The pub was steeped in history. That is to say, it was dingy, sooty, and desperately in need of renovation. This was not the kind of bar where those on the up and up boozed and schmoozed with their betters, trying to make a good impression and climb that corporate ladder. It wasn't even a middle class dive. This was the kind of seedy joint where the air was full of the ever present smell of stale tobacco and cheap booze. Unlike most scents that lessened with time and eventually faded out of awareness, it was the kind of scent that continuously wafted back with the circulation of the rattling ceiling fans, ever pervasive and potent.
It was the scent of withered, rotted dreams.
Vernon Dursley sat hunched in a shadowy corner booth at the back of the pub, clenching his whiskey flask in both hands and fiercely glaring at any patron who came remotely close to him. When no one approached, he glared instead at the dust and dirt caking the caulking on the wall. Petunia would have never let him live in such squalor and filth as he did now. She would certainly have never allowed him to enter such an establishment. But after all the years they'd spent together and the child they shared, she had decided to leave him for good.
It happened gradually. Ever since Dudley was attacked by dementitors, or whatever they were called, Vernon had felt more than ever like danger was encroaching on their family from all sides. They soon found that thanks to that bloody freak Harry Potter, violent freaks and hellish monsters would always be threatening them and coming after them. It was no wonder he had turned to alcohol to calm his nerves and constant paranoia. Between the multiple relocations the wizards had put their family through, recreational drinking had been the only thing holding him together.
His resume looked terrible thanks to his abrupt departure from Grunning's after their urgent relocation. Then there was also the long period he was unemployed while they were on the run. When it was finally safe to settle down again, no one wanted to hire him. Without gainful employment, he couldn’t keep the family afloat.
Selling the house had brought in income to tide things over, but between food, lodging and alcohol, there was very little left.
Then Petunia up and divorced him. After she took half of their remaining assets, of course. Apparently she only valued him while he was bringing in a stable salary, and that little vow about "for better or for worse" had only been for show.
"Hello," said a voice close to him, jolting him out of his darkening downward mental spiral. "Pardon me, but I believe we have met before. I'm Cornelius Fudge." He held his hand out for a handshake.
Vernon furrowed his brow still further at the hand of this new, unwelcome guest. The man did seem vaguely familiar. He wore a top hat with a crisp, brown, tailored three piece suit that made him stand out like a sore thumb among the mostly disheveled and sloshed patrons.
"You may recall there was a certain unpleasantness a few years back with your sister unfortunately being blown up like a balloon. Dreadful business, that. I believe I paid you a house visit to straighten things up."
Vernon could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. He knew he must be turning nearly purple with rage. It was one of them, another one of those freaks showing up where he thought he would be safe from them and their lot. Just when he thought his night wouldn't get any worse, here came the bloody cherry on top to crown it all.
Now with the reminder, though, he belatedly realized he remembered this man's house visit very clearly. His anger subsided somewhat. Yes, all freaks were scum, but this particular one wasn't so bad of a sort. Petunia hadn't felt comfortable around the bloke the entire time he was there, but for a freak the man had seemed surprisingly reasonable. His voice had a pleasant tenor, pleasing to the ear, almost like a salesman but more genteel.
"In high profile cases," Fudge had explained, "I like to make a personal appearance. Smooth things over a bit and make it right." Make it right, he did. That the smoothing over was to the tune of 20,000 pounds also helped a great deal in his favor. None of that pussyfooting around and charity work talk that Dumblebumble bloke liked to toss about as easy as he breathed. They naturally still hadn't been overjoyed at having to keep that Potter brat over the summers, but they weren't going to turn down that kind of cash.
After the way those dementior monsters attacked his son a few years later and the way his life had been destroyed afterward, he wished he'd found a way to relocate the brat, cash be damned. He didn't blame this man in particular, though. He had heard Fudge nearly landed him in freak jail after the dementiator attack, and rightly so.
Belatedly he shook the man's hand. It was warm and dry, not at all unpleasant, and a little smaller than his own.
