Summary: Harry woke in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, transformed into a young, curvy girl with D-cup breasts and a plump arse. With no explanation, the Order sent him back to Privet Drive for "protection. "But the magical world had forgotten a truth once known: Avada Kedavra was a mercy. There are fates far worse than death, and Harry Potter, who survived that mercy, is about to find out.
Chapter 1 – Underwear Wasn't Where He Left It
Hogwarts Hospital Wing
Harry drifted into consciousness slowly, the world around him unfurling like a film reel caught between frames. Each breath felt thick and resistant, like pushing through water. For a moment, he clung to the darkness, willing himself to stay beneath it. But the sterile scent of the Hospital Wing was inescapable, clinging to his senses like stale potion smoke.
His eyes cracked open, blinking against the overhead light. White ceiling tiles. The soft rustle of sheets. A faint, dull ache pulsed low at the base of his skull.
He'd been here before. Too many times. A misfired charm from Lockhart. Dementors. Quidditch. It all blurred together.
But this time felt different.
It wasn't pain that told him something was wrong. It wasn't even the headache. It was a sensation. Something utterly new.
There was a weight pressing down on his chest. Not just pressure, but a swaying presence that responded to his breath. Soft. Heavy. Warm. With every inhale, it rose and fell, subtle and unignorable.
He froze.
His body still felt thick with sleep, but awareness was creeping in slowly, like cold air seeping through cracked glass. That weight wasn't a blanket. It wasn't padding. It was part of him.
Frowning, he looked down.
The blanket lay draped across his torso, but it wasn't flat. It rose in two smooth, rounded shapes. Symmetrical. Full. Pushing the fabric outward.
His stomach dropped.
No. That can't be...
He sat up sharply, a spike of panic cutting through the fog. The sudden motion made the mounds bounce before settling again with a disconcerting softness.
What the hell?
Hands trembling, he threw the blanket aside. The hospital gown clung to his body, stretched taut over two prominent curves. Breasts. Round and unmistakably real. Pressed against the fabric with a softness he could feel through the thin material.
His breath caught in his throat.
"What the hell is this?"
He stared, chest rising and falling with quickening breaths, eyes fixed on the foreign shape of his body. They weren't conjured. Not some illusion. They moved too naturally, responded too perfectly to his breathing and posture.
Someone must have drugged him and slipped him Polyjuice. This had to be Polyjuice. A prank. An accident. Something temporary.
Desperation twisted in his gut as he reached up and, with agonizing hesitation, touched one of the mounds. Just a graze. Just enough to tell.
The sensation was instant. Warm. Supple. The skin yielded under his palm, far too soft and responsive.
He pressed deeper.
It molded to his hand.
He nearly recoiled. But his fingers remained, squeezing again, more firmly, as if needing to disprove what his eyes told him.
A strange, sharp twinge rippled through his chest. Something pulled from deep inside.
No. No no no.
He looked at his hand. At the way it cupped the breast. In the way the flesh gave naturally, as though it had always been there.
It didn't feel fake. It felt completely real.
He tried to breathe. To slow down. But the air came out shaky, chest heaving with weight that shouldn't be his. His body felt off. Lighter in the wrong places, heavier where it never should have been. Even his posture had changed. Subtly. Enough to feel like someone else's.
His hand slid lower in a panic. Over a stomach that was smooth and unfamiliar, missing the faint ridges of muscle he remembered. His waist curved inward too much. His hips spread wide beneath his fingers.
He didn't want to go further.
But he had to.
His hand dipped lower.
And stopped.
His fingers touched soft, velvety flesh. Not hard.
Nothing was there.
His heart froze.
His breath caught. Refused to restart.
He searched. Frantic now. Trembling fingers moved again and again, desperate to find it. Find anything.
But there was only warmth. Wetness. A delicate slit. A slick heat that pulsed beneath his fingertips.
Gone.
His cock. His balls. Everything that made him a boy. Everything that had always been there.
No no no. Please. No. Where is it? Where is it?
His fingers moved again, barely touching now. Just enough to confirm. Just enough to feel what he already knew.
The response was immediate. A slow pulse. A tremor went through his legs. His hips twitched. A gasp escaped his lips — sharp, high, breathy, and unmistakably wrong.
It wasn't his voice.
It didn't even sound male.
He jerked his hand away like he'd touched fire. His chest rose and fell in ragged, panicked bursts.
