Harry Potter One-Shots/Series - 5

Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me. All characters are aged up and are adults.

Harry Potter One-Shots/Series

Story – Big D’s BIG D (Dudley/Fleur, Dudley/Hermione)

The late July air hung heavy and sweet over the garden of the refurbished Grimmauld Place, though the location had been enchanted to hold a sophistication that the rundown Black Family house usually lacked. It was Harry Potter’s birthday, the first true celebration since the dust of the war had settled into something resembling history rather than fresh trauma. Magical lanterns drifted like lazy fireflies above the heads of the guests, casting a warm, amber glow over the festivities.

Among the robes and the waving wands, a figure stood out—not for his magical aura, but for the sheer, overwhelming density of his physical presence.

Dudley Dursley was no longer the soft, spherical boy who had terrorized the playground of Little Whinging. He was a monument of a man, carved from discipline and violence. His bespoke suit, cut by the finest tailor on Savile Row, struggled to contain the expansive width of his shoulders and the thick, corded muscle of his neck.

He was "The Anvil" now, a heavyweight contender who had smashed his way through the ranks of the Muggle boxing world, earning a fortune that rivalled some of the oldest wizarding vaults.

He swirled a glass of Firewhisky, a taste he had acquired with surprising ease, and watched the crowd with calm, predatory eyes. He wasn't afraid of these people anymore. He wasn't afraid of magic. When you have knocked men unconscious with a single left hook in front of twenty thousand screaming fans, a wand seemed less like a weapon of terror and more like a curious stick.

"You look like you're plotting a murder, Big D," a voice laughed.

Dudley grinned, the expression shifting the scar above his left eyebrow. He turned to face his cousin. Harry looked good. Lighter. Free. "Just scouting the room, Harry. Happy birthday."

"You didn't have to go overboard with the gifts, Dudley," Harry said, though he was practically vibrating. Dudley had parked a sleek, custom-restored vintage Triumph 650 T 120 Bonneville motorcycle at the edge of the wards. A nod to Sirius Black, the man whom Harry could not shut up about and had wept like baby when he passed away.

It was an absolute beauty of Muggle engineering but restored to perfection. It was the one gift that made Arthur Weasley weep with joy. For Ginny, he had commissioned a set of platinum jewellery from a Muggle designer in Paris, untainted by magic but heavy with value.

"Pocket change," Dudley said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the chests of those nearby. "Besides, I need to make sure my favourite cousin maintains his image. You're a hero, Harry. Can't have you riding a broomstick everywhere like a peasant."

Harry laughed, clapping Dudley on the arm. It was like slapping a tree trunk. "Come on, Ginny wants to show you off to George and Charlie. They don't believe a Muggle can bench press a mesmerizing amount of weight."

As they moved through the crowd, the dynamic of the party shifted. It was subtle, like the change in air pressure before a storm. The witches noticed him. It was impossible not to. In a world where men relied on flicks of the wrist and Latin incantations, Dudley was a creature of raw, manly potential. He moved with a boxer's grace—fluid, balanced, lethal.

His eyes scanned the crowd and landed on two women who seemed to pull the light toward them.

The first was Hermione Granger. She had grown into a stunning woman, shedding the awkwardness of her youth for a sharp, intimidating beauty. She wore a dress of periwinkle blue that clung to a figure the Daily Prophet often failed to mention. Her waist was narrow, cinched tight, flaring out into hips that swayed with a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence. Her breasts were modest but perfectly shaped, pressing against the silk of her bodice. She was talking animatedly, but her eyes kept darting toward him, as if she analysing him.

The second was Fleur Weasley.

If Hermione was a woman good enough to be a supermodel, Fleur looked like she had stepped out of every man’s wildest fantasy. The Veela blood sang in her veins. She stood near the drinks table, her silver-blonde hair cascading down a back left bare by her daring gown. When she turned, the world seemed to slow. Her figure was outrageous, a figure that seemed to be impossible for muggle women to possess, even surgically. Her breasts were heavy and full, threatening to spill from her neckline, while her waist was impossibly thin, leading down to an ass that was nothing short of feminine perfection. It was round, heavy, and bouncy, a testament to her heritage that demanded attention.

