Vernon Dursley's Friday Happiness

You’re never going back to that freaking school! You’re never going to suck cock those shaggy friends of yours again! NEVER!

(c) Harry Cooker RYTP

  Vernon Dursley, as a self-respecting member of a decent society with an above-average income, believed that it was necessary to prepare for Friday evening in advance and properly. During the week, making a preliminary forecast by Monday evening, he patiently, piece by piece, built up his Friday happiness so that by the end of the working week he would completely surrender to him. The formula for his Friday happiness—he had developed it himself, perfected it, and therefore was terribly proud of it—was simple: the constants were the TV and the familiar shapes of the chair, the variables were the TV program and something special for dinner. Something that even Dudley was forbidden to touch. Fortunately, this Friday he and Petunia had just gone to London for school shopping and did not plan to return until tomorrow afternoon (Dudley, of course, was not happy about this). So the most important component of his happiness—a hefty piece of blackberry sponge cake—was waiting for him safely in the refrigerator. Vernon had made sure of this literally in the morning, and now, turning to the garage of his house at number four on Privet Drive, he was already mentally sitting down in an armchair with a plate on his lap, having previously missed a glass of brandy. Just a little more… Humming into his moustache, he sauntered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and froze, looking at the cold whiteness of the shelves, while his face in the stream of light pouring from the depths of the unit changed shades from beetroot to gray-oatmeal, until finally it turned purple-tomato. There was no pie. And Vernon realized almost immediately that there was no mystery in this. How could he forget about HIM? “POOOOOOTTEEEEERR!!!” Puffing with anger, he flew up the stairs to the second floor — no worse than his sister once did -and, rushing to the room of his nephew, this worthless boy, banged on the door with a bang. The door turned out to be unlocked, and Uncle Vernon stumbled in from surprise, painfully crashing his belly into the desk and almost flying out of the window into the backyard. "Uncle Vernon!"  Harry Potter exclaimed. He was lying on his bed and now sat up, anxiously watching a relative shaking with rage. Vernon was naturally trembling. There was definitely a smell of blackberry sponge cake in the room—HIS blackberry sponge cake! — but behind him was hiding some other, somehow inappropriate, but vaguely familiar and definitely pleasant. Vernon was not up to it — a cheeky smile was spreading across the face of the scoundrel boy, replacing anxiety. "You... you..." Vernon's breath caught in anger. "You ate... my... my... my Friday treat! MY!" Harry jumped off the bed and approached his uncle — the smell of blackberry and something else became noticeably stronger - and, taking hold of the shirt on his heaving chest, buried his lips in the lush mustache of a relative who was taken aback by such impudence. Vernon froze, the blood slowly draining from his face — and he was damn well aware of WHERE it was going, while the boy's tongue was groping around his mouth, spreading the remnants of the taste of the cake over it. He hadn't felt such tension under his belly even at the best of times with Petunia — and he knew that they both had nothing to complain about. The smell of "something" finally clogged his nose, and finally Potter pulled away from his lips, leaving Vernon with his jaw hanging open, and, licking his lips, flopped down on the bed, sticking his skinny ass up. "Punish me, Uncle Vernon," he cooed. "I was a VERY bad boy!" "You... YOU..." Uncle Vernon's jaw snapped into place, but his mind seemed to only get more muddled by it. The trouser belt, clinking, flew through the door, and Dursley, uttering an inarticulate growl, leaned on the impudent man with his pants down. The cheap bed sagged with a menacing creak, but Vernon didn't care — he pressed his whimpering nephew with his bulky belly and now, snuffling impatiently, fiddled with his underwear. Alien lust and the primordial thirst for retribution merged into a single desire that completely engulfed him, and when he finally overcame the last boundaries of the fabric and invaded the suspiciously malleable flesh of his obnoxious nephew, Potter's muffled cry, buried in the pillow, was drowned in his triumphant roar. "You'll... know... how... to ruin... my... evening..." wheezed Vernon, hammering his nephew into the bed, and the bed into the wall. Harry, whimpering, nevertheless, willingly succumbed to uncle's aggression, which only inflamed him more. "I'll... I'll..." sobbed Harry into the pillow between the air—knocking thrusts. Dursley's sweaty fingers clutched at his hair, pulled, lifting his head, pressing Harry's back into his uncle's swaying belly. It became easier to breathe, and Potter moaned louder, stretched his fingers back, clinging to Uncle Vernon's immense thighs, whined, trying to absorb more tearing his  flesh. "Scoun... ah, oh, uuooohh!" Purple and sweaty, Vernon collapsed on the bed, crushing Potter's disappointed groan under him — whatever one may say, the years took their toll. Panting, he lay down for a while, waiting until the drums in his temples stopped, until the blood drained from his face, feeling the moist warmth enveloping him below. Then, sitting up, he glanced at the flattened, moaning Harry and, squinting like a contented cat, hissed through clenched teeth: "Justice... haaaahh..." Freed from the oppression of his uncle's flesh, Harry turned his head and watched with sadness in his eyes as Vernon Dursley picked up his belt, tucked it into his pants and took a step towards the door. "Uncle," he finally decides, and Vernon's fat back shudders as if from a blow. Dursley has a lot to think about tonight, but he really doesn't want to start right here and now. "Uncle… Maybe we can somehow…" "Never!" Dursley abruptly throws and, without turning around, closes the nephew's room from what happened. "Never!!" he repeats louder, and his voice is covered by his own footsteps on the stairs. "Never!!!" he's almost shouting, opening the refrigerator and, without much surprise, finding the cake exactly in the place where it was in the morning. "NEVER!" he yells at the whole house, grabbing a whole bottle of brandy in addition to a cake, plopping into a chair and staring unseeingly at the TV that has not been turned on. He eats the sponge cake in large chunks and washes it down with brandy straight from the bottle, without even wincing — he does not feel the taste. His fingers smear on the empty plate, he lifts them to lick off the remains of the glaze, freezes, feeling the moisture on his mustache. He runs a clean hand over his face, wiping the wet tracks. He exhales noisily, puts the plate with the unfinished bottle on the floor, settles in the chair, submitting to the fatigue that has fallen on him, not wanting to think about what happened or how they all live after that. "... never," he grumbles stubbornly, before snoring, and in response to this, a voice in the depths of his mind answers: "Ever..."