Chapter One: The After-Party

Of all the distractions available at that moment, only one was really causing Dudley a problem. For whatever reason, his left calf was tightening up, steadily becoming a worse and worse pain that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. He didn't want to favor his right leg too obviously, but he had to take pressure off of his left leg.

As he deliberated, he ducked his head, feeling the air swoosh over his head as he did. Then he saw it, a beautiful, perfect opportunity. It was an incredibly wide opening, unbelievably so, and it was easy to reach from his pain-free right leg. His right foot slid forward, his body twisted slightly, and his left arm shot forward, followed in rapid succession by his right, to land with resounding smacks on their target, exactly where Dudley wanted them. They were strong jabs, too, belying the weakness that was now creeping up out of his calf and into his exhausted thigh.

Fortunately, his strikes had landed true, and the enormous Latvian that had given Dudley eleven rounds of trouble swayed and then fell, winded past his ability to withstand another blow.

Dudley skipped backwards, away from the temptation to spit at his defeated opponent. He hadn't taken a beating like this in a while, and he certainly hadn't enjoyed it. He was enjoying the satisfaction of seeing the Latvian—whose name he'd made it a point not to learn—sprawled at his feet.

The count finished, and a roar rose up from the crowd, chanting his name: "Big D! Big D!" Dudley let loose a bellow from deep within his lungs. He thumped his bruised chest with his victorious gloves. And then he did spit, turning his mouth-guard into a projectile, a practiced feat, towards the unhappy Latvian camp.

Then he was swarmed by his own supporters, each one hoping to touch the great conqueror. Hands reached for him, voices were in his ear, but Dudley barely felt any of it, raised on a cloud of his own glory. Dudley was king in a kingdom all his own.

"Nice hit, that last one, eh Big D?" Piers said, exultant. He was fiddling with his tie clip, looking absurdly out of place in the teeming, sweaty locker room. "Just bam, bam, you know, and you got him, that was, you know, that was quite something."

"Bam, bam," Dudley muttered, too quietly for Piers to hear. Charlie, his ever-patient physical therapist, who was working on that still tight calf, heard Dudley's mockery and shook his head, a smile on his face.

"How's he looking, Charlie?" Piers asked, noticing the physio's amusement.

"He's been better," Charlie responded. "His muscles don't usually tighten up like this. But he also doesn't usually take on opponents with fifteen centimeters more reach than him or some thirty pounds bigger than him. So we can skip worrying for tonight and enjoy the win."

"Excellent!" Gordon said, from his position in a chair behind Dudley. "Mate, we've got an after party planned like you'd never believe. You know that new club down by the pier, the one with the Swedish DJ, yeah?" Dudley nodded wearily, but Gordon probably didn't see it. "VIP, mate. We've got the whole VIP section booked, just for us, yeah. Nobody comes in that we don't want. Open bar, great seating, and, Big D, the girls, yeah, they're fantastic. Actually, Ozols had a couple of good looking ladies with him, I wonder if they'd like to ditch the loser and come party with the undisputed world champion, Big D!" These last words were screamed out to an answering cheer from the crowd packed into the locker room.

"Yeah, great, sounds good," Dudley sighed, too tired to cheer. Charlie glanced up at his face for a moment before resuming his work on the taut calf muscles. "Hey, Charlie, you seen my dad tonight at all?"

"I saw him ringside at one point, but I don't know where he is now. Want me to send someone to find him?" Charlie's words were spoken with a funny emphasis.

Dudley grinned. "I think Gordon should be able to find him, don't you think?"

Charlie stood up, his work with Dudley's calf apparently done. He sighed and stretched his arms up over his head before giving Gordon a pointed look and saying, "Yeah."

As Charlie moved away to send Gordon on his errand, Piers sidled up to Dudley and took a seat on the table beside him. "Good showing tonight, Dud, really. And, you know, the purse is quite nice, good haul. I know you were eyeing the new Aston Martin, want me to purchase it for you?"

"I dunno, Piers, you're the money man. I'm not such a car guy, find something better to celebrate with, ok?"

"New watch?"

"I dunno, Piers, all right? Drop it for now. Put the money someplace safe. I'll use it when I need it. I'm not thinking so clearly right now." Dudley slid off the table, trying to land gently on his sore left leg. "I'm going to shower. You go ahead to Gordon's party. I'll ask my dad to give me a lift."

"Come on, Dud, don't bug your dad. We got you a limousine, you know, you've got to arrive in style! You're a champion!"

"Whatever. I'll see you there."

