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Dudley Dursley had a son: a rambunctious five-year-old named David, who was a little chubby, to be honest. He had his mother’s brown hair, but Dudley’s eyes, and a laugh that was so loud and free it made Dudley’s chest feel tight with a fierce, protective love he’d never known he was capable of.
That love was a tangible fist around his heart the day he saw David get shoved into the dirt at a London playground. He’d only looked away for a second, to fish a crumpled tissue from his pocket for David’s runny nose, and then he heard the thump and the wail.
A larger boy, at least seven, stood over his son, his face a mask of smug cruelty. "Get out of my way, you freak," the boy sneered.
Dudley broke into a cold sweat. The reality of his own memories, sharp and sticky with regret, flooded his chest. He saw himself, a decade and a half ago, a fat, spoiled boy with a gang of cronies, using that same word. He saw Harry’s face—resigned to the abuse but too unyielding to ever beg for it to stop.
The shame was so potent he felt nauseous.
Dudley scooped his sobbing son off the ground and lifted him in a tight hug. "Shh, shh, it's all right, I've got you," he mumbled into David's hair, blinking the hot threat of tears away. Being a parent did put certain things into perspective. It was a cruel, necessary mirror.
Once David’s sobs had subsided into hiccups, Dudley took a breath and crouched down, putting himself at eye level with his son, who was back on his own feet. "He doesn't understand how to be nice yet," Dudley began, his voice low and even, as much for himself as for David. "His parents didn't teach him, I guess. Some never do."
"He kicked me!" his son wailed, pointing an accusatory finger at the other boy.
"I know. I saw that."
"'Pologise!" David yelled at the culprit, his cheeks flushed with righteous anger.
"No!" The boy crossed his arms, defiant.
"You're a poo-head!" David shot back.
"You stink!" the boy retorted, a standard-issue playground insult.
"I don't!" David shouted, his voice cracking. He turned and flung himself back at Dudley's shoulder, making Dudley wobble. "Daddy, I don't stink!"
"You don't," Dudley assured him, stroking his hair. "He only wants to hurt you with his words."
"Why?" David asked, his eyes wide with incomprehension.
Dudley sighed, a long, weary sound. "It’s the only way he knows how to feel big." He sat down heavily in the sandpit, uncaring of the sand that immediately stuck to his trousers. The other boy stood his ground, watching them with suspicious eyes.
"Come here, boy," Dudley said, surprising himself. He gestured to the other child. "What's your name?"
The boy puffed out his chest. "Mummy told me not to tell strangers. If you hit me I'll get daddy and he'll hit you harder!"
Good grief, Dudley thought. The kid was a walking threat, a product of his environment. "Sounds like your parents love you very much," he said, his voice carefully neutral.
"They do," the boy confirmed, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"I love my son very much, too," Dudley said, looking at David, who was now sniffing miserably against his hoodie.
"But he's stupid," the boy insisted.
Dudley snorted. "All kids are a bit stupid."
"Daddy!" David protested, lifting his head.
"What? I was a kid, too, and I was plenty stupid." He crossed his eyes and made a silly face, and David let out a reluctant giggle.
He looked back at the boy. "Does your mummy or daddy ever call someone else a freak?"
The boy shrugged, a bit too casually. "Only the freaks."
Dudley felt a pang of recognition. "My parents did that, too," he admitted. "But I don't, not anymore. I learned to be nice, and now I have really good friends who like to play games with me all the time."
"Being nice is weak," the boy said, but it sounded less like a fact and more like a rehearsed mantra.
"Well, then," Dudley said, gesturing at the large playground, "let's watch the other kids."
"Why?" the boy asked, suspicious.
"Just watch and talk."
So they did. Dudley pointed to a trio of children on a large climbing frame. A ginger girl with wild hair was scaling the ladder to the slide, her movements full of confident energy. She cheered on a smaller boy with bright blond hair, who was at least two years younger than her. His hair was an untamable halo, a stark contrast to his tan skin.
"Rose, help me!" the smaller boy called out, reaching his hand up.
"I've got you!" She beamed, grabbing his hand and pulling him up onto the platform.
"He's weak, he needs a girl to help him," their new companion pointed out.
"You don't ask for help?" Dudley inquired, looking down at him.
"I don't need help," the boy scoffed, crossing his arms.
"Hugo, come up, come up!" The blond kid waved his arm to another boy who was still on the ground, warily eyeing the ladder. This boy was clearly a toddler, far too small for such a climb. A tall man walked up, his long, straight, icy-blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. "Let me help, little man," he said, his voice smooth with an upper-class accent. He effortlessly picked the toddler up and lifted him onto the platform.
