Current mood:	Bored. Beyond. Belief.
Current music:	hum of 16 PC's not being used by the zero patrons here.
Entry tags:	all fic, dudley, gen, harry

Two Weeks
For switchknife's Death Challenge.

Harry, Dudley, Petunia, at Privet Drive. Gen. I'll write something slashy later, but again, I'm stuck at the frickin service desk still, and I can't possibly write the porn out here.

1750 words.
PG13 for language, I guess. Harry's POV, but Petunia's response. I guess. Sigh.


_____________________________________

Two weeks
It was really quite astonishing, Harry thought, looking hopelessly into the refrigerator. In the nine days since Vernon had fallen into his kippers and eggs, clutching his chest, purple face gone blue and gasping his last breath, Dudley had eaten effectively everything in the house. Well, except the snacks from Ron that Hedwig brought to Harry’s window, but those lived under the floorboards and were not going to be shared with his fucking cousin. He wouldn’t starve, though really, a steady diet of chocolate frogs might not be ideal, and he had no interest in trying out a skiving snackbox item without knowing what it would do, especially since Petunia now couldn’t be bothered to do anything but lie on her bed and wail at the injustice of her life. But Dudley, now, actually might go hungry. Unless he broke down and gave him a snackbox.

Harry chuckled yet again at the irony. The only person in the house likely to cook or buy groceries was Harry, and he was the only one literally unable to leave the house, by Vernon’s own demand. He’d allowed Harry back into his home only under the condition, to which Dumbledore had grudgingly agreed, that none of the freaks would come to fetch Harry without advance notice and an arrangement with himself or Petunia that they agreed to. He wouldn’t be having any more fireplace blowouts or conventions of owls, and certainly no flying cars tearing out windows. However, now he was in no condition to make arrangements, of course, and Petunia was too busy wailing and drinking the weak tea she called Harry to bring every few hours, to do any such thing. They’d installed new economy windows last year—double thick and unopenable, but for the one in Harry’s room which leaned out on sturdy hinges just far enough for an owl to slink through in a most unowllike manner—and on the very night before he’d died, Vernon had given his seal of approval to the work done by two men who installed great heavy locks on both the front and back doors, openable only by key, with one of which Dudley and Petunia were each gifted, and Harry was not. “Just because I have to house you for one last bloody summer, I will not be subject to your running about causing trouble. We will decide when you come and go, and you. You will earn. Your. Keep.” He’d punctuated all this with great droplets of spit from his dusky purple lips, and Harry had nodded, accepting the ridiculous restrictions for this one last time. In another two weeks--three then, two now--he’d be seventeen, of age, and able to Apparate out anyway.

So here he was, assessing the contents of the larder, and wondering just what sort of breakfast Petunia and Dudley thought he might make from the items remaining. In the cupboard: the last single-serving tin of tuna, fourteen beef bullion cubes, half a jar of the horrid licorice tea Vernon had favored, an ancient unopened jar of pickled beets. In the icebox: a jar of mustard, four shriveled onions, and several packets grape jelly from a restaurant in town. In the freezer: a frost-petrified half-bag of oven-bake chips, a pound of unsalted butter, and a box of frozen lima beans. It didn’t look promising. Fine, then. He’d have to talk to them.

He climbed the stairs slowly, fingers trailing along the banister and onto the great knob at the top, and knocked on his aunt’s door. There was no response, as expected, but he went in anyway, and shook her bony shoulder. “Aunt Petunia. Aunt Petunia. Come on. There’s no food in the house, and Dudley is hungry.” She didn’t open her eyes, squeezing them rather tighter, and he sighed and went away. He’d telephoned everyone he could think of to ask for some help with her--this couldn’t be a healthy response!--but the neighbors, Aunt Marge, her physician, and even her solicitor all knew his name and had been told never to trust him. The solicitor, in fact, accused him of attempting to have her declared incompetent in order to gain access to her “estate.” Not, the clipped voice had told him, that there was any possibility of that, even one day in the future when she was unable to see to her own affairs. His own friends all believed him, but Dumbledore had given his word they’d not come get him, and a wizard oath is not easily broken. It would take some time, he’d been told. He would wait, then, until his birthday--he had promised, too, not to do anything illegal this last summer--but in the mean time, he needed to get out to buy groceries.

He turned to the bureau. “I’ll just take some money from your handbag, then and see to the groceries myself.” He said it loud enough she certainly heard him, but she still didn’t utter a sound. He picked up the handbag and rummaged through it noisily, emerging with a handful of coins and notes, jingling the coins in his palm. Still nothing. He took this as permission and left the room, turning right to go wake up his cousin.