"I remember," Vernon muttered gruffly. "The name's Vernon Dursley. What business do you have with me?" For talking with one of those freaks, this was Vernon being almost friendly.
"No business. It's my pleasure. May I take a seat?"
Vernon frowned. Naturally the thought of sitting with a freak turned his stomach, but this one at least was a more reasonable sort and he didn't look freakish on the outside. "It's a free country," he grunted and gestured to the free chair.
The man's smile took Vernon aback for a moment. Full white teeth and sparkling eyes and dimples like a model on the cover of an unsavory magazine. He'd never seen a man with such a bright smile before, and certainly never on his account. When had been the last time anyone at all had expressed joy at spending time in his company?
He reeled his wondering bewilderment back and steeled himself down hard. Didn't know what was wrong with himself today. It had to be a scam. No one smiled so brightly like that unless they were gleefully awaiting a reward at someone else's expense, and he'd be damned if he would let himself be played a fool.
A trace of the smile still lingered at the man's full lips and formed a distracting bow shape that unwittingly drew his gaze. He's a scammer, he's a scammer, Vernon repeated to himself in his head. He took a large swallow of his whiskey. Steady his nerves and all that.
But what could the man possibly be scamming him for? Vernon barely had fifty pounds left to his name. Maybe this man didn't know that, though.
The Potter boy had finally reached adulthood and had gone off to be some kind of junior oral police officer, whatever the fuck that meant, and Vernon was no longer associated with him in any way, so there was nothing to gain there, either. Maybe Potter had run himself into debt, and the magic mafia thought they could collect it from him?
He scoffed at himself. He was just being paranoid. The things he'd been through will do that to a man.
He was about to ask 'what do you do?' That was the natural instinctual question to ask another man in a public setting to fill a gap in conversation. It was a polite societal way of asking how much money he earned and where he stood in the social pecking order without beating around the bush.
Now he hesitated. Ever since he lost his director position at Grunnings, he was no longer in a good place. He no longer had that enviable place up the corporate ladder that he could brag from and look down on everyone else beneath him.
He looked down at himself and self-consciously picked at the frayed edge of his sleeve. It had once been a good quality polo shirt and one of his favorites, but now he suspected it stank. It was definitely stained. When was the last time he had bothered to go to a laundromat? He didn't remember. Everything blurred in a haze of drinking and regret and hating everyone and he was sure he had to look a mess. Sitting in front of this well dressed and charmingly classy gentleman, he felt vile. Yet another thing to blame that freak for.
Fudge smiled at him again. "I would like to make a proposal to you. I would be honored if you would choose to join me up in my room. I have a bit of top shelf whiskey up in my room and high quality liquor is best shared among good company. It far surpasses the best drivel they serve down here, I assure you," he winked conspiratorially at Vernon with a grin.
He felt his eyes prickle and looked away to hide the sudden, unexpected vulnerability he felt.
He hadn't expected that the simple act of being included as a worthy companion by someone of quality would make him feel so exposed and raw.
Being worthy was something he had long taken for granted. He had always been top dog, or when not, he had faith that he soon would be when his obvious talents were recognized. Realising how expendable he had been, both at work and at home, had shaken him to his core.
Since pub alcohol was expensive, even at a cheap place like this, Vernon was seriously considering the offer, even just for that reason alone.
“Okay,” he conceded, with a smile that could easily be mistaken for a grimace, “lead the way.”
And that was how Vernon found himself in Fudge's hotel room, and Fudge couldn't have been more pleased.
——————————————
Fudge had hesitated to say that he had lost his job, no longer being a Minister of Magic or needed by the Ministry in any way. His face was one of the most widely recognized in wizarding Britain, and his frequent and public denial of Voldemort in speeches and the Prophet was credited as the single most powerful accelerant to You-Know-Who’s rise to power. On the down low, he had barely avoided a trial and a one way ticket to Azkaban.
He still had a good bit of money and capital from all the corruption he had taken advantage of while in office but unfortunately not enough to buy back his honor.