Piers clapped a hand down on Dudley's shoulder before sliding away to partake in some other celebratory group. Dudley grabbed a fluffy white towel from the stack provided outside the shower and went to wash away eleven and a half rounds of sweat.

Vernon Dursley, it turned out, had been outside the locker room chatting it up with reporters since the match had ended. "Anyone who put money on Ozols feels stupid now, I'll say!" he had repeated loudly and frequently, chuckling to himself as he did. "Nothing beats a good English set of fists in the ring, especially not when they're our Dudley's, isn't that right!"

He bustled into the locker room shortly after Dudley had pulled his trousers back on to give his son a brief, awkward embrace that neither of them really enjoyed. "Excellent footwork, Dudders, good form. Latvian, eh, he didn't stand a chance! For England and St. George, Dudley, that's how we do it!"

Dudley smiled at his father. "And for money, Dad. Piers said it was a good purse."

"It ruddy well should be! Champion, Dudders, you're the champion! Piers isn't talking about spending the money on some technology stocks, is he? You need a nice, sure investment, a nest egg to keep you going after you've retired. I'll have to speak to him about it. Pharmaceuticals, Dudders, that's where the money is."

Dudley nodded along with his father, pretending he cared about how his money was invested. As long as his credit card was never declined, that was all that mattered to him. His father and Piers (who actually had studied economics in university and had some idea what he was doing) could argue over the right way to invest Dudley's money to their hearts' content; Dudley had no say.

"Mum didn't come tonight, did she?" Dudley dropped the question casually—too casually, probably, but his father wasn't one to notice.

"What's that? No, no, she's at the hotel. I called her, though, right after your knockout. Juris Ozols, world champion, ha! It's Dudley Dursley now!"

Dudley smiled slightly, as he buttoned the white shirt that someone who knew more about post-victory wardrobes had left him. "Think I should stop by the hotel to say good night?" he asked. He hesitated over the top three buttons and then left them open, the chunky gold chain he'd been wearing since winning his first regional tournament in year eleven prominently displayed.

"Nonsense, nonsense, Dudley! Your mother's gone to sleep already, I'm sure. Go out and celebrate! You're the champion, Dudders, the champion!"

This time Dudley didn't smile, but he nodded his head, now fastening a flashy gold watch around his wrist. "Gordon rented out a club or something," he said as conversation with his father stuttered. "Some Swedish DJ's there."

Vernon stared blankly back at Dudley. For a moment, Dudley wondered whether Vernon was more confused by the idea of a Swede or the idea of a DJ. It was a brief moment only, however, before Dudley's thoughts turned anxiously back to his mother. Proud as she was, he knew she didn't like to watch his fights, hating to see him pummeled by bigger or more experienced opponents. She would have noticed his bad leg, he was sure, and she'd be worrying. He considered skipping the DJ and the noise and the crowds and the inevitable hangover the following morning. It had been a long time since he'd really enjoyed all that anyway…

"So, then, what time is this party of yours, eh?" Vernon inquired into the awkward silence.

Dudley shrugged. "Piers said there's a car waiting to take me over, so I guess anytime. You going to come?" He couldn't picture his straitlaced father dancing in a club, but the words were perfunctory, and they both knew it.

"No, no, I'm not young enough for that anymore! Besides, a Swedish DJ? Celebrating an English victory? I think you should object, Dudley," Vernon said, confirming Dudley's assumption. "Doesn't matter though, it's all planned out now, I suppose; you'll just have to say something next time. Well, I won't keep you. I'll tell your mother you say goodnight."

"Yeah, thanks," Dudley muttered. He scanned the locker room quickly to see if he had left anything behind, but he spotted nothing of import. With a jerky nod of his head to Vernon, he hastened out of the room towards the mad revelry that waited beyond.

The limousine was waiting right outside the back doors. Piers and Gordon were already inside, both availing themselves of the champagne provided. Piers was slurping his out of a flute, while Gordon had a bottle in each hand and was alternating swigs from each. Upon seeing Dudley, Piers raised his glass in a salute, sloshing some out onto his trousers, eliciting a stream of muttered curses from him, while Gordon let out a belch and a hoarse cheer.

Dudley settled into the sumptuous leather of the seats and closed his eyes, ignoring the bottle of champagne that Gordon wedged between his knees. He wasn't much of a wine drinker, really. If he was going to get wasted, there were faster ways to do it. Besides, champagne was for celebrating, and, despite his victory, Dudley didn't feel much like a celebration. It irked him that he felt that way, but he couldn't explain it.