Dudley met Fleur’s gaze. She didn't look away. Her blue eyes sparkled with a dangerous curiosity, her full, pink lips curving into a smirk that acknowledged his strength. She could feel it—the testosterone, the masculinity, and the sheer vitality radiating off him. Veela were drawn to power, and while the wizards here held magical dominance, Dudley held the primal card.

"Oi! Dudley!"

The shout was slurred, breaking the silent exchange. Ron Weasley stumbled forward, his face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He held a tall glass of Firewhisky loosely in one hand, definitely not his first, his dress robes dishevelled.

"Ron, maybe you should slow down," Hermione said, stepping in from the side, her voice sharp with disapproval.

"Sod off, 'Mione," Ron grunted, his eyes fixed on Dudley. Jealousy was a potent poison, and Ron had been drinking it for years. He saw the way the noble ladies whispered behind their fans when Dudley walked by. He saw the way his ‘girlfriend’ had just looked at the Muggle. He saw the expensive watch on Dudley's wrist and the confident set of his jaw. "Think you're special, don't you? Because you can punch things?"

Dudley took a slow sip of his drink, his expression unbothered. "I'm good at it, Weasley. It pays the bills."

"Brute strength," Ron sneered, slamming his empty hand onto a rather beautiful garden table. "No finesse. No magic. I bet I could take you. Right here. Arm wrestling. No wands."

The party went quiet. Even the enchanted music seemed to dip in volume.

Harry stepped forward. "Ron, don't be an idiot—"

"No," Dudley interrupted, his voice soft but carrying across the garden. He handed his glass to a passing house-elf. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and shrugged it off, handing it to a stunned-looking Harry. Then, methodically, he began to roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

The reveal was spectacular. His forearms were thick slabs of muscle, roped with veins that shifted like snakes beneath his skin. The fabric strained as he rolled it past his elbows, revealing the devastating power he packed in his upper body.

"I accept," Dudley said, stepping up to the table.

Fleur moved closer, her eyes tracing the lines of Dudley's arms. Hermione stood frozen, her arms crossed, subconsciously biting her lower lip as she watched the display of masculinity.

Ron sat down, brimming with liquid courage. He slammed his elbow onto the wood. Dudley sat opposite him. The size difference was comical. Ron was tall and lanky, a keeper's build. Dudley was a tank.

They clasped hands. Ron’s hand was engulfed by Dudley’s massive, calloused paw.

"Go," Harry sighed, acting as the reluctant referee.

Ron surged immediately, grunting, his face turning a violent shade of purple. He threw his entire body weight into the push, the veins in his neck popping.

Dudley didn't move.

He didn't even grimace. He sat perfectly still, his bicep bulging against the white cotton of his shirt, hard as iron. He looked at Ron with a calm, almost bored expression. He held Ron’s arm in place, letting the wizard strain and sweat, letting the futility of the situation sink in.

"Is that it?" Dudley asked, his voice devoid of mockery, which somehow made it worse.

"Shut... up!" Ron wheezed, shaking with effort.

Dudley’s eyes flickered to the crowd. He caught Hermione’s gaze. She was staring at his bicep, her cheeks flushed pink. He looked at Fleur, who ran her tongue over her lower lip, her eyes dilated.

"Right then," Dudley said.

He applied pressure. It wasn't a jerk; it was a hydraulic press. Slowly, he forced Ron’s hand down. Ron cried out, trying to resist, but "The Anvil" was immovable. With a sharp thud, Dudley pinned Ron’s hand to the table. Wood splintered beneath the impact.

The silence held for a beat, then broke into polite applause from the older guests and enthusiastic cheers from the younger ones. Ron nursed his wrist, humiliated and sobering up rapidly, muttering as he slinked away into the crowd.