Thus he preferred to drink among muggles and avoid judgment from his peers, but anonymity also meant he had no connections with anyone and often went home alone.
He used to have a taste for Umbridge. He preferred his romantic interests to be large and curvy and cruel. But after the centaur incident, she no longer sought out male companionship, and especially not his, ever since he became a person non grata and no longer in a position of power. Vernon, however, fit the bill. And since they already knew each other, it really was perfect.
——————————————
Vernon watched as Fudge poured them two tumblers full from a fancy looking glass bottle of what he called fire whiskey.
“To better days ahead,” Fudge suggested.
The two men tapped glasses and Vernon swallowed a large draught, feeling it burn down his throat and settle like flames in his stomach.
The fiery liquor emboldened him to ask what he had been wondering ever since Fudge sat at his table.
“So. I'll get right to it, then. What I’d really like to know is, why sit with me? And why invite me here?”
“Well, that's easy,” Fudge returned, returning his gaze with an unexpected fervor that made Vernon swallow.
“Your cheeks,” he said, stroking Vernon's soft and yielding cheek with one finger. He flinched back a little and trembled at the contact, but didn't move away. “Your bright eyes.” Vernon scowled at him. “There it is,” Fudge delighted, “your ferocity.”
Vernon felt something he had never felt in his entire twenty-something years of marriage. There was a fluttering in his heart. Even his anger was considered a prize to this man. Here was someone who favored him for the man he was, not the man she wished he would be.
Vernon's grip on his glass weakened and fire whiskey spilled onto his shirt and lap. Even the liquid drenching his skin felt fiery, matching his flaming embarrassment. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been clumsy enough to spill a drink on himself, and now he blew it in front of Fudge, acting like a child. He could feel his cheeks heating up in shame.
"Oh my my,” Fudge said. But Vernon didn't see any judgment or condemnation in his expression. “No matter, let's get you cleaned up."
Fudge took him by the hand and guided him over to the shower. There was that warm hand in his again, causing that strange flipping feeling in his stomach at the contact.
Vernon stripped off his wet shirt and started to unbuckle his belt, but then body self consciousness overtook him, and he shyly wrapped his arms around his stomach to hide his bulk.
Fudge put a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Men can strip in front of each other. There's no shame in it. Just like in a locker room.”
“I…” Vernon felt like there was a frog in his throat preventing him from getting the words out. He felt so much built up shame in that moment. “I… don't look good naked.”
He was especially conscious of the girth of his large stomach. Why had he never considered a gym membership for this one moment when he would desperately need it?
“I don't mind,” Fudge said with a gentle smile. “Not at all.” Vernon wasn't sure he believed it, but the fluttering in his stomach from those words and Fudge’s liquid gaze meeting his made him feel distractingly like his limbs were shaking.
“Here, I'll take mine off, too, see?” Fudge said, pulling his shirt over his head. “Let's strip down. Men can shower together. There's no shame in it.”
Vernon got an eyeful of Fudge's bare chest, not skinny but much more slender than his own, before he had the sense to turn around and give the man some privacy.
He heard clothes rustling and falling to the ground behind him and gulped. He seemed to be the only one having issues with this, so it only made sense to play it cool. He could do this. He was fine.
He pulled his own pants down and awkwardly bent over on one leg to pull off each sock. He didn't dare look in the mirror or at the man just behind him in the cramped hotel bathroom, so close that he swore he could feel the heat radiating from Fudge's skin to his own. Each and every fat roll on his body was fully on display and painfully exposed. He had never once felt this way in front of Petunia. She would frown when she saw his naked body, but it had never bothered him, not like this. She had never been much to look at either, so he hadn't felt lacking like the way he did now.
While Vernon was finishing undressing, Fudge had already stripped down and turned on the hot water, and it was starting to get steamy.
“Pop on over, my good man. I'll wash your coif for you."
He didn't dare look down at Fudge’s package or his own.