"Come on, Dud, drink up, yeah?" Gordon prompted him, nudging the bottle. "Pre-gaming starts now, Big D."

"Sorry it's not Kristal," Piers apologized, making a face as he took another sip from his glass. "I thought that if we were paying this much for a limo we'd get the good stuff, but I guess if you want quality you have to provide it yourself."

"I don't care," Dudley mumbled. His lips were a little bit swollen from a punch that had landed on his face, and he was feeling the pain set in as the adrenaline wore off. "Haven't got any ibuprofen, have you Gordon?"

Gordon laughed. "That's all you want, Big D? Wait, just wait, I'll get you something better in the club, yeah."

"I just want ibuprofen," Dudley said.

"Did Charlie give you anything?" Piers asked.

"No, I didn't see him before I left."

Gordon laughed again. "I saw him," he said with another belch. "And he gave me something for you, Big D, is that what you're looking for?"

"Is it ibuprofen?"

"Ha!"

"Then I don't want it, Gordon, I told you. And keep your hands off my prescriptions."

"Look, Big D, if you don't want them, yeah, I know plenty of lads who do."

Without any warning, Dudley surged forward, sinking his formidable fist into Gordon's stomach. Gordon screamed and dropped his remaining champagne onto the carpeted floor of the limousine, clutching at his stomach. Dudley sank back onto his seat, folding his arms over his chest. "I've told you before Gordon, I don't want my name getting mixed up in all that, all right? I don't want anything to do with it. And if you're going to have anything to do with it, then you can pack up and leave," Dudley snapped.

"Easy, easy, Big D," Piers soothed. "Gordon's just being practical. There's money to be made in this sort of thing, right? We can't all be boxing superstars, Big D. Some of us have to find other ways of making money."

"I don't care, about that. But I don't want to lose my belts, and this is the fastest way to do that, so keep me out of it, ok?"

Gordon sat up shortly after, swearing profusely, but he said nothing further to Dudley. An unhappy mood had settled over the limousine.

When they arrived at the club, Dudley slid out of the limousine as fast as he could, slamming the door behind him in Gordon's spluttering face. Piers emerged from the other side of the limousine and rushed over to guide Dudley into the club. Dudley shrugged Piers's patronizing hand off of his arm. He stormed forward towards the discreet door with VIP written over it in shimmering LED lights. The bouncer was bigger than Dudley, but he looked intimidated by Dudley's surly expression—or perhaps he knew whom Dudley was, and that he had flattened Juris Ozols in the ring not two hours ago. Either way, he didn't give Dudley any trouble as he roughly pushed his way into the noise of the club, not bothering to check if Piers and Gordon were behind him.

It felt little like the area was for VIPs only. Dudley found himself in the midst of a thick crowd, all of whom seemed eager to congratulate him, touch him, or toast him.

"Big Dee-ee!" a slurred voice yelled. Dudley felt a shot glass pushed into his hands, and he looked to see who had given it to him. It was Malcolm, who'd been absent, probably getting drunk or high or both, since midway through the match.

"Shove off, Malcolm," Dudley growled, tossing the shot glass back at Malcolm. The surrounding crowd let out a long, scandalized, "Ooh!" Dudley shouldered past the guffawing Malcolm to the sleek, backlit bar. The music, selected, Dudley supposed, by the lauded Swedish DJ, pounded through his bones and into his brain. He didn't feel the urge to dance; he just felt a headache, a growing throbbing in the center of his head, making him steadily angrier.

"Double-shot of your strongest Irish whiskey," he demanded of the black clad, metrosexual bartender.

"I saw your match on the telly," the bartender said, excitement in his voice, as he slid the brimming glass across the smooth bar counter to Dudley. "You've got a mean right hook."

Dudley downed the shot easily and then pushed the empty glass back to the bartender. "Another." He didn't have a mean right hook. He was a southpaw, and he tended to jab with his right hand. In the final flurry of punches he'd thrown at the big Latvian, not one had been a right hook.

"I guess it must be pretty painful, having a bloke that size pummeling you," the bartender said. He whipped the bottle out from under the bar and flipped it up in the air, catching it with an unnecessary flourish and using an even grander flourish to top off Dudley's glass. "I guess I'd need a strong drink after that, too." Dudley downed his second drink without another word. He pushed the empty shot glass back again with a meaningful look. "Sure you don't want something with a bit more party to it? I've got a beautiful tequila here…"

"If I want tequila, I'll tell you," Dudley snapped. The bartender looked taken aback.