This isn't real. This cannot be real.
But it was.
He could feel the weight of the breasts on his chest shift with every breath. The soft press of thighs that didn't feel like his. The way the air hit his skin. Too sensitive.
He was trapped in someone else's body.
He looked down again, trembling all over. At the gentle rise of his chest. The curve of his hips. The slit between his legs that still pulsed with lingering heat.
It's all real.
This is me now.
His cock was gone.
The thought struck like a physical blow. Final. Irrevocable.
Tears stung his eyes before he could stop them. They welled up and slid down his cheeks. Not from pain. Not even from fear.
From loss.
He had never imagined what it would feel like to be stripped of something so deeply personal. So defining. To look at himself and not see himself at all.
He curled inward, arms wrapping tightly around his chest as though he could hide it. As though holding himself tightly enough would undo what had been done.
Who did this?
Why?
His mouth opened. He wanted to scream. To shout for Pomfrey. For Dumbledore. For anyone. But the words collapsed into a whisper before they ever formed.
"Please… let this be a dream."
The door creaked open.
"Mr. Potter!"
Madam Pomfrey's voice snapped him out of his trance.
He turned his head in alarm, quickly pulling the blanket back over himself. His heart still thundered, his skin flushed with lingering arousal and shame. She stepped in briskly, her eyes narrowing in concern as she approached his bed.
"I see you're awake. Try not to panic," she said gently, but firmly.
Harry said nothing. He could barely breathe. His body still felt alien, buzzing with aftershocks of sensation.
Pomfrey paused, reading his face, then lowered her voice. "You were struck by a rare and ancient curse. Its effects are… unconventional. At present, your body has been completely transformed."
Harry swallowed, struggling to process her words.
"For how long?" His voice cracked again, unfamiliar and trembling.
She hesitated, then replied, "We do not yet know. The change is magical, not potion-induced, and appears irreversible for the time being. It is... thorough."
His hands clutched the blanket tighter, pressing it against the soft weight of his chest.
Before he could ask anything more, the door opened again.
Professor Dumbledore entered the room with slow, measured steps. His expression was deeply troubled. There was no smile, no twinkle in his eyes.
"I am sorry to say that the spell used against you is ancient and layered in complexity. St. Mungo's has no immediate solution," he said.
Harry blinked. "What happens now?"
"We have agreed it is safest for you to return to Privet Drive until further study is conducted. The blood protections on that home remain intact and may help stabilize any fluctuations. The magical community will be watching closely. I believe you need distance. And time."
"Privet Drive?" Harry whispered. "You're sending me back there?"
Dumbledore looked pained. "Only temporarily. We need time to understand the transformation. I know it is frightening. But it will be safer than Hogwarts, for now."
Harry said nothing. His heart beat against the cage of his new chest. He felt small, trapped in a body that was no longer his, unsure of how to even move without something jiggling or brushing too sensitively against fabric.
But he was too stunned to argue.
He nodded once.
Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey exchanged a glance. They did not press him.
He was dressed quietly, given a cloak that draped awkwardly over his new figure, and handed a Portkey that would take him directly to Number Four, Privet Drive.
As he took it, his fingers brushed the edge of the pendant. They looked smaller. Thinner. Softer.
Harry Potter vanished from the hospital wing in a flash of light.
He left as a boy in his mind. But his body told another story.
….
Outside Number Four, Privet Drive
The robes were far too big, tailored for a boy who no longer existed.
Harry landed hard on the pavement as the Portkey's pull vanished, the magic dissipating from his limbs with a tingling aftershock. His balance wavered. The breeze brushed across his bare legs beneath the cloak, and the oversized fabric swayed with every movement. Each step made the cloth drag across his chest and hips, catching awkwardly on curves that still felt foreign.
His breasts pulled uncomfortably at his shoulders. His thighs pressed together, the soft skin brushing in a way that sent jolts of unwelcome sensation up his spine. The collar of the robe gaped open despite his efforts to keep it closed, and the fabric clung too tightly across his chest no matter how he adjusted it.
He stepped up to the front door. The brass knocker caught the sunlight like a shard of heat.
He took a breath and knocked.
Footsteps approached from inside, heavy and deliberate. The door creaked open.
Vernon Dursley stood in the doorway, one thick hand still gripping the knob. His eyes scanned Harry's face, then dropped to the shape of his chest beneath the folds of fabric. His gaze lingered too long.
