AN: Quite possibly the strangest fiction I've ever written. Title and part of the premise inspired by "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane, that one creepy book (Go Ask Alice) and my coming-out-of-the-closet-as-a-Dudley-fan-for-real. Includes an OC; she's mine. If you read, please review.

Go Ask Alice When She's Ten Feet Tall

In the darkness, Harry Potter heard a sound from downstairs, the humdrum clack of the front door unlocking and then locking again. Angry as always, he wondered why he was the only one who ever heard his cousin arriving—Dudley was never graceful about coming back stoned from the park and Harry just wanted to go back to sleep.

One step to toss that undersized blue backpack to the floor and two steps to remove whatever enormous hoodie he'd been wearing, Harry could count each move his cousin was making, he knew this midnight drill inside and out.

Blunt in the flower pot, blunt in the garbage disposal.

Harry knew the smell of pot, natural and complicated—everything Dudley wasn't--, he'd tried whatever was left over from Dudley's midnight escapades, leaving the idiotic dolt wondering where his weed was in the morning, when the sun came up. Birds chirping never mattered when he couldn't find his pot that Harry had so nastily bestowed upon the toilet after regarding it as pointless.

But this time, there were fresh footsteps, and so Harry slipped out of bed, disregarding Hedwig who was rapping at the window, and he looked down from the staircase upon Dudley and what seemed to be a wiry dishrag wearing bright pink heels.

"I'm fine!" whined the dishrag. "Get off me."

"Shut up, you're going to wake 'em."

"Said get off!"

This was a situation Harry wished he had not walked into. However, as soon as he tried to turn away, the little slip of a girl focused on his form, and from the first floor she giggled, almost madly, the effects of alcohol and underage drugging taking over her system as she pointed up to the be-speckled wizard.

"Dudley, is that the freak?" she wanted to know, quavering.

"I could ask you the same thing, Dudders," Harry said plainly, and against his better judgment, he started down the stairs. "Who's the freak?"

Dudley blinked.

Harry always thought it was amazing to see Dudley on pot—it had no outward effect on him because he was all ready a slow-moving dunce with a bad habit of eating everything that was in the refrigerator in one sitting. It was a keen advantage, Harry supposed, because Petunia and Vernon had no way of finding out the truth about Dudley's pastimes.

"What's the matter?" inquired Dudley slowly, a small grin forming on his thin lips.

"Nothing's the matter!" Harry snapped impatiently," except for the fact that you've brought back a tramp with you!" He turned his attention to said tramp, was all done up in harsh makeup, and was basically being held in a chokehold by Dudley.

She giggled. "I'm not a tramp, I'm Sarah." She waggled her hips, which were being hidden by a pale jean mini.

"Oh, It has a name," Harry said dryly. He was reminded instantly of Pansy Parkinson.

"She's Sarah," affirmed Dudley," and she's my girlfriend, and—"

"Yes?"

Dudley had lost his train of thought, though, and he pounded toward the kitchen with the dishrag in tow.

Harry shook his head. "My cousin with a girlfriend. Well, this is exciting, tremendous news, Big D."

"He really is Big D!" Sarah offered, which made Harry feel both amused, frightened, and surprised, because he would have never thought Dudley would have a nickname of multiple meanings. He had to give Dudley's friends credit for being both deep and liberal-minded.

Despite his inside instinct to make some quip about the D instead standing for dope or doofus, Harry followed aimlessly. These long summer nights really left him with nothing to do, and he was actually glad for an event that did not remind him of Cedric.

"Sooooo," voiced Sarah, as Dudley struggled to make toast," you're the freak."

"Wasn't that all ready established?" Harry questioned. "Or did D here forget to grunt in response to your question?"

Sarah threw back her head and laughed, her black hair swishing about her neck. "So is it true you're a real mean thug?" she asked in interest, or as much interest an intoxicated person can offer.

Harry snorted. "Don't want to disappoint you, Sarah, but I don't think I'm your type."

"Well, duh. I like big men," she said simply, and simpered, gooey, at Dudley, who by this point had given up on the toaster and was halfway through a loaf of bread.

"Nicely put. Don't think you're my type either."

"What is your type, Saint Brutus?"

At this point, Dudley sniggered darkly. "Little boys whose names he can scream at night."

Sarah giggled raucously. "Really?"

Harry blanched. "You know, I could ruin this lovely moment immediately by informing your dear Mother and Father about your whereabouts, your stashes, and your skank, so I would keep my mouth shut, you overgrown pig."

Dudley looked unbothered, but he did stop talking, if only to consume last night's leftovers.

"What's it like?" Sarah asked, gripping the kitchen counter to keep from toppling over.

"What's what like?"

She pulled her skirt up higher and crossed her legs. She wasn't pretty at all, that Harry could determine even in the dim light. Leave it to Dudley to prefer a nice body to a nice face. She had a hard, mean look about her, her straight black hair like little daggers at the ends.

"Being hated," she said.

At this, Harry froze. "What?"

Sarah smiled. "Ah, so you do know what it's like."

"Yeah, I do," Harry shot bitterly. "And it's nothing special, to be known for it!"

"You watch your tone, Potter!" Dudley shouted.

"Saint Brutus and I are talking!" Sarah chortled, swinging her hips a bit more. "You don't like it," she stated.

"Well, aren't you brilliant!" Harry snapped.

"Fag?" she offered, taking a package out of her purse.

Dudley snatched them away at once. "You can't smoke in here, you cow!"

"Someone's coming off their high," observed Harry, still a bit shaken from the dishrag's observations, albeit drunken ones.

Sarah smiled oddly, fortune teller, siren. "You're better than I thought, Saint Brutus. From what I'd heard, I thought you were some insane bastard all locked up your bedroom."

"Nah, that was second year."

"Bloody pudding," Dudley declared, enraged.

"Better keep your gob closed, Dudders. You might offer valuable information."

"Go sing for Cedric," the blond boy declared.

"Fuck you," Harry snapped.

From upstairs, came Uncle Vernon's unmistakable bellow (Harry could just imagine the man's purple face): "WHAT'S ALL THE RACKET, POTTER?"

"Shit, see what you've done?" Dudley whispered to both Sarah and Harry, snatching the girl once more and taking her back to the front door from whence she came. "You have to go now, maybe tomorrow night." With that, she was shoved into the flower bed.

"Bye Saint Brutus!"

Harry watched, slightly satisfied.

Dudley turned toward the other boy with hatred in his eyes. "You'll pay for that—it's only every once in a—"

"'s all right, Big D. Just go sing for Sarah." Harry grinned wryly and headed off to bed.