Dudley stood, rolling his shoulders. The physical exertion, minor as it was, had pumped blood into his muscles, making him look even larger.

"Mon Dieu," a silky voice purred.

Fleur was suddenly there, standing much too close. She smelled of vanilla and danger. "You are... very strong, Dudley."

"Hazard of the trade, Fleur," Dudley replied, looking down at her. The top of her head barely reached his chin. From this angle, the cleavage offered by her dress was a canyon of pale, perfect skin.

"I like strong things," she whispered, her hand brushing his forearm, her fingers lingering on the thick vein there. "Perhaps... we can talk later? Away from the noise?"

Across the garden, Hermione watched the interaction, her nails digging into her palms. She told herself it was disgust at Fleur’s flirtatiousness—she was a married woman, after all. But deep down, in the pit of her stomach, a heavy, molten heat was coiling. She couldn't take her eyes off Dudley’s hands.

***

The party raged on into the early hours, the firewhisky flowing freely. Dudley, however, had switched to water hours ago. A champion didn't get sloppy. Around 2:00 AM, the noise became too much. He needed the quiet focus of solitude to decompress.

He wandered into the house, the old Black family residence now scrubbed of its dark artifacts but still retaining a gothic, shadowy grandeur. He found a small drawing room on the second floor, dimly lit by the embers of a dying fire. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the night.

He loosened his tie, undoing the top button of his shirt, and exhaled a long breath.

The door clicked shut behind him. The lock slid home with a magical finality.

Dudley turned. Fleur Delacour stood there, pressed against the dark wood of the door. The dim firelight danced across her silver hair and the creamy expanse of her chest. She wasn't smiling anymore; her expression was intense, hungry.

"Fleur," Dudley said, his voice dropping an octave. "Where's Bill?"

"Bill is asleep," Fleur said, pushing off the door and walking toward him. Her hips swayed with a devastating, exaggerated rhythm. "Passed out. Too much drink. Weak."

She stopped inches from him. The Veela allure was hitting him in waves, a psychic pressure demanding he submit, demanding he worship. But Dudley had trained his mind as hard as his body. He stood his ground, looking down at her.

"And you?" he asked.

"I am awake," she purred. She reached out, her hands landing on his chest. She could feel the hard muscle beneath the shirt. "And I am... hungry."

"You're married, Fleur."

"I am Veela," she countered, her voice husky. "We crave the powerful. We crave the alpha. Tonight, in that garden... you were the only man there."

She dropped to her knees.

Dudley’s breath hitched. The moral protest died in his throat. He was a man, and she was... god, she was perfection.

"Fleur..."She didn't speak. She worked his belt buckle with nimble fingers, the sound of leather parting loud in the quiet room. She pulled his zipper down, freeing his hardening length. It sprang free, heavy and thick, pulsing with the blood flow she had ignited.

Fleur let out a soft, appreciative sound, her blue eyes widening. "Magnifique."

She took him into her mouth without hesitation.

Dudley groaned, his head falling back, his large hands instinctively tangling in her silver-blonde hair.

Her mouth was hot, wet, and incredibly skilled. She hummed against him, her tongue swirling, her suction tight. She looked up at him as she worked, her eyes glowing with a faint, silvery light.

He endured the pleasure for as long as he could before he needed more. He gripped her shoulders and pulled her up. She stood, breathless, her lips slick.

"Take me," she commanded. "Use that strength."

Dudley spun her around, pressing her hands against the high back of a velvet armchair. He hiked her dress up. The sight nearly broke him. She was wearing nothing underneath. Her ass was spectacular—two perfect globes of pale, soft flesh, wide and heavy. Her thighs were thick and smooth, tapering down to elegant calves.

"God," Dudley growled.

He positioned himself behind her. Fleur arched her back, presenting herself, looking back over her shoulder with a wanton, pleading expression. "Do it, Dudley. Fill me."

He thrust into her.