"What a baby, can't even climb up himself," the boy sneered.
"He's too small, but the slide is just as much fun," Dudley said mildly.
"Thanks, Uncle Draco," the ginger boy said. "Merci, Papa," the blond boy said, almost in tandem.
"Anytime," the blond man said, ruffling the ginger boy's hair. He turned to the small boy who was obviously his son. "My star, remember to be patient with Hugo."
Dudley saw the other boy scowl. "The blond ones sound gay," he grumbled.
Dudley rolled his eyes. He didn't want to have this conversation now, but he had to try. "They sound posh," he corrected.
"Same thing," the boy insisted.
"Then use the less hurtful word," Dudley said firmly.
The boy paused, thinking. "The blond ones sound posh," he conceded, with a petulant shrug.
"I agree," Dudley said, though a strange feeling was settling in his gut. He took a closer look at the scene. The three children weren't wearing clothes with the latest cartoon mascot. The tall man's coat had intricate, beautiful stitching along the sleeves, a level of craftsmanship you rarely saw in shops. There were no zips on the children's shoes, no Velcro, no jeans. Everything had buttons, laces, and an old-fashioned quality that was almost anachronistic. It was like looking at a group of people from a different world.
He had to take a chance.
"David," he said, taking his son's hand. "Would you want to try and play with them?"
"Yes!" David said, his tears forgotten in the face of potential new playmates.
"No!" the other boy said, appalled. "They're weird!"
"Fine with me." Dudley shrugged. "You can stay here, alone." He took David's hand and walked directly towards the climbing frame.
"Hi! I’m David!" his son announced, beaming up at the blond man before turning to his son. “Can I play with you?”
"Hullo, David," the blond man drawled, his grey eyes flicking from the boy's excited face to lock with Dudley's. They were assessing, sharp, and disarmingly judgemental. He gave a small, almost imperceptible incline of his head when he deemed them adequate.
David, not deterred in the slightest, clambered up the wooden ladder with the ease of a child who had done it a hundred times on a hundred different playgrounds. He got to the top and did his usual excited little dance—a hopping, wiggling, arm-flapping thing he did when he was at a loss for words but bursting with the desire to play with someone. It was ridiculous and endearing, and it usually worked. Rose, Hugo, and Scorpius were all staring at him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
The tall man folded his hands behind his back and walked a few steps away from the children, drawing Dudley with him. "You were watching me," he said, his voice deceptively calm.
"I didn't mean to be rude," Dudley said, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"But you do mean to do something." It wasn't a question.
"I, er…" Dudley swallowed, the words getting stuck in his throat. "I've been looking for someone, and you—please don't take offence—look like you could know him."
The man's lips twitched. "None taken, but I do hope your friend can appreciate the compliment."
Dudley laughed nervously.
"Do tell, then," the man prompted. "What is the wayward gentleman's name?"
Dudley took a deep breath. "Harry James Potter." He included the middle name, to make sure there was no misunderstanding.
The man’s brows shot up, and he blinked, clearly taken aback. "My husband?" he said, his voice rising with surprise.
"He's married?" Dudley asked. "To you?" He couldn't reconcile the polished, aristocratic-looking man before him with the scrawny, hand-me-down-wearing cousin he remembered.
The man smirked, a sly, self-satisfied expression. "Now, now, I know I look a mile out of his league, but he deserves nothing less."
"I didn't know he was, er, into men," Dudley said, his cheeks flushing.
"Neither did he, until I kissed him seven years ago." The man's smirk widened into a genuine, loving smile that softened his sharp features.
"I haven't seen him for at least ten," Dudley admitted.
"I can assure you, then, that I'm taking great care of him," the man said, his grey eyes suddenly serious. "He's not that skinny boy anymore."
Dudley nodded, feeling a wave of shame wash over him. He’d been a part of the reason for that skinniness, that haunted look in Harry’s eyes. "Thank you," he said, the words feeling wholly inadequate.
The man gave a curious hum. "And would your name be?"
Dudley was about to answer when a familiar voice cut through the air.
"That's my cousin, Dudley Dursley," Harry said, and Dudley whirled around.
Harry was standing three feet away, looking three inches taller than the last time Dudley had seen him. He wore a worn leather jacket and his perpetually messy hair was pulled back in a bun. Round, golden spectacles still framed his green eyes. He looked older, healthier, and more… settled than Dudley had ever seen him. He was recognisably Harry, but he was a version of Harry that had been allowed to grow up.