He didn’t even knock. He just walked right in. “Hey, Dud.”

Dudley pulled his hand sharply out from under the covers, and Harry snickered.

“Won’t have strength to do that much longer without food.”

“What?”

“We’re out of everything. I can make you a tunafish and jelly casserole, with an onion and mustard dressing on the side, but that’s about all that’s left.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dudley’s piggy eyes narrowed in misplaced suspicion.

“Because you need to let me out, you dolt!”

“Why should I?”

Harry rolled his eyes and spoke slowly. “So I can go get you some food.” He refrained from adding you imbecile at the end, though anyone of sense would have seen it in his eyes.

Dudley thought hard. “How do I know you won’t just leave?”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Why should I trust your word, you freak?”

“Don’t know any other words for that? Oddball? Nutter? Madman? Psychopathic degenerate?” Harry paused as Dudley tried to make sense of the conversation. “Fuck. Fine. You can come with.”

“Wait. How do I know you won’t take me to your freak friends and make me eat horrible sweets again?”

“Honestly! First, no one made you eat anything. Second, I actually have horrible sweets in my room, and I haven’t fed them to you yet. Third, you’re going to have to decide. Let me reiterate your choices. One, you can be hungry.” Dudley shuddered, sending his copious redundant flab into quivers which intersected across the various arches and bowed plains of his flesh with horrifying jiggles. “No? Two. You can let me go alone, or Three, you can come with.”

“I’ll come with. An eye has to be kept on you.” Suddenly Dudley’s voice lowered and he sounded horrifyingly like his father. “I’m the man of the house, now.”

“Right. Well. I’ll just go put on some shoes, then. You have time to finish wanking first, if you like.”

“Sod off.”

“I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

--

“My, you really don’t have much stamina, then.”

“Sod off! I didn’t, I mean none of your fucking…”

“Shut it, Dud. Open the bloody door.”

“I’m still not sure about this.”

“Oh, come on. Your mum gave me the money, now let’s go. Or, I could still whip up a beef bullion and licorice tea sauce to dip your petrified chips and lima beans in…”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes. Let’s go. D’you know how to drive?”

“Course, you freak. Regular people do learn that.”

“Yes. And we’re neither of us of age, was why I wondered.”

“Mummy has me drive when we go anywhere.”

“I expect she says you’re excellent at it?”

“Obviously. She says the law was never meant for me.”

Harry found himself entirely unsurprised by this revelation.

--

The trouble was, Harry realized as they arrived at the market, he’d never actually been food shopping before. Dudley had been, plenty of times, and he knew all the important aisles well. Cookies, sweet rolls, crisps…their trolley was piled high with unnecessary food Harry had never tasted before in five minutes.

He was tempted, and he pulled out his wad of notes and realized he had the money. But really, some vegetables, some meat…they really should eat something more substantive. Shouldn’t they?

He headed into the untried aisles and found oatmeal. And tea that wasn’t horrifying. And sugar and lemon and clever hot cocoa packages with dehydrated marshmallows to mix with boiling water. He counted his money again, and bought watermelon and roast beef and a chicken for tomorrow night, rice and potatoes and eggs and bread for toasting. Cheese and apples and fresh crisp broccoli. He piled his selections high in a second trolley, letting Dudley accumulate the other stuff.

They pulled up at the register at the front of the store and Harry touched his cousin’s arm. “Here’s the plan, Dud. I’m paying for all this,” he gestured to both trolleys, “But you have to share the good stuff.”

Dudley looked like he had a different plan, so Harry continued quickly. “Not lots, of course. But some. You know. Last summer together, and besides I cook for you.”

“There is that. Fine. A little bit.”

“Brilliant.”

They paid for their food and went home.

--

Harry put away all the food and set about making breakfast and weak tea.

He took his aunt her change--not much, that--and set the tea by her bedside. “We got lots of good food, Me and Dud,” he said conversationally.

Her eyes flew open. “You took my Duddikins out to the market?”

“Of course. He didn’t trust me alone.”

Petunia leapt out of bed and scrambled into the corridor. “Duddy! Are you all right? Duddy?” She opened his door.

There was startled silence, followed by a wail and the sound of Dudley diving under the covers.

Harry snickered. Apparently Dudley had gone back to his previous activity.

She locked him in his room, then, for despoiling the mind and soul of her precious boy.

Two weeks. He thought, unbolting the floorboard to get out a twinkie and an apple. He’d known Dudley would never share and liberated his portion early. At least he wouldn’t have to cook any more. Two weeks.