Fleur screamed, a sound of pure ecstasy that she barely managed to stifle with her hand. She was tight, incredibly hot, clamping down on him. Dudley groaned, gripping her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist.

He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing power.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of his hips meeting her massive ass filled the room. Fleur moaned loudly, her head thrown back, her hair a silver curtain. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her Veela nature revelling in the sheer physical dominance he exerted.

Dudley leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his arm wrapping around her to fondle her heavy breasts. He squeezed them, kneading the soft flesh, his thumb flicking her nipple through the fabric of her dress. Fleur cried out, biting her lip, her body trembling.

"You're so big," she gasped, her French accent thick. "So strong. Harder. Plus fort!"

Dudley obliged. He pounded into her, lost in the sensation of her heat and the scent of her arousal. He was a machine, driving her into the chair, making her toes curl.

The door to the drawing room, which Fleur had locked with magic, suddenly clicked. The lock disengaged—not by a key, but by the superior unlocking charm of a very skilled witch who thought she heard a noise.

The door creaked open just an inch.

Hermione Granger stood in the hallway shadows. She had been looking for a quiet place to relax, away from the drunks. She froze.

Through the gap, she saw them.

The firelight cast their shadows on the wall—a beast of a man and the curvy silhouette of the Veela. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She should look away. She should leave. She should be horrified on behalf of Bill.

But she didn't move.

She watched Dudley’s back muscles ripple under his shirt as he thrust. She watched the way his large hands gripped Fleur’s waist, his knuckles white. She saw Fleur’s face, contorted in pleasure, drool escaping her lips.

Hermione’s eyes drifted lower. She saw the connection—the thick rod of flesh disappearing into Fleur, pulling out, and slamming back in. The sight was visceral. It was raw. It was everything the polite, magical world wasn't.

Her hand drifted to her own stomach. A hot flush spread across her chest. Her nipples hardened against her bra. She watched Dudley dominate the most beautiful woman in the room, and a dark, shameful thought whispered in her mind: ’I want him to do that to me.’

Dudley let out a guttural roar as he approached his climax. He grabbed Fleur’s hair, pulling her head back to kiss her, and drove into her with a final, shattering series of thrusts. Fleur shrieked, her voice muffled by Dudley’s lips roughly claiming hers, her body convulsing around him as she came, her inner muscles milking him. Dudley spilled his seed deep inside her, groaning as he emptied himself.

He stayed there for a moment, panting, heavy on top of her.

Hermione, terrified of being caught, stepped back into the darkness. She turned and fled down the hall, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, her panties uncomfortably damp.

***

The next morning, the sunlight streaming into Grimmauld Place was accusingly bright. The house was quiet, most of the guests having departed via the Floo after the party or were passed out in beds that had been transfigured by the elves.

Dudley was in the kitchen, dressed in fresh jogging bottoms and a tight t-shirt, making coffee the Muggle way because he couldn't figure out the contraption Arthur had installed. He felt fantastic. A post-fight high combined with the lingering satisfaction of the night before.

"Dudley."

The voice was crisp, authoritative, and laced with tension.

He turned. Hermione stood in the doorway. She was wearing a sensible blouse and skirt, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, but her eyes were frantic. She looked tired, as if she hadn't slept.

"Hermione," Dudley said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his massive arms. "Coffee? It's instant, but it does the job."

She marched into the room, closing the door behind her and casting a silencing and locking charm with a flick of her wand. She turned on him, her face flushed.

"I saw you," she hissed.

Dudley raised an eyebrow. He didn't flinch. "Saw me where?"

"Last night. In the drawing room. With... with her." Hermione’s voice wavered, mixing anger with embarrassment. "How could you, Dudley? She’s married! Bill is... Bill is a war hero! He’s a close friend of Harry and Ginny’s older brother!"

Dudley took a sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. "Fleur is a grown woman, Hermione. She made her choice. I didn't drag her in there."