This is no big deal, he tried to tell himself. This was just like locker room showers or pissing in a urinal where another man happened to be doing the same thing. This was fine. It was fine, he kept telling himself.
Fudge took Vernon's hand again in his and guided him into the tub. As they stood in the stream, Fudge slicked the vaguely herbal scented hotel shampoo through Vernon's thin, balding hair and stroked it into a lather, rubbing his scalp with dexterous fingers in a way that made him feel hot from more than just the heat of the shower water running down his body.
Vernon gasped, feeling an unexpected response from down there as well.
"No shame," Fudge repeated, pressing his own body close up against Vernon's so that his own growing erection pushed up between Vernon's bum cheeks.
Vernon's panicked holler at the bold contact was stifled by a gentle hand over his mouth and the other hand grabbing him firmly by the cock.
"No shame," the breathy voice repeated into the nape of his neck, and Vernon could feel the nubs of the man's wet nipples pressed against his back, shooting electric currents through his whole body.
Pleasure exploded through Vernon as the man gripped his shaft and stroked the tip of his throbbing member with his thumb, and Vernon temporarily took leave of his senses.
He bit his lip and stifled a moan. Real men were straight. He wasn't a freak. He wasn't an aberration or a queer. This wasn't him. He was normal. He was normal. He was normal... but he wasn't, not anymore. Nothing was normal anymore. Dammit, he hadn't banged even Petunia's skinny ass for more than two years now, and he was lonely, and this charming man was willing.
Having made his decision, he turned himself around and pressed Fudge's hot body and needy lips to his own.
They explored each other's mouths and bodies as they stumbled out of the bathroom and onto the large king size mattress, not caring that they were soaking the bed.
"Wait a moment," Fudge said, extracting himself from Vernon’s limbs and ambling to the clothes pile. He pulled a stick out of his robes and muttered some hushed words toward his own buttocks, resulting in a flash of light and a muted, squelching sound. It was a wand, Vernon realized. There wasn't much time to process that thought before Fudge yanked Vernon's leather belt from his discarded pants and offered it into Vernon's hands.
"I think you know what to do with this."
Fudge glided the tip of it along his own bare back and buttocks and pantomimed a whipping motion.
"My dear Vernon, I have to tell you,” he said with needy, thirsty eyes, “I've been a very… very naughty boy. I'm afraid whipping it out of me is the only way."
Vernon gulped with his eyes flared open wide. He should not be entertaining this, not at all. Sexual relations was one thing, but he was normal. He wasn't a deviant— but his member down under clearly thought otherwise from the way it perked up at full attention.
Vernon pulled the belt taut in his hands and felt the leather texture with his fingertips. This brought back memories.
"Please,” Fudge asked, “may I call you Uncle? You may even pretend that I'm Harry if you wish."
That suggestion unlocked a flood gate of arousal in Vernon that he didn't want to analyze too hard, a rush of unexpected and heady sensation that trembled in him all the way down to his toes. He snapped the belt in the air and the piercing crack vibrated in his ears. It felt good. It felt so right.
Fudge could feel the vibration of that crack in the air deep in his lungs. Just the thrill of the sound of it nearly made him cum right then and there.
"Oh... More Uncle,” he moaned, “Please Uncle, give it to me." The belt slashed down on Fudge, and he writhed in pain and ecstasy.
"Ohhhh, I need this. I need this so much. Beat the freakiness out of me, Uncle."
The pleas for more only made this all the more pleasurable for Vernon. Unlike back then, Harry had never been compliant.
The strikes of the whip beat down on Fudge harder and faster as Vernon roared and lost himself in the moment. He surrendered himself to the rage he always held against that horrible, freakish boy, the rage that had always been buried just barely below the surface, just barely repressed, every minute of every day, just waiting to explode.
Vernon held his cock in his left hand and stroked it in time to the strikes of the whip against that skinny ass, becoming ever harder as he shuddered, nearly losing balance as his knees weakened. Fudge stroked his own underneath him, feeling ever so close to sweet release.