"Harry!" Dudley gasped, the name tumbling out. "I'm so sorry—" he rushed on, the apology he’d been rehearsing in his head for years finally spilling out.
"You already told me, remember?" Harry interjected, a small, wry smile on his face. "You said I'm—"
"Not a waste of space," Dudley finished, his throat tight.
"Darling," Draco said, stepping closer to Harry and sliding an arm around his waist. "You are far too forgiving. You need to learn to demand a proper apology."
"Can't," Harry said, leaning into the touch. "He never learned how to. He's just like you, twat."
"Meanwhile you simply refuse to utter an apology out of sheer stubbornness," Draco shot back, his tone light and teasing.
"No one taught me either," Harry stated, his eyes not leaving Dudley's. "And usually I'm in the right."
Draco rolled his eyes, but it was an affectionate gesture. "Are you now?" he murmured.
"Someone has to be," Harry said, a familiar glint in his eye.
"Of course."
"Daddy, you're back!" The blond boy from before wound himself around Harry's legs.
"Scorpius, love," Harry said, picking the boy up. "Do you know who this is?"
Scorpius looked Dudley up and down with the same sharp, assessing gaze as his father. "David's daddy," he declared.
"Wait, what?" Harry said, looking at Dudley for an explanation. "You have a son?"
"He's harmless, I promise," Dudley said quickly. "I'm trying to raise him properly."
"That's subjective and you know it," Harry remarked flatly.
"Darling, that boy does seem friendly." Draco nodded towards the far end of the playground where David was now energetically helping a giggling Rose push the toddler, Hugo, on a swing. "He's playing with the little Weasels, and they can sniff out the wrong sort. Must be genetic."
"Well, then, let me introduce you properly," Harry said. He turned Scorpius on his arm to look directly at Dudley. "Draco, this is Dudley Dursley, my cousin, and worst childhood bully. Dudley, this is Draco Potter, né Malfoy, my school nemesis and now husband."
Draco gave a sharp, theatrical bow. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
"Say me too!" Scorpius piped up, tugging on Harry's leather jacket.
"Oh, right, yes. This is Scorpius," Harry said, looking at his son with pure adoration. "Scorpius Severus Sirius Potter."
"That's me! All me!" Scorpius beamed, then as quickly as he'd appeared, he wiggled free, jumped down, and ran back to his friends, his laughter trailing behind him.
"He's a handful, isn't he," Dudley observed, watching him go.
"Who could he possibly get that from, I wonder," Draco mused, looking pointedly at Harry.
"Don't look at me, he's your son, too," Harry protested.
"Is that… possible?" Dudley asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. "For men like you to… you know?"
"With this breaker of all rules," Draco said, gesturing to Harry, "yes."
"Come on, you loved seeing me pregnant," Harry said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Er," Dudley managed, his brain short-circuiting.
"Now you've scandalised the poor Muggle into a stupor," Draco said dryly. "Well done. Should I call the authorities to Obliviate him, or will you do it yourself?"
"Stop taking the piss," Harry said, swatting Draco's arm.
"Was he always this feisty?" Draco asked Dudley, who was unable to keep a small, disbelieving smile from his face. This was a Harry he’d never imagined existed. Happy, playful, smitten.
"Yes," Dudley said. "Never backed down."
"He shouldn't have had reason to take a stand," Draco argued, his voice dropping.
The moment of levity faded, and the guilt returned, stronger than ever.
"Hurt him again," Draco said, his voice suddenly cold, the playful aristocrat replaced by something steelier and more dangerous, "and no one will find your body."
“Draco is all bark, no bite.” Harry caught hold of Draco’s ponytail and pulled him back.
"I beg your pardon!" Draco exclaimed, looking genuinely affronted.
"You already begged and were pardoned, love," Harry said, patting his shoulder. Draco scoffed, rolled his eyes with a theatrical sigh, and left to help a now-crying Hugo climb down from the slide.
The threat was clear, but so was the love beneath it.
"'Nemesis'?" Dudley asked, turning back to Harry.
"Long story," Harry said with a laugh. "Let’s just say… we had a complicated history."
"I have time," Dudley said, the words earnest and pleading. "I want to make time."
Harry nodded slowly, his expression less guarded now. "How are your parents?" he asked, his tone careful.
"We fell out," Dudley confessed. "I don't really know how they are."
"Does your wife know about me?" Harry asked.
Dudley nodded. "Yes. She knows everything."
Harry gave him another once-over, silently weighing his options. After a long moment, the tension melted from his broad shoulders.
"What is she like?" Harry asked, eventually.