Moving Pictures

Chapter One

Disclaimer: All the Hogwarts gang belong exclusively to J.K.R, not me. And it's a sure thing I'm not making money from them.

It was strange, really. Harry woke up in Privet Drive, that first morning home from his fourth year at Hogwarts, and wasn't completely horrified to be there. In fact, he felt a little, well, relieved.

Well, what do you expect? That was Hermione's voice in his head. I read last term that wizard duels are VERY tiring. Bludo the Backward was asleep for a month after his last one - don't you listen in History of Magic?

Duels, yes, Harry thought heavily. Duels, and tournaments, and that awful conversation with Cedric's parents. Not to mention the fight he'd had with Ron, which was worse than anything else, unless you counted standing in the Great Hall watching Cho cry.

Everywhere he looked, everything he thought about, nothing but conflict and torment and death, death, death. In contrast, the prim tidiness of Privet Drive was almost comforting.

He was finding his aunt's flowerbeds particularly soothing this summer; the first week he was back he did a lot of mulching and weeding, without being asked. No magic, of course. Still, all those Herbology lessons must have paid off; the next-door neighbor pulled Aunt Petunia aside at the market, Harry's first weekend home, and raved about her peonies. If his aunt suspected him of helping the flowers along a bit, she didn't take him to task for it.

Uncle Vernon seemed oddly subdued as well. At his last checkup he'd been issued an ultimatum, and now the whole family was on a low-cholesterol diet that had Dudley in despair. In addition, a fold-up treadmill had appeared in the parlor (every night, after the six o' clock news, Uncle Vernon set his beefy jaw, turned the little key, and lumbered away at it for a hissing, laborious half hour), and Tuesday night was reserved for his doctor-prescribed anger-management seminar. He'd also been directed to take up a hobby - something that got him out of the house - and Friday evenings found him glumly squiring Aunt Petunia to swing-dancing classes.

If you asked Harry, his aunt quite enjoyed that last bit. Uncle Vernon's mood hadn't improved much, naturally, but he seemed to be keeping all that anger-management in mind when he looked at Harry. He still snarled a bit, but the spark was gone.

Harry himself felt altered by the year's events. For one thing, he was taller, and a tad more muscled from all the extra Quidditch practice, not as scrawny. His voice was starting to feel crackly and a bit deeper, and he'd noticed a few jet-black hairs poking up in odd places here and there. More than all that, though, was the change he noticed in the bathroom mirror. The face that looked back at him while he brushed his teeth didn't belong any more to a little boy who'd had a couple of close calls. That kind of innocence was long gone - those green eyes in the mirror every morning looked too knowing, and too weary. They'd faced down Death himself, one time after another. They'd seen their mother's ghost.

So. He hadn't locked away his trunk under the stairs. He hadn't bolted Hedwig into her cage. "I have to study this summer," he'd told his aunt and uncle, and had marched his luggage up the stairs to his room without a finger lifted to stop him. Mildly miraculous.

He figured that they must have seen the difference in him, too. Maybe they were scared of him. Mostly they pretended he wasn't there.

Some things, of course, never change, and Dudley was one of them. Still fat. Still rude. Still annoying. Worse yet, he didn't feel it necessary to knock. Harry was sprawled on his bed one afternoon, re-reading the Chudley Cannons book he'd borrowed from Ron, when Dudley came waddling in. He propped himself in the doorway and stared beadily at Harry. "What are you doing?"

"Reading," Harry said shortly, and went back to his book, hoping Dudley would take the hint. No such luck. Dudley didn't budge.

"Why? You're on vacation."

Harry sighed. Dudley wasn't going anywhere. His friend Piers had done something mysterious and awful near the end of term at Smeltings that had resulted in Piers being sent to a six-week survival camp in Scotland to, as Piers' father had told Uncle Vernon, ‘make a man of him'. Uncle Vernon had nearly sent Dudley with him, and might well have if Aunt Petunia hadn't interceded. Personally, Harry thought that survival camp was just what Dudley needed; Dudley without Piers for the summer was completely at loose ends and therefore more friendly than he would have been otherwise. There might have been a time, long ago, when Harry would have welcomed Dudley's friendship. It was long gone. He folded down his page to mark it and tried not to look too impatient. "It's a sports book," he offered. "For fun."

