Chapter Text
Ron’s Lemon
Ingredients:
- One recently-repaired 1950 VW Bug
- Three young adult wizards
Instructions:
- Place wizards into automobile and wait, preferably behind a large wall or other shield.
- Hope for the best
- Serve cold (no working heater).
“Don’t forget to signal! Signal!”
Hermione’s hand tightened on the handle above the car window. Harry, leaning between the two front seats to look out the dashboard, felt himself heave to the side.
“I am signaling!”
“No, those are your hazards!”
Hermione’s other hand was on her wand. Harry, briefly, weighed it in his mind; on the list of the most dangerous things he’d done, this probably outpaced both fighting Voldemort and trying to outfly a dragon.
“Ron, the light!”
At Hermione’s reminder, Ron skidded to a stop just after the corner, throwing Harry forward; his seatbelt caught him just before he went over the divider entirely.
“I don’t see why I can’t just go, even if the light is red,” said Ron. He was the only one who hadn’t been thrown forward. Hermione, in the corner of Harry’s vision, seemed to be torn between checking her seatbelt or looking for her wand, which had slipped from her hand as they came to a stop. They were sitting at a crosssroads in the suburbs outside of London, the sun just beginning to set. “No one’s out here, anyway.”
The stop was indeed empty; Harry felt very thankful for it. It meant they were unlikely to run into anything, even if Ron’s focus was mainly on arguing with Hermione and fixing the radio.
“Because it’s illegal! You can’t just run lights, you could get fines or penalty points.”
“He doesn’t have a license, so I reckon it’s illegal either way,” said Harry, who agreed on the point of traffic violations but felt like Ron needed a bit of a boost. Ron’s ears were getting a bit red, and his fingers were making a dent in the already-maligned steering wheel cover.
“I’d like to see a muggle auror try and give me a penalty,” said Ron. “If Madame Hooch couldn’t make one stick I don’t think some random bloke is going to, even if they have their gonnes.”
“That’s only the Americans, Ron, they’ve just got batons here,” said Hermione. “Let’s take a right, you could use some practice on your roundabouts.”
“What about my roundabouts?”
“Well, it’s just that you could do with turning a little smoother…”
The car squeaked threateningly as Ron peeled out of the light. “I drive just as smoothly as anyone! Harry’s not complaining- are you, Harry?”
“No, it’s great. Er, fantastic, really.”
Ron turned around to face Harry. “It’s just like second year, eh? Only this time the car’s a bit smaller… do you reckon if I added a second extension charm-“
“Ron!”
Hermione’s shriek was louder than before, but it didn’t take effect- not before a loud thump sounded and Ron slammed on the brakes. This time, Harry’s seatbelt didn’t hold, and he ended up knocking heads with Ron as he was completely thrown forward, body strewn across the center console.
“Oh, Merlin, I think you’ve killed someone!” Hermione threw open the passenger side door, jumping out and grabbing for her wand.
“I’ve what?”
Harry grabbed for his glasses, which had a crack on one of the lenses now, and scrambled over the console and out the same open door. Ron followed, the driver’s side door slamming shut petulantly (A habit it had acquired after Percy spent an afternoon attempting to magic the locks back to working order.).
Hermione was kneeling over the prone body of a boy- man, really- that seemed to be about their age, muttering anxiously under her breath as she worked to push him off the front of the car. “Help me out, I can’t lift him myself! He’s too heavy!”
The muggle they’d hit had watery blonde hair, leather jacket over muscley arms, and was muttering to himself as well, indistinct words.
Ron looked back and forth a couple of times, then pulled out his wand and pointed it towards the muggle. “Er, he should be a bit lighter now.”
“Thanks-“
Harry moved forward, helping Hermione lift the bloke up- he was almost all muscle, no wonder he’d brought the car to a stop- and tipped him over onto his back. That, however, was where Harry stopped being helpful.
Because this wasn’t just any muggle bloke. This was-
“…Harry?”
Dudley Dursley.
“Oh, bugger.”
“Well,” said Hermione, “I don’t think anything’s actually broken, so that’s quite lucky on your part. And it’s good that you’re already approved to know about the wizarding world, otherwise this may have been quite a shock.” She put away her wand; Dudley, where he was sat on the curb, seemed to still be a bit shell-shocked.[1]
“Yeah, erm, thanks…”
“And I am sorry about Ron, he’s just getting used to driving and I suppose he’ll take this as a hint to be more observant.” This was punctuated by a sharp glance towards Ron, who admittedly did look a bit guilty.
“Yeah, it’s on me, sorry mate.” Ron held out a hand.
“It’s, er, fine.” Dudley shook Ron’s hand, somewhat awkwardly. Harry had a strong sense of Déjà vu- was this how uncomfortable it had looked that afternoon he’d left the Dursleys?
