lingering prudishness, but having him standing there, his massive hand nearly engulfing a silver phallus, its wings fluttering ineffectually against his wrist, was unnerving her more than she'd thought possible.

"You run a sex shop."

"It's not--"

"You," Dudley interjected, "run a sex shop."

Annoyed that she had allowed herself to be rattled, Millicent thrust out her jaw and assumed a petulant scowl to regain her composure. It had been her dominant facial configuration throughout school, and her features assumed it almost before she noticed.

Attempting to deflect her attention from his apparent faux pas, he asked, "Why does it have wings?"

Millicent snapped, "Doesn't yours?"

Dudley stared at her. Then he laughed and surprised himself by saying, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I wasn't quite expecting . . . this." The words just slipped over his tongue like butter. He'd never had much to do with apologising, but it hadn't been difficult at all, and the resultant softening of her glower was more than enough of a reward.

"The ancient Romans thought they provided protection and good luck. Most witches find better uses for them, though."

"I imagine a flock of these would be pretty effective against burglars, if only you could train them to recognise friend from foe." She allowed a faint upwards twitch of her lips, so he pressed on. "So what, exactly, is the problem with your shop?"

"First of all, it's not mine. When I left school, my aunt asked me if I would keep the place open while she ran off to travel the world with an old flame. I thought it would be a few months, maybe a year, but it's been eight years--eight years I've tried to run the shop without knowing the first thing about business! Every few months they send me a box of crystallised pineapple and a lewd picture of them in a new location. Just last week, they were moonbathing, nude, on the Great Wall of China." She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. "I still don't know how to turn a profit, we've been burgled three times in the last year, and now, my Gringotts vault is nearly empty. However, I do know more about the intimate details of wizarding sexual practices than I ever imagined possible."

Dudley was already appraising the interior of the shop. Dusty and dark, with merchandise jumbled haphazardly about, it was a right mess. It wasn't the sort of job he usually took on. Yet Millicent had awakened some deep-buried, hitherto-undiscovered sense of chivalry within him that insisted he do something. She seemed the sort of woman liable to answer chivalry with a swift knee to his privates, so he wisely kept that sentiment to himself.

"Can you close the shop for a week? I think we could put it to rights in about that time."

"Look, I told you, I don't have any money to pay you."

"You don't have to. You helped me out, and this is how I can pay you back."

She acquiesced with little protest, which Dudley took to be a sign of how dire her situation really was.

Millicent spent the rest of the day acquainting Dudley with the most popular items in the store. For lunch she fixed a plate of sandwiches, which he shared with Millicent, three cats, two black rats, and an earless white rabbit. To Dudley's relief, they were not joined by Cyclops, who was undoubtedly out terrorising some poor widow's wash. When the sun began to set, she walked with him back to the Leaky Cauldron, where he arranged to let a room for the week.

****
The week flew by in a flurry of activity. Cleaning took an entire day, even with the Everclean feather duster Millicent borrowed from the taxidermist next door that busied itself swabbing every surface in the shop, assiduously dusting even the rabbit dozing in a corner. The next day, they started on the monumental task of rearranging the shop. This was Dudley's forte, and he set to it with cheery enthusiasm.

"When customers first step into the shop, what's the first thing you want them to see?"

"Prophylactics, I guess. That's what most people come here for."

"Wrong! That's the last thing you want them to see. If they're right here, that'll be the only thing they see. They'll grab a packet, go straight to the register, and be on their way without ever noticing--or buying--anything else." An excited grin lit his round face as he launched into teaching mode. "We'll put them in the back along the wall, just barely visible from the door. The first thing a customer sees should be an eye-catching display that gets changed frequently. Something in a modest price range. Hmmm. . . ." He scanned the nearby shelves and then pointed to an array of tiny pastel tins that glowed with a softly pulsating light. "What about those?"

"Unguents for the Incautious. There's a tin for everything from rope-burn to love potion overdose to Pustulating Pestilence."

"Er, then maybe not. You don't want to scare them off before they have their fun."

After several more suggestions--rejected for being too tame, too kinky, and too unapologetically canine, respectively--they settled on creating a display of sparkling Amorous Amulets that quietly whispered lewd suggestions amongst themselves.

Dudley continued to set up small displays throughout the shop, all the while explaining the rationale behind each decision. By midweek, Millicent started to make suggestions of her own.