Red welts formed all over Fudge’s back and buttocks, forming a vivid scarlet contrast against his pale white skin. Then Vernon eased his girth into the well oiled hole all the way to the hilt with one strong thrust and began to pound into him with abandon. "Ah! Ah, ah, aahhhhh..." Fudge moaned in pleasure as his seed spilled out all over the cheap hotel comforter beneath him, creating a sticky puddle of ooze that mingled with his seeping blood.
After a short time Vernon came as well, shouting “Fudge!” as he released inside him. When he came down from his high, he leaned on top of him heavily, the sweat-slick skin of his large belly squeezing painfully against the fresh, raw serrations on Fudge's back. The pain of the salt in his wounds from Vernon's sweat felt partly like pleasure in the afterglow of their joining. For a while they both just breathed heavily, taking in the moment.
“...Does this make me a Fudge packer?” Vernon wondered out loud.
"I think after everything we've just done together, it's more than appropriate to call me Cornelius," Fudge said, artfully dodging the question with a tight smile.
“Cornelius…” Vernon said slowly, savoring the syllables as they passed his lips. A content smile bloomed on his lips as well. The use of the man's given name brought even more intimacy to the act they just shared. They had crossed a sacred line together from which there was no return.
Humor crossed Cornelius’ eyes. “I think a shower is in order.”
In the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Cornelius's back looked positively wretched, coated all over in translucent, sticky red.
"I'm sorry," Vernon said in a low voice, looking over his handiwork. "I was too rough."
"Hush, man," Cornelius scoffed teasingly, tapping him on the cheek, "You know I loved every minute of it."
"It's also temporary," he said with a conspiratorial wink. Pulling out his wand and aiming it behind him, he muttered some words and the shredded flesh knitted itself together. Vernon saw him wince as the wounds closed, but then he seemed fine. He normally found all magic repugnant, but even he could see the utility in this.
They washed each other's hair. Vernon was still a bit shy about his body, but Cornelius lathered up every spot, especially his soft, tender stomach where Cornelius lavished extra care. He reassured him, “You've been taken care of your whole life. Let me take care of you.”
Vernon disagreed with that assessment. Petunia may have done a few of the chores and lain with him at night, but he had never been cared for like this. He had never felt cherished.
Cornelius held Vernon's shoulders and pulled him close so that their foreheads were touching and water dripped between their faces. Vernon could feel Cornelius’ steamy breath puffing against his lips as he spoke.
"Even though we have only had this night together, you have become very dear to me."
Vernon shuddered, feeling himself become hard again at his words.
It became a very, very long shower.
——————————————
Vernon woke in the morning to the scent of hot bacon. Cornelius had apparently ordered room service while he was asleep.
“Good morning, Sweetie,” Cornelius said, kissing him on the cheek.
In the light of day, Vernon was dismayed with the situation in which he found himself. His head ached something fierce and he really needed a drink. Sure, hangovers were normal after a night of hard drinking. That wasn't the problem. A small-statured man had prepared him his morning bacon. That part felt somewhat right. He had been used to that freak cooking his breakfast, and this felt similar. He felt massively uncomfortable with everything else, though.
Had this really been a good idea? Cornelius’ status as a freak that had seemed so unimportant after a few pints now was rushing to the forefront of Vernon's mind.
“I was thinking…” Cornelius continued, not noticing Vernon's consternation, “Maybe we should go ahead and move in together. It only makes sense, right?”
To Vernon, even with his lack of funding and questionable housing status, this sounded like far too much, too soon.
Cornelius was looking out the window at the cityscape, but his eyes seemed to be gazing so much further than that, no doubt planning their future together. That thought, which would have overjoyed him last night, now turned his stomach more than the hangover.
“I have a house out in the country,” Cornelius said. “I think we could make a nice home out of it together.”
That thought froze Vernon dead in his tracks. What had seemed like fate by moonlight now seemed like a cabin in the woods horror story— Vernon's mind was entertaining visions of real life crime television specials of himself as a victim being chopped up into small pieces and having his remains separated into eleven different trash bags buried in different, remote, forested locations.