Behind him, Dudley appeared, chewing something that turned to paste in his mouth. A biscuit fell from his fingers and landed on the floor with a quiet thud. His eyes followed the line of Harry's body, pausing between chest and hips, stunned and wide.
Harry cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady.
"It's me. Harry."
Vernon didn't answer right away. He blinked, slowly, as if trying to wake from a nightmare he hadn't realized was real.
From the kitchen, Petunia emerged with a towel in her hands, drying them absently. She caught sight of Harry and froze mid-step. Her eyes traced his form, then darted away as if the act of looking burned.
She said nothing. She could not meet his eyes. Not with that face. Not with that body. Not when he looked so much like Lily, twisted and warped by something she couldn't begin to understand.
Harry shifted his stance, uncomfortable beneath the weight of silence.
"There was a spell," he said, voice thin. "It went wrong. This is temporary. I think."
Dudley let out something between a breath and a laugh. "You're joking."
Harry didn't respond. He didn't need to. The truth was already written across his face and body.
The silence thickened.
Vernon finally stepped aside, jaw clenched and pale. "Get inside. Now. Before the neighbors see and think I've paid for your bloody sex change."
Harry moved past him without a word, clutching the oversized robe tighter. The fabric stuck to his damp skin, brushing between his thighs and rising slightly with each step. His bare feet made no sound on the hardwood floor, but inside his head, every movement screamed. Their stares followed him like spotlights.
He could feel them.
Especially Dudley's.
He didn't need to turn around to confirm it. The weight of that gaze settled low in his belly. It felt strange and thick, not entirely repulsive. That scared him more than anything else. It stirred something nameless and shameful.
He climbed the stairs faster than he meant to. Each step jolted his chest, the fabric dragging over nipples that remained far too aware of every motion. The warmth from earlier had not left. It simmered just beneath the skin, harder to ignore now.
At the landing, he turned the corner toward the hallway. Everything looked exactly the same. Same wallpaper. Same dusty air. Same walls that had never once felt like home.
His hand found the doorknob to his room.
A soft creak came from behind him.
He turned his head.
Dudley stood at the end of the hall, completely still. His eyes locked on Harry's bare legs, then slowly, deliberately, traveled up his body. They stopped just below his waist. He didn't speak. He didn't move.
Harry held his gaze for a heartbeat. Then, wordlessly, turned and entered the room.
The doorknob felt cold against his palm. His skin burned with heat. He backed away and sank onto the edge of the bed.
The robe shifted around him. The neckline dipped, dragging lower. His breasts pressed forward against the thin cloth, full and bare beneath the fabric. He pulled his knees up, but the hem rose higher. His thighs pressed together. The air between them felt too warm. His breath hitched again.
His thoughts were scattered. Images. Glances. The sound of Dudley's breathing. Vernon's shock. Petunia's guilt.
Dudley's stare.
They had looked at him differently. Each of them. Not as a boy, they recognized. But as something else.
Vernon had seen shame.
Petunia had seen Lily.
Dudley had seen something he wanted but didn't understand.
Harry shut his eyes.
But the heat on his cheeks didn't fade.
Bottom of Form
….
Harry's Bedroom, After Dark
The house was silent.
Only the soft hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the faint rustle of leaves outside stirred the stillness. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, cutting across the floor and bed in long silver strips. Harry sat on the edge of the mattress, his legs bare and his breath shallow. The blanket had been pushed aside, forgotten.
The summer air clung to his skin, warm and damp. Every inch of his body felt unfamiliar. He wore only a loose robe, the only thing that fit with any modesty, and a pair of plain underwear. His breasts ached where the fabric had rubbed against his nipples all day. His thighs stuck lightly together when he moved, heat building steadily between them.
He hadn't touched himself since the transformation. Not directly. Not purposefully. But the feeling inside him had not gone away. The pressure had deepened, grown needful.
He stood.
The floor felt cool beneath his feet. He crossed the room slowly, each step cautious. The wardrobe sat in the corner, old and half-broken. He opened it with a gentle pull, and the warped door groaned quietly on its hinges. Inside, stuck against the splintered wood, was a dull metal panel that served as his mirror.
Faint moonlight reflected off the surface, enough to see.
He looked.
A girl stared back.