Dudley wasn't listening. He was peering at a wizard photo of Ginny Weasley.

**

Harry, feeling nostalgic at the end of term, had appealed to Colin Creevey for pictures of Hogwarts, then tacked them defiantly all over his room. It was all there - Colin was nothing if not prolific: Hermione buried in a book, Ron with a Chocolate Frog stuffed in each cheek, the Gryffindor Quidditch team in mid-air formation. The Christmas decorations in the Great Hall. A small, blurry white something in mid-air that, in the right light, just might have been a bouncing ferret. Fred and George, still molting canary feathers. Katie and Angelina snuggled up on either side of Lee Jordan, making rude gestures for the camera. Harry, on his broomstick, diving for the ground, his fingers brushing something fluttering and golden.

And, of course, Ginny. She'd probably bribed Colin to slip hers into the stack.

It was a good picture of her. Looked like it'd been taken at the Winter Ball while she was dancing, over Neville's shoulder. She was flushed and laughing, with her red hair pulled up in a crown of curls and her gown almost slipping off one shoulder. Usually when Harry looked at her, she turned pink and ducked her head into Neville's robes, but right now she was fluttering her eyelashes and looking very flirty.

"She's hot," Dudley said. "She your girlfriend?"

"You're sick," Harry said sharply. "She's a baby! She's my best friend's kid sister!"

"Nice tits," Dudley said. The tip of his tongue was poking out like a fat pink slug. "I'd do her. If she was a blonde."

"That's disgusting," Harry muttered. "Like any normal girl's going to get near you anyway."

"I know more about girls than you think." Dudley was still staring hungrily at Ginny, who was beginning to look worried. "Piers has these magazines. He gave me one." He reached toward the photo and frowned as Ginny, abandoning Neville, fled into the frame. "Hey, where'd she go? Is this a hologram or something?"

"Wizard photo," Harry said absently. "They move sometimes."

Dudley's piggy little eyes narrowed. "Really." He plucked the photo off Harry's bulletin board and tipped it sideways, as if trying to shake Ginny back into the foreground. "What about sexy pictures?"

Harry frowned. "What about them?"

Dudley looked oddly … excited. It was disturbing. "You know," he said, breathing through his mouth. "Do they - you know - move?"

Harry plucked Ginny's picture out of Dudley's hand and tacked it back on his board, almost skewering the back of Neville's head with the tack and causing Neville to take cover as well. "Dudley," he said, "if you don't get out of my room, RIGHT NOW, I'm going to throw up on you."

"Just asking," Dudley said, looking uncharacteristically apologetic, and lumbered out. Harry heard his bedroom door close and the TV go on a moment later. Ginny and Neville poked their heads back into the picture and rolled their eyes at him.

"Pig," Harry said to the empty room. But … it did make you wonder, didn't it?

**

He didn't know if it was part of the growing-up thing or what, but he was thinking about sex a lot. Nice to know you're on the same page as Dudley with that one, Potter, he told himself, and skimmed Ron's book across the room, where it landed neatly on his bookshelf.

No magic, sure, but you couldn't help it when things just happened, could you?

He got up to close the door, then flopped back down on his bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. Sex. No, don't think about sex. Sex.

Sex with who? That was the big question.

Cho. Sex with Cho. He could picture the first part, at least; that was easy. Middle of that maze, standing right where the Cup had been, with her in his arms in a nimbus of misty golden Sphinx-light. He even knew what she'd say: I liked Cedric, Harry, but he wasn't the one for me. You're the one I wanted, even then.

Presto chango. Hollywood kisses to put the Yanks to shame. But … what then? Where did your hands go? What went in between kissing and getting naked?

Cho, naked. He closed his eyes and tried to picture it.

Cho with her friends. Cho on her broomstick. Cho in the Great Hall with tears in her eyes. Cho in a halo of light, fluttering Vivien Leigh eyelashes at him and murmuring, You're the one I want.

Nothing. Nada. Ix-nay on the aked-nay.

Discouraged, Harry flipped up his loose floorboard and dug around for a Peppermint Toad. Even if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren't making him crazy this summer, he wasn't going to risk their wrath by letting Dudley find his stash of magical snacks. The Ton-Tongue Toffee incident was still painfully clear in his memory.