He had truly felt like what they had last night was real, but that in itself was suspicious. Had this freak bewitched him and used him for his own pleasure? Now he felt violated.
He wrapped himself in the bed sheet to hide his naked body from sight and tried to slowly gather up his clothes without making any sudden movements. Didn't want to be spelled into a pig or a mouse or something easy to transport.
“Well, now, what do you think?” Cornelius asked, turning around with that bright, megawatt smile that Vernon remembered so clearly from yesterday. Vernon's less than overjoyed expression clearly dashed his expectations. The smile slipped off his face, leaving dejected disappointment in its wake, and Vernon found himself keenly feeling its loss.
Don't regret it, he told himself. Think of the bags in the woods. He steeled himself against the memory of that smile.
“I think…” he began, uncharacteristically slowly, testing out the waters, and Cornelius’s eyes met his, tentatively hopeful, like he was holding his breath.
Before all this freakishness, back when he had a suburban house with a white picket fence and a steady income and a loyal wife with 1.7 kids (because Dudley was easily worth more than a kid and a half), he had never doubted himself or been anything but confident.
Looking into Cornelius's big, pleading eyes that caught the light, he felt his normally unshakable resolve waver. This night had been a whole long series of first times that he knew he would never forget. But it had to come to an end.
Bags in the woods, he reminded himself.
“I think we need to go our separate ways.”
Too late he realized he had made the world's biggest and most idiotic mistake. You should only try to break up with a potentially dangerous, potentially psychopathic serial killer whom you are romantically entangled with in a public place with plenty of witnesses. Of course he'd smashed right through that rule like a sledgehammer.
Fuck, he mentally hissed. I'm a dead man. He prayed he was just being paranoid, but he hadn't survived for so long in this screwed up world by relying on optimism and cheery world outlooks.
His life flashed before his eyes, disappointment after disappointment, one after the other, until he reached this single moment where for one brief, fucked up night, things had finally felt right.
Cornelius looked at him with shimmering, watery eyes like his heart was shattering into pieces in front of him. Even if this was the end of his life, even if this man would soon be his murderer, Vernon inwardly yearned to be the one to catch those tears.
“Are you sure?" Cornelius's wavering voice hitched, “I-is there nothing I can do to change your mind? I thought that everything was perfect between us. Everything felt so right….”
His words mirrored Vernon's feelings. Vernon didn't know what was the right answer. Should he take this olive branch and pretend to go along with it and attempt a getaway later when his guard was down? Was it merely more freakish bewitchment that created this desperate yearning Vernon felt to pull the trembling man into his arms?
Like two magnets, they were suddenly in each other's arms once more in a passionate lip lock.
The events of the previous night repeated themselves in much the same manner. The bacon sadly grew cold on the plate.
——————————————
So, that happened. Fully dressed and having recovered his resolve, Vernon knew it was time to split and leave this all behind him. "We'll always have Paris," Vernon said. It seemed like the right thing to say when parting from a lover. He'd seen it in a movie once.
Cornelius sighed, resigned. "I guess there's no convincing you. I had really thought this time had been finally right and we were perfectly matched and it really meant something." He paused for a few moments, waiting to see if something in Vernon's eyes would soften and relent. Seeing no change, he sighed again. "Well then. I still don't know what went wrong this time. I was so careful… But no worries about that Paris business and all that. I'll meet you again tonight.”
Vernon didn't have long to wonder what that meant as Cornelius pulled his stick out of his pocket and placed it tenderly against Vernon's temple.
"Obliviate."
Fudge took out Vernon's wallet from the dazed man's pocket and slipped in a 50 pounds bill.
He put his hands on Vernon's soft cheeks and met his vacant gaze. "You will forget everything that happened with me today and yesterday. With your last 50 pounds in your pocket, you will resolve to spend it all on alcohol at the pub. You will avoid all company except mine."