"That doesn't make it right!" Hermione stepped closer, poking a finger toward his chest, though she stopped short of touching him. "It’s immoral! It’s disgusting! You came here, you humiliated Ron, and then you just... you just took her like some... some barbarian!"

"Is that what you think?" Dudley set the mug down. He moved away from the counter, stepping into her personal space.

Hermione gasped and took half a step back, but hit the kitchen table. She was trapped. She looked up at him. He loomed over her, smelling of soap and raw masculinity.

"I think..." Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She tried to maintain her righteous glare, but her eyes betrayed her. They flickered down to his crotch, where the grey sweatpants left very little to the imagination. She remembered what she had seen last night. The size of it. The power.

"You think it's wrong," Dudley said, his voice dropping to that low rumble again. "But you watched, didn't you?"

Hermione turned beet red. "I—I stumbled upon it! And I left within moments!"

"You watched," Dudley corrected, stepping closer. His thighs brushed against her knees. "I heard the door. I have good ears, Hermione. Boxing teaches you to be aware of your surroundings. You stood there for a long time."

"I was in shock!" she squeaked, her tsundere defences crumbling. "I was paralyzed by the sheer... indecency of it!"

"Indecency?" Dudley smirked. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers were rough, calloused, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. "You liked it. I can see it in your face. You're flushing, Hermione."

"I am not!" she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest to hide her hardening nipples. "You are arrogant, and rude, and... and..."

"And you can't take your eyes off me," he finished.

He placed his hands on the table on either side of her, boxing her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"You're always so uptight," Dudley whispered. "Always thinking. Always the smartest person in the room. Always worrying about rules. Must be exhausting."

Hermione’s breath came in short, shallow gasps. "Someone has to have standards."

"Fleur didn't care about standards last night," Dudley murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "She just wanted to feel good. Don't you want to feel good, Hermione?"

"I... I shouldn't..." Hermione whispered, her resistance melting like ice in a furnace. She looked at his arms, the veins distinct even in rest. She remembered the sound of his skin slapping against Fleur’s.

"You and Ron are a thing, aren't you?" Dudley asked. "Ron’s an idiot. He doesn't know how to handle a woman like you. You need someone who can handle you. Someone who won't break."

Hermione looked up into his eyes. The intellect, the logic, the morality—it was all being drowned out by a simple visceral reaction she had been trying to suppress. She was a witch, yes, but she was a woman first. And the man in front of her was the epitome of what her instincts craved.

"This is a bad idea," she whispered, leaning forward slightly.

"Terrible," Dudley agreed.

He kissed her.

It wasn't tentative. He claimed her mouth with the same confidence he had used to crush Ron’s hand. His lips were firm, hot, and demanding. Hermione let out a whimper and melted against him. Her arms uncrossed and wound around his thick neck, her fingers digging into his short hair.

Dudley growled, lifting her effortlessly. He sat her on the edge of the kitchen table, stepping between her legs. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist instantly, pulling him closer, desperate to feel the friction.

"God, you're heavy," she mumbled against his lips, though she was grinding her hips against him.

"And you're loud for a librarian," he teased, breaking the kiss to trail wet, hot kisses down her neck.

Hermione threw her head back, arching her spine. "I'm not a librarian! I work for the Ministry!"

"Shut up, Hermione," Dudley groaned, his hand moving to the buttons of her blouse.

"Make me," she challenged, breathless.

Dudley ripped the blouse open, sending buttons clattering across the stone floor. He made quick work of her bra, exposing her breasts. They were smaller than Fleur’s but perky and beautiful, the nipples dark and hard.

"Lovely," Dudley murmured. He bent down, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

Hermione cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "Dudley! Not so... oh, god, yes, like that!"

He worked her breasts with the same dedication he had shown Fleur, but there was a different tension here. With Fleur, it was pure lust, the Veela willingly submitting to him. With Hermione, it was a battle of wills. She wanted to surrender, but she wanted him to earn it.