“Anyway, I really ought to be going-“
“I really feel irresponsible just sending you off,” said Hermione. “You could come over for dinner, if you’d like? It would make me feel better to be able to observe you at least overnight, after a blow to the head like that.”
“Well, I-“
“And it’s been so long since you’ve seen Harry-“ Hermione glanced over at Harry, who felt a rush of regret about their last pub night, where he’d brought up that Dudley had been less shit the last time they’d spoken[2]. “That it would really be unfortunate if we left you out here, don’t you think?”
“Erm-“
“And if you’re worried about magical means of transportation, we’ll be driving back, so it ought not to be a problem at all.” She paused. “I’ll be at the wheel, so you shouldn’t worry about that, either.”
“I-“ Dudley paused. “Yeah, all right. I’ll just need to call my mate Pierce, if you don’t mind waiting for a moment.”
When no one made an objection (given that Harry and Ron were currently making confused eye contact and Hermione was glaring at them both, as if challenging them to make a comment), Dudley dug around in his messenger bag, pulling out a black blocky thing and dialing a number.
“Yeah, erm, I’ll be staying with my cousin tonight- funny story, really, I’ll catch you up later… yeah? Well, say hello…”
As Dudley spoke in the background, Harry and Ron crept over towards Hermione- Ron the first to break, as always.
“Hermione, what are you thinking? Harry’s relatives are terrible, it’ll be like Percy staying over all over again!” Ron hissed.
“Harry said he wasn’t as terrible as usual, when he left, don’t you remember? And we’ve just run him over! The least you could do is offer him a place to stay!”
“He’s already GOT a place to-“
Dudley hung up, placing the blocky thing- some sort of remote phone, apparently- into his pocket. “All right?”
“Yeah, of course! I was thinking you could be in the back with Harry, and Ron and I will be up in the front!” Hermione grinned, but it was the sort of grin with a lot of teeth, and it was definitely mostly aimed at Ron.
As far as car rides went, it wasn’t Harry’s most awkward.[3] However, it did take a close second. The entire way back to Grimmauld place, shoulder pressed firmly to Dudley’s- An extension charm could only do so much- the only conversation they managed was a brief question about how Dudley was feeling (“fine, thanks”) and if he was allergic to anything (“no, ta”).
As they pulled up to the house, Hermione parking smartly next to the curb, it occurred to Harry that Grimmauld Place- being a wizarding house- may not actually be visible to Dudley.
“Dudley, can you see number twelve?”
There was a pause. Then- “No. Am I- meant to?”
“Ah, bollocks.”
Hermione hummed thoughtfully from the front seat. “Sorry, we’ve not brought a muggle here before- squibs are different, and frankly I think it’s very interesting as a nature versus nurture question, you know, are they actually just capable of seeing magic because their eyes have been open to it their whole lives, you know- but, erm, I’m sure we’ll manage. Perhaps- Harry, maybe you could hold his hand, and lead him up the steps?”
Harry could think of very few things he’d like less than holding Dudley’s hand and guiding him up the stairs to a place he lived, but he supposed he would live. “Yeah, mind your step.”
Dudley’s grip was firm, his presence a lurking gaze on the back of Harry’s hand as they made it up the steps. His forehead was furrowed in concentration. One step, then two- and then Harry grabbed onto the knocker and swung open the front door. Dudley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh!”
“Can you see it, then?” Hermione closed the car door, following them up the steps.
“It was weird and fuzzy till he opened the door,” said Dudley. “It’s all clear now, though. It’s a- magic house, then?”
“Well,” Hermione said, “It’s an enchanted house, although some scholars argue that long-term magical residence can imbue structures with excess magical energy that can give them a sort of magical presence of their own, so to speak.”
Dudley looked blank at this, but nodded in all the right places; Harry could sympathize, given he’d spent 7 years of his life doing the same thing.
“You can put your coat here, careful not to disturb the curtain- and, erm, the kitchen is through here.” Harry paused, watching Ron enter the house and close the door, tapping twice on the bell they’d hung up near the door to let Mrs. Weasley know they were back safe; she got a bit twitchy when they went out with the car- something about Mr. Weasley and the Ford Anglia in 1984.
It was all a bit surreal, really; like all of the bits of his life, past and present, were interfering with each other. Hanging up Dudley’s leather jacket, Harry decided to do damage control and follow him into the kitchen.
Once he was sure that Dudley was sitting peacefully at the kitchen table, Harry opened the pantry door and stared in, hopefully. While the house never generated food itself- something about Gamp’s laws of elemental transfiguration, if you listened to Hermione- it would occasionally get pissy and get rid of whatever was in the pantry.
