With Potter

Harry Potter jolted awake to the shrill, piercing scream of his Aunt Petunia, a sound that sliced through the dusty air of the cupboard under the stairs like a whip across bare skin.

"HARRY! HARRY, YOU LAZY LITTLE FREAK! GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT AND MAKE BREAKFAST FOR MY PRECIOUS DUDLEY! DON’T MAKE ME WAIT!"

Harry lay on his wretched camp bed, his stiff back aching with a dull, throbbing pain. One more year. Just one last year in this cursed house, filled with hatred and humiliation. He sat up slowly, stretching with a crack of his spine, and pulled on his threadbare clothes. One thought burned in his mind: Soon, I’ll be gone. Forever.

As he descended the stairs, he saw Aunt Petunia. Gaunt as a skeleton, her blonde hair pulled tight, she stood at the ironing board with a neck absurdly long—nearly twice as long as it should have been for her height. Her bony fingers gripped the iron, gliding it over Dudley’s freshly pressed trousers. Her thin lips were permanently pursed in disapproval, her sharp nose twitching as if she smelled something foul.

But in that moment, bathed in the morning light streaming through the kitchen window, something in her broke for Harry. Or perhaps, it was the opposite—something awoke. That long, swan-like neck, the sharp collarbones jutting from beneath her thin robe, the flat, almost nonexistent breasts that barely moved with each sharp motion of the iron… She was the embodiment of everything he despised—cold, gaunt, a pale perfection that had always looked down on him.

Petunia spun around abruptly, her neck stretching even longer, like a goose about to peck. "What are you standing there for, boy?! Eggs! Bacon! Toast! And it better be perfect, or I’ll make you scrub the floors with Dudley’s toothbrush!"

Harry silently approached the stove. His hands moved mechanically, cracking eggs, but his gaze kept drifting back to his aunt. To this gaunt, pale woman who had tormented him his whole life. Dark, forbidden images flashed in his mind—grabbing that absurdly long neck, pressing her face against the counter, showing her who really ran this house. Her thin lips parting not for scorn, but for something else entirely.

Petunia continued ironing, oblivious to the way her nephew was undressing her in his mind. Her robe had slightly parted, revealing pale skin and sharp ribs. She was so… fragile. So white. Such a perfect target for all the pent-up rage.

"Faster, Harry! Dudley shouldn’t have to wait a single second!" she hissed, not even turning around.

Harry stood at the stove, mechanically flipping sizzling bacon and cracking eggs. The greasy smell of food filled the cramped Dursley kitchen, mingling with the faint scent of cheap detergent and the perpetual mustiness of their "perfect" home. His hands moved on autopilot—years of humiliation had taught him to cook quickly and flawlessly to avoid extra criticism. But inside, everything seethed. One more year. Soon, he’d escape this hell. Yet today, even that thought brought no comfort.

The kitchen door swung open with a loud creak. In the doorway stood the massive figure of Vernon Dursley—a portly, red-faced man with thick, bristly mustaches that jutted out like a walrus’s. His light, thinning hair was neatly combed back, and his almost nonexistent neck made his head look like a fleshy ball perched directly on his broad shoulders. His suit strained over his enormous belly, which jiggled with every step. Behind him, stomping like an elephant, entered Dudley—a large, fat boy already beginning to grow muscle. His chubby cheeks wobbled, and his small, beady eyes sparkled with cruel glee.

"Ha! Look, Dad, our little scrawny freak is already at his post!" Dudley boomed, slapping his thick belly. His voice was rich, full, dripping with contempt.

Vernon let out a short, barking laugh as he plopped down at the table so heavily that the chair groaned under his weight. His mustache twitched as he inhaled deeply. "That’s right, boy. Eat up quick before it gets cold. Though I suppose a skinny little runt like you doesn’t need much—just bones and skin. Look at him, Dudley. He’s as flimsy as a matchstick. One good hit and he’d shatter into dust." Vernon rubbed his thick hands together, his eyes narrowing with pleasure. "Takes after his worthless mother. No strength, no real manly presence. Thank God we’ve got Dudley—a true Dursley!"

Dudley brayed with laughter, flexing his meaty, fat-covered but already strong arms as he swaggered closer. He was broad—wide chest, thick thighs, a massive backside that wobbled as he walked. Next to him, Harry looked like a pitiful, scrawny teenager—narrow shoulders, a sunken stomach, long, skinny legs.

"Exactly, Dad. Look at those hands—like a girl’s. And his ass? Flat as a board. No girl would even glance at him. I could do ten push-ups and still eat like a king, but this one…" Dudley jabbed a thick finger at Harry, "…he’ll just pick at crumbs and whine."

Harry said nothing. His fingers tightened around the frying pan handle, his knuckles turning white. Rage boiled inside him, thick and hot like molten lead. He could see them—these two pale, fat, self-satisfied pigs who had spent a lifetime trampling him. Vernon with his short, bull-like neck and perpetually red face, Dudley with his jiggling belly and smug grin. They were enjoying it. They always enjoyed his weakness.

A voice inside Harry whispered: "Soon. Soon, I’ll show you…" But for now, he simply set the plates on the table in silence. The eggs were perfectly fried, the bacon crisp, the toast golden. Petunia, still standing at the ironing board with her absurdly long neck, gave a curt nod of approval but said nothing—she never praised.

"Cat got your tongue, freak?" Dudley grabbed a fork and began shoveling food into his mouth greedily. "Or are you scared I’ll shove you in the trash bin again, like last year?"

Vernon roared with laughter, his belly shaking. "Leave him be, son. Let him know his place. A scrawny little abomination like him is only good for serving real men."

Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The rage spilled over. Without a word, he turned sharply and left the kitchen. His steps were quick but silent—years under the stairs had taught him to move unnoticed. Behind him, another burst of laughter erupted—fat, satisfied, humiliating. He climbed the stairs, entered his tiny cupboard of a room, and slammed the door shut. His heart pounded. His fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. "Skinny. Freak. Abomination. Servant." The words burned inside him, eating at his soul like acid. He collapsed onto his miserable camp bed, which creaked under his weight. The springs dug into his back, reminding him of every night spent here.

Harry rolled onto his side, breathing heavily, and his hand brushed against something hard beneath the thin blanket. He froze. Slowly, he pulled out the object.

It was an old, worn book bound in black leather, its cover adorned with a silver serpent coiled into a ring. The title, engraved in shimmering green letters, made his breath catch:

"Lust Book of Slytherin"

The book pulsed faintly in his hand—warm, almost alive. A faint, musky scent emanated from it—a mix of old parchment, dark magic, and something sweetly corrupt, animalistic. Harry traced his fingers over the cover. The serpent seemed to shift beneath his touch.

Images flashed in his mind. Not the ones from before. Not just ****. Something deeper. Dirtier. He saw Vernon, with his short, thick neck and bushy mustache, on his knees. Dudley, that hulking, fat bull, trembling and begging. Aunt Petunia, with her long swan-like neck, writhing, her gaunt body finally breaking under real power. Harry opened the first page. The letters writhed, forming words right before his eyes:

"For those who are tired of being the victim. For those ready to take what is rightfully theirs. Lust is power. Desire is a weapon. Open me… and become who you were always meant to be."

The book grew warmer. Something hard and unfamiliar twitched between Harry’s legs. Rage mixed with a new, dark hunger. He turned another page…