"Another whiskey it is, right, sorry," the bartender replied, conciliatory now, obviously thinking about his tip.

Dudley finished the third shot and then slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out the first bill he found. He glanced at it before throwing it down in front of the bartender; it was a twenty quid. "Just a pint of stout now," he requested, feeling weary and not at all buzzed. This the bartender handed him silently, discreetly grabbing the tip as he did so.

Dudley seized the beer and moved away from the bar, seeking an empty pocket where he could stand without being shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone. He spotted such a space near the balcony that overlooked the club's main dance floor. Making his way over to it, he leaned his elbows on the railing and sipped his beer.

For a party that was supposed to be about his victory, most of his friends had left him to his own devices fairly quickly. He'd seen Malcolm dancing with a pair of girls who looked to young to be in the club, Piers was sitting on one of the leather couches at the edge of the room, his tie already loosened and empty cocktail glasses on the table in front of him as he leered at the waitress. Gordon was standing suspiciously in a corner, facing the wall, the shadows obscuring whomever he was with there. He supposed he was less approachable without his usual contingent of mindless sycophants at his elbows.

He didn't mind. Something about the victory was unsatisfying. Ozols had given him trouble, sure, but beating him hadn't given Dudley the thrill he had expected. It was as if Ozols had come into the ring ready to lose and had let Dudley win. It was an odd feeling, but Dudley couldn't quite shake it off.

It wasn't true, of course. If the Latvian had planned to let Dudley win, there was no reason for the match to last eleven rounds. It hadn't been easy. But still, the feeling ate at him.

"Hi," a soft voice breathed at his elbow. Dudley turned his head to see the tall, willowy brunette in the sequined dress who was hoping to make a catch out of famous boxer Big D.

"You're not my type," Dudley told her.

"You don't even know me."

"I don't want to. If I'm interested, I'll find you. I'm not interested." Dudley turned back to brooding over the railing, not paying any attention to whether the brunette stayed or went.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. It was Piers, again, come away from his sofa, a girl on either arm. "Mate, the girls here," he slurred. "Did you just send one away?" He laughed, too loud and too long, and the girls on his arms looked mildly uncomfortable. "Come on, Big D, you're the champion tonight! You can't spend it alone. Go on; pick one out of the crowd. Come on, D."

Dudley shook his head and took another swig. "I'm not feeling it, Piers."

"You haven't spotted the right girl yet, that's all, eh, D? Go on, go on. Search the crowd, invite some up to our section. They'll love it. You'll love it. It'll be great."

Dudley sighed and glanced down at the crowd of surging bodies below him, if only to get Piers off his back. There were scores of people below, each an ambiguous blob of sweat and hairspray. Dudley saw nothing to excite him.

As he was turning back to Piers to send him away, Dudley's attention was caught suddenly by a strange gap in a corner of the dance floor. As he watched, the people dancing around the gap all turned to stare at it as a woman walked onto the floor dragging a bemused looking man behind her. They began to dance, and the people around them continued to stare. They weren't watching the couple; they were watching the woman, and it was obvious to Dudley why. Even from his distance, she was astonishingly beautiful, with white blonde hair that fell loose to her hips, shimmering with an ethereal glow of its own while she moved with exquisite grace to the beat of the music that had lost its luster with this woman in attendance. Dudley couldn't see her face, but still he couldn't move his eyes away from her. He was enthralled by the way the air around her seemed to bend and twist as she danced, by the way the lights lit her form more brightly than anything else in the room, and by the way she danced as if she were alone on an empty dance floor, unhindered by the crowds that made the club both intolerable and enticing for everybody else.

"Found one, have you, Big D?" Piers asked, noticing Dudley's unwavering stare. "She should come up here, everybody wants to be a VIP. I'll send Malcolm down—"

"Not Malcolm," Dudley said sharply, the spell lessened but not broken. "I'll go myself, I should say hello."

"Right, right, Dud, she can't say no to a celebrity, can she?" Piers snickered.

Dudley downed the last of his beer, his eyes still watching the woman below. "I have to say hello," he said to himself. He wrenched himself away from the balcony and handed his empty glass to a bewildered Piers. "Cheers, mate," he said distractedly before pushing past in search of the stairs that descended to the club's main section.