She had soft, pale skin and delicate cheekbones. Her hair was deep red, wild and loose, falling around her shoulders in long waves. Her lips were pink and full, slightly parted. The robe clung to her chest, stretched over two large, heavy breasts. The outline of her nipples was clearly visible even in the dimness, pressed tight against the thin fabric. Her waist tapered inward, curving out into broad hips and thick thighs.
Harry swallowed hard. His heart thudded against his ribs.
That was him.
He reached for the tie of the robe. His fingers hesitated. Then he pulled.
The knot came undone. The robe loosened.
With a slow breath, he let it slide from his shoulders. The fabric fell away with a soft whisper and pooled at his feet.
His breasts spilled free.
Full and heavy. Round and flushed. Easily D-cup in size. His nipples stood stiff in the cool air, flushed a deep pink, sensitive from a day of constant rubbing beneath the cloth.
He stood there, breathing fast, feeling the air move over his bare skin. His nipples ached, hard and alert.
He stepped closer to the mirror.
He lifted his hand and cupped one breast. It was warm in his palm, the weight pulling slightly. The skin was soft and smooth. His fingers sank in as he squeezed gently.
A jolt of pleasure shot through him.
He gasped and bit his lip. His knees felt weak.
He rubbed his thumb across the nipple. It throbbed under the pressure, sending another wave of heat down his belly.
His voice broke the silence.
"Oh gods…"
The sound was high and soft. It didn't sound like the boy he had been.
He cupped the other breast, massaging both now. His chest rose and fell with every trembling breath. The pleasure was real. Intense. Not imagined.
His thighs pressed together. His legs shifted restlessly.
He looked back into the mirror. His breasts glistened faintly in the moonlight. His nipples were pink and flushed, standing out against the pale swell of his chest. The curves of his hips and the fullness of his thighs framed the narrow smoothness of his belly.
His hands slid down.
His skin was flawless beneath his touch, with just a supple waist.
Then lower still.
He paused as his fingers reached the front of his panties. The fabric was warm. Soft. Slightly damp. He pressed down gently.
A spark shot up his spine.
He gasped, legs shifting. He rubbed the spot again, slower this time, his fingers sliding over the cloth in slow, tentative circles. The friction made him twitch.
The heat between his legs had grown into a throbbing pulse. And now… the soaked cotton clung to him with sticky persistence.
His breath hitched.
He pulled his hand back, staring at his fingers. They were wet.
The fabric was utterly soaked.
With shaky hands, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and began to slide the panties down.
They peeled away slowly, sticking to his skin with a damp resistance. As they slipped past his thighs, a slick string of arousal stretched between cloth and flesh before breaking.
The underwear dropped to the floor with a faint, wet sound.
Now bare, he stood before the mirror, breath uneven.
Just above the flushed, swollen lips of his pussy, a soft patch of deep red curls crowned the mound—untamed, damp, and slightly curled from heat and moisture. The hair was thickest at the center, tapering off toward the edges. It matched the vivid red on his head, unmistakably his. He stared, chest rising and falling, stunned by the raw, intimate reality of it.
He reached down again, this time with nothing in the way.
His fingers brushed the outer lips.
Wetness clung to his skin instantly.
His mouth fell open.
He rubbed again, slower, and the heat that met him was impossible to ignore. His skin was slick, pulsing with need. Every stroke made his thighs tremble. He spread the folds gently.
The softness beneath his fingers felt unreal. Slick, warm, and unbearably sensitive. Every brush over that tiny knot of nerves made his stomach twist and his breath catch.
"Bloody hell," he whispered. The words barely left his mouth, more breath than voice.
He pressed his legs together instinctively, trying to hold the sensation back, but it only made the ache sharper. His fingers returned to the spot, circling with slow care, learning how this new body responded. The pleasure bloomed at once, strange and tight in his belly, making his thighs tremble beneath him.
One hand reached out to steady himself against the wardrobe. The other stayed between his legs, working rhythmically now. The wetness made everything glide so easily. The sound of it filled the room, obscene in the quiet, and far too real.
His hips began to move without him meaning to. The small, helpless rolls sent fresh shocks of heat through his stomach. He reached up, grabbed one of his breasts, and squeezed. His nipple pressed against his palm, hard and aching. A soft noise escaped his lips, almost a whimper.
His whole body was pulsing. His clit throbbed beneath his touch. The tension was building faster than he expected, and yet it still felt too far away.