****
As they worked together, Millicent began to notice that Dudley was rather easy to fluster. All it took was a finger or two lingering over the knobbly head of a soapstone Priapus or a slanted gaze catching him ogling the cover of Burton's Illustrated Kama Sutra for the Outsize Witch and Wizard. It was cruel, perhaps, but watching his plump cheeks redden with embarrassment as he choked on his words sent warm tendrils twining through her. It was a sensation she found herself craving with an alarmingly increasing frequency.

****
Dudley had never had much fondness for laughter. In school it had usually been at his expense or at a joke he hadn't been quick enough to understand. His Smeltings stick, and, later, his fists and his gang, had gone a long ways to eliminating the most blatant laughing, but nothing could curb the sniggering behind his back or just out of reach. Millicent didn't titter behind her hand or giggle under the guise of fake coughs. She smirked, bold as brass, and sometimes she laughed. Millicent had a warm, rumbling laugh that brought to Dudley's mind some scrap of a poem he'd had to memorize years ago.

It was almost as if he had absorbed some of the magic that spangled the air of this strange, new world--a magic he could control. He could make her laugh, not at him, but with him.

****
Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, Dudley had just carried a case of Bertie Bott's Body Paint (in Many Flavour, Nearly Every Flavour, and Really Every Flavour varieties) up the creaking stairs from the auxiliary stores in the cellar. He'd had to hoist the case up first and then squirm through the rather small trapdoor into the storage room. As he picked up the crate, he looked up to see Millicent staring at him from the doorway. There was a peculiar expression on her face, and he couldn't discern whether it was disgust or curiosity or something else entirely. He had enjoyed covertly watching her wriggle her hips through the opening not two minutes previous, but that was a completely different matter.

In his haste to escape, he failed to take note of a faint whirring sound travelling in his direction. He stepped on something that rolled out from under his foot, and he tumbled backwards with his arms flailing. Tins of body paint soared through the air and clattered to the floor all around him. Dudley himself was less fortunate; having fallen rear-first into the still open trapdoor, he got stuck partway through. He struggled soundlessly, eyes wide with panic. His arms were pinned at the elbows, his legs couldn't get enough leverage to pry himself out, and he was well and firmly wedged.

Millicent quickly ascertained that assistance from above would be futile, so she Apparated into the cellar below. She savoured one long look to fix the image in her memory for a private review later that night, and then set to work. With careful fingers, she tucked his love handles through the splintery frame, and then put her hands and a shoulder to his buttocks and pushed him free. Dudley could have sworn that he felt a gentle squeeze, but he was too relieved that she hadn't laughed to think about much else.

Upon reappearing in the storage room, Millicent knelt and patted the floor near where the whirring noise had settled. Finally, she grasped a handful of air in triumph. "I think you've found an invisible vibrator."

Eager to deflect attention from himself, Dudley quickly asked, "Why would you want an invisible vibrator?"

"I don't want invisible vibrators--they're a blasted nuisance. Every once in a while, some prankster feels the need to relocate them. Even worse, this lot had defective activation charms. Every time a door slammed, they switched on and vibrated themselves off the shelf. They drove the cats batty. This is the only one I couldn't find." She shrugged. "But they're handy if you don't want someone to know you have one, or you want to surprise your lover."

Dudley sniffed. It seemed to be a most unpleasant surprise as far as he was concerned.

****
With the last few Galleons in Millicent's Gringotts vault, they designed and owled a hundred promotional flyers announcing the grand reopening of The Cockatrice to her aunt's preferred customer list, which Millicent had found in a pile of well-thumbed issues of Mature Magic: Sex for the Hundred-Plusses.

Opening morning found Millicent nervously taking stock of the novelty potions, while Dudley rearranged the goblin-made chastity belt in the display case for the third time in as many minutes.

The first customer of the day arrived five minutes after opening. She was a tall, stately witch with the bearing of a maiden aunt, and Dudley could not have imagined a more unlikely patron if he had tried.

"Headmistress!" Millicent abandoned her task and hurried to the counter, allowing some untethered tubes of Levitation Lotion to drift lazily away from their shelf.

"I used to visit your aunt's shop on a monthly basis," the tall witch said. She looked around appreciatively. "I don't know why I ever stopped. Now, she used to have some items for centaurs. Do you still have a non-human creatures section?" She returned a few minutes later with a cock ring that Millicent could have worn as a bracelet and a salacious grin. She also purchased several flavours of Delilah's Delicious Dildos as morale boosters for her female teachers. "They're feeling overworked and understaffed," she said, winking at Dudley, who was beginning to wonder what sort of a school it was that she ran.