He wondered what Fred and George were up to this summer. If he were at the Weasleys' right now, he and Ron would be in Ron's little room in the attic, wedged together on the bed reading comic books and listening to the bangs and blasts echoing from the room below them. They'd chase gnomes out of the garden. Play limping, half-assed Quidditch games in the back yard until way past dark. Fall asleep listening to the family ghoul rattle his chains.

Now, that would be a good summer, Harry thought. Moodily, he tossed Hedwig the last bite of his Peppermint Toad and reached for his Potions book. If there was one good thing about this holiday, it was that he'd go back to school completely prepared for anything Severus Snape could throw at him.

It was getting dark when Harry closed his book; startled, he glanced at the clock on his bedside table and realized it was past time for dinner. Either Aunt Petunia hadn't called him, or he hadn't heard her. He listened hard, but didn't hear the telltale chink of silver on china. Odd. Usually you could set your watch by her. He yawned, stretched, and headed for the stairs.

Downstairs, the house was quiet and dark. No Dursleys in the kitchen. No Dursleys in the living room. Oh, that was right. Swing-dancing night - his aunt and uncle were eating out. Grabbing an apple, Harry headed back upstairs, where he could hear the faint hum of Dudley's television. Dudley's bedroom door was open a crack; he could see the blue glow of the TV and half of Dudley's bulky silhouette in front of it. Harry guessed that the horrible crunching sound he heard over the bad pop music was Dudley eating potato crisps. He had half-turned to go when he realized what Dudley was watching and peeked through the crack in the door for another look.

It was a pornographic movie. At Harry's first glance, the couple on the screen had been kissing. Now, they were naked. Not the most beautiful people he'd ever seen, but that hardly registered. They were having sex. And not movie sex, real sex. The woman was bent over the arm of a chair; Harry could see her ass and the side of one jiggling breast, and then she spread her legs and he bit his lip - whoa. So that's what it looks like.

The camera cut away to the man, who was squeezing some kind of clear lotion into his palm. Now he had his cock in his hand, and his glistening fist was moving up and down. Heart in his mouth, Harry watched it get bigger and harder, watched the guy hold it between his thumb and forefinger and spank the girl's ass with it. Huh. Not his idea of how to treat a lady, but she seemed to like it. Who knew?

And then he grabbed her by the hips and sort of … shoved … and just like that, his cock had disappeared inside her. But only for a second, because the camera moved in close and Harry could see now that he was pumping back and forth. The guy's cock looked even bigger now, sort of shiny with something wet, and every time he pulled out Harry saw the girl's pussy, just a pink ring of muscle all stretched around him. The bad music was louder, and both of them were making heavy-breathing noises. In front of the television, Harry saw Dudley's meaty arm jerking up and down. Ew.

Cautiously, he backed away from the door, avoided the squeaky spot in the middle of the hall, and locked himself into his own room, breathing heavily. So that's how it worked.

It took him thirty seconds to get his clothes off, fifteen more to be on the bed. One more heartbeat, and his hand was wrapped around his dick.

He'd done this before, just because it felt good. But things were different now; he had a whole movie playing in his head. A dark-haired girl with pretty eyes and high heels, looking flirtatiously back at him over one naked shoulder. Hips and breasts and smooth girl-skin and a warm, dark, mysterious vortex that welcomed him in the minute he pushed, tight as his own fist but velvet-soft. God, he thought, and sank his teeth into his own shoulder so he wouldn't scream. When he finally shot, it was better than Quidditch.

Gasping, he rolled over to grab some tissues from his desk. A quick, furtive movement from one of the wizard photos caught his eye; curious, he snapped on the light.

The Chocolate Frogs were gone. The wizard robes lay in an untidy heap in the background of the photo, leaving just a boy with bare skin. He was wiping his hands with a handkerchief from the pocket of the robes. His head shot up guiltily as the light came on.

For a long, long moment, Ron's eyes met Harry's. Then, in a flash of bare skin, Ron whirled around, grabbed his robes, and fled into the frame.

Shaken, Harry sat and watched the picture for at least an hour. Ron didn't come out again.

**