"Please..." he gasped, voice strained.
He needed more.
His fingers slid down through the soaked folds, searching for the entrance. It was hot, slippery, and twitching under his touch. He hesitated, then gently pushed one finger in.
The sensation stopped him cold.
It was warm, unbelievably tight, and alive around him. His pussy clenched down immediately, as though trying to pull him deeper. He moaned softly, shocked by how different it felt, how much deeper the sensation went.
He began to move, slow at first, the motion slick and careful. Every time he pushed in, his walls fluttered around his finger, and when he pulled back, the heat dragged after him. The rhythm started to build. His thighs shook. His breath shortened.
A second finger stretched him wider. The burn was sharp but brief, quickly replaced by more pressure, more fullness. He bit his lip as his back arched slightly. His other hand returned to his clit, circling quickly, driven by growing urgency.
Then he touched something deeper inside. His body jerked in response. His mouth fell open.
Right there. That was it.
"Please..." he whispered again. "Right there..."
His hips moved faster. His fingers thrust deep, rubbing that perfect spot. His hand on his clit was frantic now, the friction almost too much.
Then the pressure snapped.
Pleasure tore through him in a white-hot wave. His pussy clamped down on his fingers, the muscles pulsing in rhythm. His hips lifted off the bed as his body bucked, the climax forcing itself through every inch of him.
He came with a strangled cry, his legs shaking uncontrollably. His toes curled. His chest rose and fell in panicked breaths. Every pulse of his pussy made more slickness spill over his fingers.
It didn't stop.
The orgasm rolled on, wave after wave, until he was trembling, nearly sobbing with the intensity of it. The sheets were soaked beneath him. His fingers stayed buried deep, held by the involuntary grip of his own body.
Finally, it started to fade.
He collapsed to one side, hand still inside, utterly spent.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps. Sweat clung to his skin. His nipples were sore. His thighs were slick, spread wide. His pussy twitched in the aftershocks.
Tears pricked at his eyes and fell without resistance. Not from shame or pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of what he had felt.
Slowly, he slipped his fingers free. A soft, wet sound followed. He lifted them to his lips and paused. Then, almost curiously, he tasted.
It was warm and faintly sweet. Strange, intimate. Nothing like before.
He looked down at himself.
Breasts flushed and heavy. Stomach rising and falling. Thighs parted. His pussy glistened in the moonlight, still open, still pulsing faintly.
He swallowed hard.
"It's real..." he murmured.
He stayed there a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the truth sink in.
His body had changed. Utterly. Irreversibly.
And it could make him feel things he never even imagined.
And even now, lying in the quiet, soaked in the aftermath, he already knew.
He wanted to feel it again.
Bottom of Form
…
Next Morning
Morning light crept through the thin curtains, casting pale streaks across the carpet. The air in the room was warm, thick from sleep, and something more private. Harry lay beneath the blanket, half-awake, his eyes unfocused. His chest rose and fell slowly. The ache between his thighs hadn't faded. It pulsed faintly, a lingering echo of what he had done to himself in the dark.
His nipples were sore. His thighs were damp. His underwear was cold now, the fabric uncomfortably tight and soaked through. He shifted slightly, and the pressure of it made him wince. He clenched his jaw, trying to push the memory away—the sounds he had made, how helpless he had felt, the way his fingers had moved like they belonged to someone else.
Then came the knock.
Before he could speak, the door swung open.
Petunia entered briskly, arms full of laundry, and froze just inside the threshold. Her nostrils flared. She didn't speak for a moment, simply took in the heat, the heavy air, the twisted sheets.
Her lip curled.
"For heaven's sake, what have you done in here?"
Harry jerked upright, the blanket yanked up to his chest. "You can't just barge in."
"I did knock," she snapped. Her voice was like a wire pulled tight. "It's nearly eleven. You're still lying about like some strumpet in a brothel."
She stepped farther in, her eyes scanning the room with open disgust.
"The whole place reeks of you. Smells like something's been rutting in here. You filthy little freak."
Harry's grip tightened around the blanket. "Get out."
But she ignored him.
"You think hiding under the covers will make it go away? You've got a nerve, behaving like this under my roof. It's bad enough you've turned into this... thing."
Her gaze dropped to his chest, lingering a second too long. Her voice lowered with a note of something meaner.