He had little time to wonder, though, as a red-haired wizard hurried through the door and asked where he might find restraints "suitable for vigourous sexual congress." Dudley tried not to stare at his cheery yellow prosthetic ear and directed him towards a moving display where silk scarves, leather belts, iron manacles, and self-tying, non-chafing ropes demonstrated their particular features.

By the end of the day, Millicent and Dudley were tired, though it was a weariness shot through with satisfaction. More people had stopped by than either one had anticipated, business had been brisk, and Dudley was sure that he must have seen the entire redheaded population of the wizarding world.

One last time, Millicent accompanied him to the door of the Leaky Cauldron. As he reluctantly took his leave, she once more offered him her thanks for spending so much time and effort on her shop.

"Don't worry. It was . . ." He hesitated. No problem? Repayment for a favour? More fun than I've had in years? ". . . my pleasure." He attempted a suave, smoldering look, but wound up squinting down his nose at her. She smiled and handed him a wrapped package, instructing him to open it as soon as he reached his room.

As the door to his room swung shut behind him, Dudley tore at the paper, revealing a book. It was Burton's Illustrated Kama Sutra for the Outsize Witch and Wizard, bound in luxuriously soft black leather with silver embellishments, and he felt a little guilty that it had probably cost more than he had earned in the past six months. He quickly overcame that, however, as the cover featured a black-haired witch who closely resembled Millicent, though wonderfully unclothed and enthusiastically making love to a blond man. She had curves in all the right places and then some, and he could have spent hours watching her ample flesh bounce and jiggle in time with the man's energetic thrusts. The wizard in the picture seemed vaguely familiar, as well, and Dudley wished he had half the man's confidence. His paunch was easily as large as Dudley's, not that the witch seemed to mind. She stroked it and kneaded it and grabbed it as she climaxed with wild abandon.

Inside the cover, scrawled in Millicent's heavy hand, was a note.

Dudley,
I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me, but consider this a start. I must admit that this is a rather selfish gift, as I get wet just imagining the look on your face when you unwrapped this book. To collect your next installment of my gratitude, place your thumb over the serpent on the last page and you will be Portkeyed to my bedroom. I've a mind to explore page 13 together, but anything would be lovely so long as you're there.
Yours,
Millicent

Well, there was certainly no mistaking her interest now. Before he could make it to page thirteen, though, there was something he had to do. With careful deliberation, he unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, and folded it over the back of a chair. He knew that if he couldn't face himself, he certainly wouldn't be able to stand in front of her, so he turned to the full-length mirror and looked--really looked--trying to see himself with her eyes.

As he had told Millicent, he had made peace with his face some time ago. With the flush of arousal still pinking his cheeks, he conceded to himself that, while not strictly handsome, there was something appealing in his countenance he wished he could have seen years earlier. Moving his gaze downward, he saw the sight that greeted him in every mirror. He was broad of shoulder and chest and everything else. He'd been that way since his first squalling breath, and it wasn't likely to change any time soon.

Averting his eyes from his middle, he surveyed his legs, sturdy pillars that supported his weight easily. Unlike the stifling monotony of Little Whinging, London was an exciting hodgepodge of buildings and people, and he had developed a penchant for exploring the city on foot whenever he had the chance. He walked everywhere he could, in all weather, building powerful muscles beneath the smooth flesh.

A few silvery scars curled around the gentle swell of his sides. He knew there were more--his back felt a bit like a lunar landscape--so it was just as well he couldn't see any farther around. And yet. . . . He fingered one of the ridges thoughtfully. They were a testament to his fortitude and a remembrance of meeting Millicent. With that simple revelation, they were no longer disfiguring, but rather somehow adorning.

Finally, he turned his gaze to his midsection. His stomach curved gracefully from his breastbone to droop over his tightly cinched belt. He caressed it with a tentative hand, hefting it here, squeezing it there, exploring it with the wonder of discovery. It was warm and pliant against his palms, and he was nearly overcome with the pure sensuality of it all.

And then it happened.

For the first time in his life, he liked the reflection he saw in the mirror. He was desirable; he was desired. And with that heady realisation glowing warm within his chest, Dudley donned his shirt, picked up the book, and flipped to the last page.