“Oh, you’re down here!” Hermione poked her head through the doorway, looking down the steps. “How is it, Harry?”
“Nothing.”
“I bet it was the bloody floor re-staining,” called Ron- it seemed he was still in the foyer. “It’s been waiting for us to leave so it could get rid of everything.”
“Oh, you don’t think so? But they look beautiful!”
“This house has no taste, it was built by the Blacks[4]. Reckon it still misses the house elf heads.” There was a pause while they all mulled that one over, ended by Ron coming round to look down over Hermione’s shoulder. “I vote we order in. I can’t be arsed to cook.”
“Oh, I suppose… I am sorry, Dudley, usually we’re a bit more organized.”
Harry shut the pantry door a bit more firmly than usual, then turned up towards them with a sigh. “Right, who’s placing the order?”
“Ron and I can do it, if you’d like to catch up!” Hermione, perhaps sensing that this was not actually what Harry would like to do, didn’t bother waiting for a response, instead disappearing back into the foyer. Ron followed, his distinctive footsteps getting softer as they both went out the front door.
Feeling as if he owed Dudley an explanation, Harry cleared his throat. “Er, we need to place orders from outside the front door. Otherwise deliveries can’t find us…”
“Yeah, yeah.”
There was another long silence. Harry broke first.
“So, er, what were you doing in Surrey, anyway? Didn’t Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon move out after all the, er, business?”
“Oh, they did.” Dudley paused, looking as if he were thinking something over. “Er, I’m not actually speaking to them, at the moment. Pierce offered to let me stay with him while I try and figure things out.”
“How in Merlin’s name did you piss them off that badly?”
The concept of this was so bewildering that Harry actually found himself getting up to make tea without really thinking about it[5]. As he attempted to get the kettle to sit right, Dudley sighed.
“I- well, I want to go to culinary school, and mum and dad aren’t especially… excited about it.” He scratched at the bottom of his chin. “Big blow up, really.”
There was something mean in Harry that absolutely delighted in the fact that Dudley- perfect Dudders- had managed to piss off Aunt Petunia enough that she had kicked him out. Yet another part was entirely bewildered.
“So they just- what, threw you out?”
“Well, I told them they could either accept my dreams, or I would go out on my own and I didn’t need them?” Dudley paused. “Course, I didn’t actually have a plan, so…” He spread his hands out. “I think they figured I’d show up after a day or so, but I do actually have mates- I’ve been sleeping on couches, mostly. Friends from boxing, secondary, you know.”
Dudley Dursley. Proving his parents wrong by rebelling and going to culinary school. Who would have thought?
“So you’re doing all right, then?”
“Well, I’m not homeless, but…” Dudley frowned. “Without my job at Grunnings, I’m a bit… broke. I can’t afford rent and culinary school, and transportation is a bloody pain. I was actually walking round trying to think of how to crawl back.” He paused. “And why am I telling you all this? Christ, Harry, sorry. Didn’t mean to spill all that on you.”
“I think I just have one of those faces,” said Harry. Then, slowly, something dawned on him. “So, you were- what, about to call them? Ask them to take you back?”
“Yeah- I mean, I probably still will do, after dinner.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“You just need somewhere to live, right? In London?” Harry paused, threw out his arms. “You’ve got one.”
“But-“Dudley scrubbed at his face with a large palm. “Harry, you don’t like me. Or you shouldn’t, at least.”
“A bit, yeah,” said Harry, “But I like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon less. And I reckon they deserve to know you can live without them.”
“You’re serious. I could move here.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got a spare room, and the busses do come round the corner down the side road.” Harry placed a cup of tea in front of Dudley, holding his own mug between his hands to keep them warm. “What do you say? Are you in?”
A brief moment passed as Dudley looked down at the mug of tea- and then, smile widening, he looked up. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
A small hand met a large one, and Harry and Dudley shook hands for the second time. Harry felt the same swooping excitement he’d felt when he’d handed off the money to Fred and George for their joke shop. This might be a disaster, but it would most certainly be interesting.
“I hope you like Indian, Dudley!”
A clatter on the steps, and Hermione entered the kitchen. She frowned, looking between Harry and Dudley. “Is there something going on?”
“Dudley’s moving in,” said Harry. “Did you get samosas?”
Footnotes
[1] Or (VW) bug-shocked.
[2] Hermione as designated apparator was very dangerous, as she took it as an opportunity to ask about how you were really doing.
[3] That went to the time he’d spent in the backseat as Petunia and Vernon tried to escape the letters from Hogwarts.
[4] Incorrect- it was built by Muggles, although the Blacks certainly didn’t like that story floating around.
[5] Potentially a habit picked up via osmosis from Molly Weasley