"I don't even know what you are anymore. But I'll not have you spreading it through my home."
She dropped a towel on the bed, then threw down a bundle of clothes without care.
"Scrub yourself. Properly. I want the stink gone. You may be used to filth, but I will not have it seeping into the walls."
Harry sat up straighter, his face hot with anger. "Stop calling me that."
Petunia's expression didn't shift.
"Calling you what? Freak? You've always been one. Now you're worse. Just look at you. Parading around with those things on your chest like you've forgotten what shame even is. It's indecent. It's unnatural."
She turned toward the door but paused with one final glance.
"I found something that might keep them in place. Merlin knows you'll need it. I won't have the neighbours catching a look because you don't know how to dress yourself."
Her eyes narrowed.
"And for God's sake, pull yourself together. You may have woken up something else, but you're still a disgrace."
She slammed the door behind her. The frame shook from the force.
Harry sat frozen for a moment, breathing hard. The sting of her words clung to him more than the air. His heart pounded. Then, slowly, he glanced at the pile she had tossed.
A stretched-out old t-shirt. Faded grey sweatpants. And lying neatly on top, as if chosen to insult him further, a plain white bra and a pair of pale pink cotton knickers.
He pushed the blanket aside and sat up fully. The underwear he had worn last night was still on him, cold and clinging. His chest, bare and flushed, rose and fell as he stood.
His legs shook slightly as he walked to the door.
The hallway was empty. The laundry basket stood beside the bathroom.
Without pausing, he stripped off the damp shirt and dropped it in. His skin prickled in the chill air. Then he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and slid it down his thighs. It came off with a soft, sticky sound, peeling from the skin like a second layer. He stepped out of it and dropped it in as well, throat tight.
He wrapped the towel tightly around himself and stepped into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. He locked it.
The tap groaned as he turned the water on. He let it run cold.
When the spray hit him, he gasped. The shock cut through every lingering thought. Still, he stood beneath it, refusing to flinch. The water pounded his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and between his legs.
His nipples tightened. His skin shivered. But his hands moved quickly and without hesitation. He scrubbed hard, washing away every trace of the night before. He did not linger. Not at his breasts. Not at his hips. Not at the warm, swollen cleft between his legs that still twitched from memory.
When the water stopped, his entire body was trembling. Not from arousal this time, but restraint.
He dried himself without looking in the mirror. He didn't want to see the red in his cheeks or the shape of his body or the places that still felt too soft.
Towel wrapped tight, clean clothes pressed to his chest, he stepped back into the hallway.
Then he stopped.
Just beside the laundry basket, lying on the floor, were his underwear from the night before.
But they weren't where he remembered putting them.
He frowned. He had dropped them straight into the basket before stepping into the shower. He remembered that clearly. They had peeled off his skin, heavy with dampness, and he had tossed them inside without a second thought.
Yet now, here they were. Half-crumpled. Lying on the floor just next to the basket. Like someone had taken them out and carelessly discarded them again.
A cold, crawling feeling ran along his spine.
He crouched slowly, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, eyes fixed on the bunched cotton.
Something was wrong.
The fabric hadn't dried fully. It was still damp in places, but not from his own arousal. Proof of last night's exploration should have dried. The moisture now was fresher. Thick in consistency. As he touched the edge, his fingers met something slick and viscous.
Harry went still.
He lifted the underwear by one side, holding it carefully, and unfolded it slightly.
The inner lining was soaked. But not with anything he had left behind.
A smear of white clung to the centre of the fabric, thick and glistening in the dim hallway light. It hadn't dried yet. It was fresh. The texture is unmistakable. The smell is even more so.
His breath caught in his throat.
He knew exactly what it was.
As a former boy, there was no mistaking the texture, the scent, the weight of it. It was semen. Still wet. Still warm.
Someone had taken his discarded underwear and masturbated into them while he was in the shower.
His stomach turned.
He stared at the fabric in disbelief, mind racing. It wasn't old. It hadn't dried over time. It had happened recently. Minutes ago.
Someone had been out here. Right outside the door. Touching them. Using them. While he had been only a few feet away, completely naked and unaware.
His grip tightened slightly. His body remained frozen, but his thoughts turned sharp.
Who?
His first thought was Vernon. But no. He had heard the car leave this morning. Vernon didn't go to his office without his car ever. He wasn't even home.
That left only one person.