He slid his hand up her skirt. She was wearing sensible cotton panties, but they were soaked. He hooked his finger into the elastic and pulled them aside.

"Wet already?" he chuckled against her skin. "Thinking about what you saw last night?"

"Shut up!" Hermione gasped, her face burning. "Just... just do it! Before someone wakes up!"

Dudley stood up, unbuckling his belt. He pushed his trousers down. Hermione’s eyes widened as she saw him fully in the daylight. It was intimidating.

"Are you sure?" Dudley asked, pausing at her entrance.

Hermione looked at him, her eyes fierce and dilated with lust. "If you stop now, I will hex you into oblivion, Dursley."

Dudley grinned. "As you wish."

He entered her.

Hermione screamed, digging her nails into his shoulders. He was huge, stretching her, filling her completely. It was a sensation of fullness she had never experienced.

"Oh my god," she panted. "Too big... it's too big..."

"Relax," Dudley soothed, holding her hips, waiting for her to adjust. "Breathe, Hermione."

She took a shuddering breath, her inner muscles clamping around him like a vice. Slowly, she began to move her hips. "Okay. Okay. Move."

Dudley began to thrust.

It was intense. Hermione wasn't a Veela; she was human. She felt every inch of him. The friction was electric. Dudley held her tight, his large hands encompassing her waist, his thumbs pressing into her hips. He watched her face as he fucked her—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted to let her tongue out, the way she bit her lip in a vain attempt to keep her moans down, the way her intellect dissolved into pure sensation.

"Dudley..." she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side. "Harder! Don't treat me like glass!"

"I never would," he grunted.

He picked up the pace. The kitchen table felt the blows of the boxing champion as he drove into the woman in his arms. Hermione’s heels dug into his lower back. She was vocal, her moans filling the room, protected only by her own silencing charm.

"That’s it," Dudley growled, slapping her ass. Her flesh jiggled, red handprints blooming on her skin. "Take it."

"I'm taking it!" she cried out. "I'm taking all of it! Fuck!"

The sensation was building rapidly. Hermione felt a pressure coiling in her belly, tighter and tighter. The sight of Dudley above her, sweating, powerful, completely in control, pushed her over the edge.

"Dudley! I'm close! I'm close!"

Dudley didn't slow down. He drove into her, deep and hard, hitting her sweet spot over and over.

Hermione shattered. She cried out his name, her body bowing off the table, spasms of pleasure rocking through her. She clamped down on him so hard he groaned, his own control snapping.

He drove into her three more times, brutally hard, before groaning deep from his chest and pouring himself into her.

They stayed like that for a long time, Dudley leaning his forehead against hers, both of them gasping for air. The kitchen was silent except for their ragged breathing.

Slowly, Dudley pulled out, a trail of his seed leaking out of Hermione. He adjusted his clothes, then looked at her. Hermione lay back on the table, her blouse open, her skirt hiked up, looking thoroughly ravished and completely unrepentant.

She sat up slowly, wincing slightly, and began to try and pull her blouse together.

"You owe me new buttons," she said, trying to regain her dignity but failing as a small, satisfied smile played on her lips.

Dudley laughed, a rich, genuine sound. He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll buy you a whole new wardrobe, Hermione. I can afford it."

Hermione looked at him, blushing furiously but not pulling away. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath, trying hard to push these new feelings down.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, sliding off the table, her legs wobbly. She straightened her skirt and looked at him with a mix of annoyance and lingering desire. "This... this doesn't mean we're dating. Or that I forgive you for making a fool of Ron.”

Dudley smirked, crossing his arms again, looking every bit the champion. "Whatever you say, love. But you know where to find me when you want round two."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She looked him up and down one last time, her eyes darkening.

"Tonight," she whispered. "My flat. Don't be late."

She turned and marched out of the kitchen with as much dignity as she could muster, leaving Dudley Dursley grinning into his instant coffee, the undisputed champion of the Wizarding World, at least for the weekend.