So Wrong

Author: Debbie
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended
Summary: Would you sleep with Vernon Dursley? What if Harry's life depended on it? Ron/Vernon. So wrong.
Harry is going to owe Ron big time.
Author's Note: Inspired by Calliope's 'nightmare pairing'. She said the only circumstances where Ron/Vernon might be remotely feasible would be if it was if it was necessary to save Harry's life. So, of course, I had to horrify her by writing this.

Vernon Dursley awoke to the feel of his pyjama bottoms being tugged down over his hips. Then tugged more firmly, as his portly bottom pinned the respectable cotton fabric against the sheets.

"Wha's all this?" he mumbled sleepily. "It's not Tuesday already, is it, my Pet?"

"I didn't need to know that," moaned a voice as the pyjamas finally came free and were roughly pushed down to Vernon's ankles.

His eyes snapped open, focussing immediately on the tall red-haired boy kneeling on the bed. "You're not Petunia."

"How brilliant of you to notice." The boy was busy unfastening his jeans.

Vernon hastily scooted backwards, hitting his head on the headboard in the process. "What ... what are you doing?" A note of panic crept into his voice. "Petunia ... do something!" But his wife lay still.

The boy shrugged, one hand on the zip. "Slipped a bit of my brothers' Sleeping Syrup into her tea. She's out for at least the next ten hours." He raised an eyebrow. "I hope you can make your own breakfast."

Vernon boggled. "But ... why? And who are you? And for GOD'S SAKE," he added hastily, pushing himself further back against the headboard, "put your pants back on!"

"Because there's no point in having her witness this. Bad enough that I have to. I'm Ron Weasley, and much as I really wish I could, I can't." He shoved his jeans down to his ankles, then stepped out of them, clad only in boxers and a t-shirt.

"Weasley...." Vernon frowned. Then he paled. "You're one of ... them." He looked around wildly, fear and anger warring. "In fact - I remember it now - your ruddy father destroyed our lounge! And you just about killed Dudley with some wretched sweets!"

"That was my brothers' doing," Ron answered shortly. "And yes, I'm Harry's friend, and I'm a wizard, and those two things are the only reason I'm here, so if you'll just lie down and shut up, we'll get this over with, all right?"

"Get what over with?"

Ron looked as if he'd swallowed something extremely sour. "Shagging."

"WHAT?" Vernon made to throw off the covers and run for it, despite a distinct lack of pyjama bottoms, but Ron whipped his wand from his shirt pocket and pointed it straight at him. He froze, then remembered the ironclad rule that had kept Harry in his place all these years. "You can't do magic away from school," he sneered.

"You can in life-or-death situations," Ron said flatly. "And this is. Unless we-" he swallowed, but his wand remained steady, "-shag, Harry dies. It's a very rare spell; I'd explain it to you, but they don't make words of less than one syllable, so we'll have to skip that part. Trust me - I wouldn't do this for any other reason. Not for all the money in Gringott's." He flicked his wand threateningly. "On your back, Dursley."

He eyed the wand. "You're not serious."

"I am. And I'd appreciate it if you removed your own Y-fronts, as I'd rather not touch any more of your pasty white arse than I have to."

"THAT'S IT!" Vernon roared, but stopped when he saw the wand waver dangerously.

"Don't make this worse than it has to be, Dursley." He was pulling off his own boxers with his free hand, then fishing into a pocket of his jeans and pulling out a small tube. "Come on - off with them. Or I'll send my brothers over to turn her into a fish." He nodded at Petunia. "The potion isn't quite perfected, so I don't know how long the effects would last, but it would probably be a fitting transformation for her, wouldn't you say?"

Defeated, Vernon pulled off his underwear, eyes on Ron's wand the entire time. "I don't suppose I get to be on top?" he asked hopefully. He could manage that, even if it was something only nancy boys did.

Ron snorted. "Not a chance. You think I want to end up squashed?" He was slicking himself up, and Vernon's eyes were unavoidably drawn to the motion. Only a freak would somehow manage to get freckles down there.

"I'll lie on my front then, if it's all the same to you," he said, attempting to hang on to the last of his dignity.

A shrug. "Works for me. I won't have to look at you, then."

Nervously, disbelievingly, Vernon rolled onto his stomach, remembering too late that his expansive figure made breathing a bit difficult in this position. But before he could ask to shift again, he felt Ron pushing his legs apart with a knee, and then pushing into him.

"Ermph," he grunted. "Haven't you ever heard of fingers in that freak culture of yours?"

"I'd rather not put my fingers there, thanks," Ron said through clenched teeth. "It's bad enough I have to do this. You'll live. And please shut up - it ruins the illusion I'm trying to maintain so I can do this at all when I have to listen to your little piggy voice."

What happened next was mercifully short. Ron thrust a few times, swallowed a grunt, then retreated and cleaned himself off on the sheets as quickly as possible; he was back in his boxers before Vernon had even managed to roll himself over.

"Thank god that's over," he moaned, zipping himself back into his jeans. "I won't feel clean for a month." Then he paused. "But Harry will live now - so..." he gave a deep sigh, "thank you."

Then he picked up a silvery cloak, threw it over himself, and disappeared from view.

[Mercifully, The End.]

Before you go off to scrub your eyeballs, your feedback would be greatly appreciated. And please don't take anything up there too seriously; it's meant to be silly.

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