Dudley.
He thought back to yesterday. The way Dudley had looked at him when Harry walked past in just a shirt. The lingering eyes. The confused silence at dinner. The way his cousin's gaze had hovered on Harry's chest for a moment too long.
His hand trembled. His chest felt tight.
He should have thrown them away immediately. Washed his hands. Pretended it hadn't happened.
But he didn't.
The heat bloomed between his thighs, sudden and unwelcome. His pussy clenched again, tender from the shower, now responding on instinct. The towel darkened slightly where it touched him.
He hated this.
He hated the fact that the scent didn't repel him. It clung to the cotton like breath against skin. That it smelled of someone else wanting him.
He brought the fabric closer to his nose.
The smell hit him hard. It was thick and layered. The warm tang of sweat. The faint sweetness of his arousal, soaked deep into the cotton from the night before.
Underneath it, something newer. Sharper. Male. It clung to the centre like a mark, unmistakably fresh.
It didn't just smell of sex. It smelled of him. Of his body after pleasure. Of sleep, heat, and skin.
His knees weakened, and he sank slowly to the floor beside the laundry basket.
He hated the way his thighs pressed together. The way his body reacted with a soft ache. The image that played in his mind without permission: Dudley in the hallway, his fat fingers gripping the underwear, stroking himself with clumsy desperation, eyes closed, Harry's scent still warm on the fabric.
They had done it because of him.
Because of his body.
He wanted him.
And worst of all, some part of him responded to that knowledge. Not with pride. Not with acceptance. But with a deep, shameful hunger he couldn't silence.
He held the underwear close again and breathed in slowly.
His thighs were wet. He didn't even have to check. He could feel it sliding down, soaking into the edge of the towel.
He just sat there, trembling, the used panties clenched in his hands, eyes half-lidded, forehead against the wall, the air around him thick with heat and the scent of someone else's release.
And for the first time, he realised something terrifying.
He was not safe in this house.
And he wasn't sure if the worst part was the fear… or the part of him that found it hot.
He looked down the hallway toward his bedroom. The door stood open, sunlight slanting across the carpet. He moved quickly, underwear in hand, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. His fingers hesitated on the handle. There was no lock.
He dragged the desk chair over and jammed it under the doorknob. Then he shoved the dresser just enough to pin the chair's legs in place. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold. No, Petunia, barging in. No one is catching him.
His breath came fast now. He stood at the foot of the bed, heart thudding against his ribs.
He brought the underwear to his nose and inhaled.
The scent hit hard. His own arousal from the night before, sharp and sweet, still clinging to the fabric. But over it, thicker and heavier, was the warm musk of semen. The smell filled his lungs. He groaned, quiet and strained, as something inside him cracked open.
He didn't want to think.
He didn't want to fight it.
He climbed onto the bed, stretched out, and pressed the damp underwear over his face. The smell drowned him. He took another breath, deeper this time. The scent soaked into his thoughts. Into his skin.
His resolve shattered.
His hand slid down between his legs. His fingers parted his folds and found him already soaked again. The cold shower hadn't done a thing. His body had never really cooled off.
A low moan slipped from his lips, muffled by the cloth on his face.
The fantasy took over before he could stop it.
He was bent over the living room armrest, naked, his hands tied behind his back. Vernon stood behind him, belly pressing into his bare arse, one meaty hand slapping his thigh hard enough to sting.
"You filthy little tease," Vernon growled, striking him again. "Walking around my house like that."
Each smack made Harry twitch in real life. His hand moved faster. His hips lifted off the bed slightly, desperate for more pressure.
Dudley was on the couch, trousers down, stroking his fat cock lazily as he watched.
"She's ready for it, Dad," he muttered. "She's begging."
Harry let out a soft whimper, stifled by the underwear over his mouth. He bucked against his fingers, clit throbbing.
Vernon spat into his palm, grabbed his cock, and shoved it in with a grunt. Harry cried out around the fabric. His throat caught on the sound. His cunt in the real world clenched around two fingers hard enough to ache.
In the fantasy, Vernon fucked him slow and rough, slapping his arse after every thrust. His balls smacked against Harry's slick thighs.
Then Dudley came closer, cock thick, red, already leaking.
He grabbed Harry by the hair and dragged his face forward, forcing his lips open. His cock pushed in, heavy and bitter-tasting. Harry gagged, eyes wide and wet, throat stretching as Dudley shoved deep.