It took a frustratingly long time to locate the stairs, and by the time he reached the bottom the dance floor had returned to normal, the woman having disappeared. Angry at something he couldn't quite pinpoint, Dudley stalked over to a quiet section of the bar, farther away from the pounding of the club's speaker system, now blaring out some electronic beat with heavy bass and little tune. He was about to hail a bartender when he spotted a flash of silvery-white hair and hastened around a curve in the bar to find the woman from the dance floor rapping impatiently on the bar's counter for a bartender's attention. At her summons, the nearest bartender literally dropped what he was doing and rushed to serve her. As Dudley approached her, he heard her place her order in a throaty, musical voice tinged with a foreign accent.

"Rum and coke, please."

Dudley stretched out his hand to wave down the bartender. "Make that two," he called out.

The woman turned to see who had copied her order, and for the first time Dudley had a clear view of her face. She was more beautiful than he had even imagined during his trek down from the VIP lounge. Her features were perfectly symmetrical, her skin flawless, her lips cherry red, her violet eyes framed by long thick lashes. He knew instinctively that she wasn't wearing any makeup and that her look could never be captured by cosmetics. The other women in the club, he knew, would give almost anything to have her effortless beauty. Like her hair, the rest of her glowed with an internal light; Dudley half expected her to unfurl a pair of wings and turn fully into the angel he perceived her to be.

"You like the bubbles?" she said in that pure, sweet voice.

It took Dudley a minute to find his tongue. "Uh, yeah, bubbles," he agreed. He winced internally, cringing at how stupid he sounded. "Rum's your poison of choice?"

She shrugged, her shoulder rising and falling in a single, fluid movement that, despite its simplicity, was magnificent to watch. "C'est bien, oui, it is good for dancing. It makes you…excited, oui, this is correct?"

"Yeah, sure, I get that. Gives you energy, like a coffee."

"Oui, exactement!"

Dudley felt his face flush at her enthusiastic response to his stupid, stupid conversation—a reaction he would never have dreamt of having. He searched desperately for a new topic of conversation. Before his mind caught up with his tongue, he spluttered out, "So you're French?"

Before she had a chance to respond, the bartender returned with the two rum-and-cokes. Setting them down, the man looked expectantly at Dudley for a moment before his expression changed as recognition hit.

"You're Big D Dursley!" he exclaimed. Dudley sighed and picked up his drink. The bartender scrambled for a piece of paper, procuring a cocktail napkin instead. "I watched your fight tonight, mate, it was unbelievable, you flattened Ozols! Can I have your autograph, Big D?"

Dudley shook his head, but he said, "You'll need to give me a pen, I haven't got one."

The bartender whipped a pen out of his pocket and thrust it at Dudley, who had to set his drink back down to sign his name.

"And can you date it, mate? So people know I got your signature the night you became the champion?"

Dudley dutifully scrawled the date. "You can put both drinks on the tab upstairs," he told the bartender as he handed him back the napkin.

"Did you just buy me a drink?" the Frenchwoman asked Dudley when the bartender dashed off to display his prize to his fellows pouring drinks.

Dudley grinned. "Do you mind?"

The Frenchwoman cocked her head, studying Dudley. "Non," she said after some consideration. "We both like the bubbles. You are famous?"

The direct question caught Dudley off guard. "Yeah, I'm a boxer. I had a big match tonight, I guess that's why he recognized me."

"Ah, oui!" the Frenchwoman exclaimed. "Yes, yes, I saw you also in the fight. You are much taller en personne."

"I'm just a lot taller when I'm not standing next to that monster," Dudley corrected, referring to the lately defeated Latvian. "You saw the match on the telly then, did you?"

"Non, non, I was there, yes, at the fight!"

"Really?"

"Vraiment! My friend, he is tres riche and likes the sports, he says he likes to go, and I am bored, so I say 'j'irai avec toi,' and then he says when the fight it is over that he wants to come here. This I like much more good, oui, and so, voilà, we come here." She spoke quickly, seamlessly blending her French and English together as if the words she spoke were all one language. With the din of the crowd and the music to contend with, Dudley struggled to keep up. He understood clearly, however, that she said she was not alone.

"So where's this friend of yours now?" he inquired, trying to sound conversational.

The Frenchwoman waved her hand dismissively and took a sip of her drink. "Lá, ici, je ne sais pas. I think he dances with some girls I do not know." She took another sip and then smiled coyly at Dudley over the rim of the glass. "We are not dating, yes? He is my friend seulement."

Dudley grinned. "Right, I see. I'm Dudley."

"Je m'appelle Gabrielle."

"Gabrielle? That's a beautiful name."

"Merci. Dudley is not beautiful."

Dudley blinked and then laughed. "Yeah, well, it's better than Big D, I reckon." He finished his drink and set the glass on the bar counter. "Want to dance, Gabrielle?"