In bed, Harry added a third finger and arched up, body shaking.
He humped the air, soaked and tight, stifling moans against the underwear. His other hand rubbed his clit in desperate circles. The scent filled his nose. His mouth was full of it. He couldn't breathe without thinking of them.
He imagined both of them inside him, fucking him from either end. His jaw ached. His cunt stretched wide. Vernon's hand slapped his arse again and again, and Dudley groaned about how tight his mouth was.
"Take it," Vernon grunted. "Take every bit of it."
Harry's moan broke free, loud and raw, but muffled by the soiled underwear over his mouth.
His orgasm tore through him like fire.
His pussy clamped down hard, fingers caught inside. His legs kicked out violently, toes curled tight, and a hot jet of fluid burst from his cunt. It splashed over his hand and drenched the bed beneath him. Some of it sprayed beyond the sheets, striking the wooden floor with a wet pat. His entire body convulsed. His back arched. His head pushed deep into the pillow.
But it didn't stop.
The fantasy only grew rougher. They flipped him onto his back. Vernon pinned his wrists to the mattress. Dudley spread his thighs wide. Their cocks rubbed together at his entrance, slick and thick and eager.
"Please," Harry whispered into the cotton, voice thin and ruined, "please... both of you."
In his mind, they pushed into him together. One cock stretching his pussy, the other pressing deep into his arse. His breath caught in his throat. His whole body tensed. His hole burned, stuffed full, but his cunt clenched greedily around the fullness.
Then it came again.
Another orgasm ripped through him, harder than the first.
His thighs spasmed. His belly tightened. A second gush shot out from his cunt, soaking the sheets anew. The mess beneath him grew hot and slippery, his slick mixing with the thick wetness from before. It ran down the backs of his thighs. The mattress squelched softly with each thrust of his hips against his hand.
He gasped into the underwear, barely able to breathe. His body twisted as if it couldn't hold the pleasure inside.
And still it came.
A third orgasm crashed through him, sudden and sharp. His vision whited out. His pussy sprayed again, a thin, high stream that arced and splattered across the bedsheets and floorboards in one final pulse. His hips jerked helplessly. His legs kicked apart and then squeezed tightly around his soaked hand.
The noise he made wasn't a moan anymore. It was a sob. Quiet and desperate, muffled by the cotton still pressed to his face.
He collapsed into the mess. Limbs weak. Chest heaving. His fingers slid out from between his folds, drenched and shaking. His thighs were soaked. His cunt still pulsed in slow, lazy twitches, sensitive to every brush of air.
He licked his fingers, one by one. The taste filled his mouth. Salty. Slightly sweet. Tangy with slick and something else. His tongue dragged along the curve of his knuckle. He swallowed slowly, then pressed the underwear back to his face and inhaled again.
It smelled like sex. Like sweat and skin and someone else's lust. Like being wanted. Like being owned.
He stayed there in the silence, shivering against the sheets, lost in the aftermath. His clit still throbbed. His belly ached from tension. The sheets beneath him were soaked. The floor glistened with spray. His entire body felt used, ruined, and somehow... fulfilled.
And the truth settled over him, slow and undeniable.
He didn't just want the fantasy anymore.
He wanted the real thing.
He wanted to be bent over and filled. To be taken without question. To be called a whore and slapped until he cried. To be bred like he was meant for it.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still knew it was wrong. He still knew it was twisted. But that knowledge no longer stopped the need.
He hugged the underwear to his chest and let his eyes fall closed, breathing in deep, heart pounding with what he knew he could never admit out loud.
He wanted them to do it.
And next time... he wouldn't lock the door.
---
Chapter 2 is already live on Patreon. Chapter 3 will be posted there soon, and Chapter 2 will be updated here shortly after.
This fanfic started as a one-shot, but the plot got deeper and deeper. The Privet Drive arc is now complete, and no one has been spared. Heck, I wrote 2 chapters through the entire night without sleeping, though the night and here I am. Sadly, I have no energy left to complete chapter 3 right now.
The timeline begins right after Goblet of Fire, and I'm planning to take the story to Hogwarts next. If you have ideas, scenarios, or wicked little suggestions for what should happen when Harry returns to the castle, I'm all ears.
Thank you for reading.If this ruined your underwear in the best way… you're welcome.
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