{PLEASE READ} A/N: This is a wee bit of a divergent from canon. Since this is a bit of an AU, I used my creative license to make the Hogwarts letters remain unseen by Harry until our dearest Professors show up at Little Whinging. I am American, by the way, so please excuse my American terminology for things outside of dialogue (I don't have the drive to fix it… bleh). Any questions can be commented or PMed to my inbox, and I'll answer them as quickly as possible. So without further ado, enjoy!

Ships: LV/HP main, HP/Multi (non-descriptive) flings

Summary: Harry liked having pretty green nails and high heels that made his legs look magnificent. He liked to stain his lips with ruby red and wrap his neck with that pretty scarf that made his eyes pop, go out as soon as the Dursleys fell in bed, and walk one foot before the other to the mall. But what Harry liked above all of that? The feeling of being spread on silk sheets and not being able to recall his own name.

Genre: Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor

Rating: Mature/Explicit (Rated NC-17, kiddos. I know you read these. I won't tell you you can't, because you won't listen whatsoever.)

Tags/Warnings: Slash, Underage, Child Abuse, Rape/Non-Con, possible Suicidal Thoughts, possible Self-Harm, possible Eating Disorders, Slut!Harry, Crossdressing, Age Difference, does that even need to be said?, Harry needs to be protected at all costs, he totally doesn't have a defense mechanism, don't worry Harry it all gets better soon

-Chapter One: Royal Raspberry Ravish, #89-

The first time Harry realized he really was different from the other kids was when he was nine.

At the Dursleys, there were many unspoken and spoken rules. Don't go into Petunia and Vernon's room (as if Harry would step foot in that perfume-soaked mess), don't go near Dudley when he's watching his favorite program, don't ask for food when you don't deserve it (which was always, apparently, being why he never asked anymore), and never, under any circumstances, do anything freakish.

Now, "freakish" was quite an obscure term. It could be anything from making friends in primary, which Harry thought was the stupidest rule ever because Amy was really nice, to making friends with snakes (Hah! Take that Dudders! Now you can't chase them off!). But the most treacherous of all was being himself.

Nail polish, fancy clothes, jewelry, doing his hair, all of that was a part of him. It came as naturally as Dudley's excessive eating and Vernon's face getting all purple when he was mad.

Harry liked having pretty green nails and high heels that made his legs look magnificent. Harry liked wearing his barely-there leather pants and pretending he was a teenager (which, to his surprise, many genuinely believed when he went out at night to show off). He liked to stain his lips with ruby red and wrap his neck with that pretty scarf that made his eyes pop, go out as soon as the Dursleys fell in bed, and walk one foot before the other to the mall. There, he'd use the money he stole from Dudley when he cleaned house to buy himself something nice from Sephora, and make it home after flirting with some boys (and a few select girls), all before midnight.

His relatives never questioned where he got his things, and he was glad for that. They just assumed he stole them from some store and slipped out using his "freakishness". He embraced that, even encouraged it. Harry could only imagine how Dudley would react to having the money he stole from other children taken away, Robin Hood-style.

However, all of that changed when Harry attended his first day of school in September of 1989.

He knew Dudley had spread rumors about him since the beginning of summer break, been forcing the others to alienate him because he was a "pouf" (he was a firm bisexual, thank you) and a "freak". But he didn't believe even the teachers would be so... Intolerant, let alone his lab partner, who he was proud to say he was almost-friends with.

"Hello, Miss Harvey," Harry greeted quietly, sending a tiny smile towards her scowl. He had no idea why she was so terribly negative today, since sending all those bad vibes was making the whole room tense, but he didn't question it and decided to wait until more information was revealed.

As he sat down, he felt burning stares against his back, seeping into every pore with disdain. What'd he do? Oh, these damn jeans didn't look good with his shoes, huh? He knew he should have worn the shorts! Was-

"Hey, fairy, where's your boyfriend? I bet you like him a loooooot." A girl behind Harry hissed, snickering with the others.

"Yeah, you fag, get outta here! Go see him! Play hooky to hold your boyfriend's hand!"

"Hah! Pouf!"

"Fairy boy! Fairy boy! Fairy boy!" They chanted cruelly, laughing at him and pointing while he stared down at his desk in shame, perfectly manicured nails digging into his palms and the sharp sweep of eyeliner blurring in the corners of his eyes from unshed tears.

"It-It isn't nice to point!" He tried to retort, resorting in an even thicker flurry of laughter.

"Shut up!" Harry screamed and covered his ears.

He glanced helplessly at Miss Harvey, who was conveniently busy with paperwork and had a barely-concealed smirk on her face.

He hated her now. She used to be his favorite teacher. She used to help him when Dudley hurt him, when he was teased, or when his books were taken from the other kids. But apparently, nine was when you grew up, since she didn't help him like she used to.

And so Harry did.

After that incident, Harry persuaded the Dursleys to "homeschool" him. His pride was surely bruised, but with the added hint that Vernon could hit him wherever he wanted instead of just his back and chest, as well as cooking all their lunches, Harry was golden. Or black and blue. Whatever. It was worth it to get out of that school, he thought. He was very, very wrong.

As he didn't have to attend school or do homework, Harry had plenty of free time on his hands. Apparently, so did Vernon. When Vernon wasn't at work, he'd return to Harry, and the sight of the "freak" pissed the oaf off for reasons Harry wasn't sure.

It started off as a few slaps on his face, or staring at Harry a bit too long. The beatings got worse. And then he had to do... Things, for his Uncle. Vernon would tell Harry to strip, and he'd just stand there, gazing intensely at Harry and making the black-haired boy uncomfortable. Soon, it evolved to touches, a caress on his spine followed by a hard punch in the gut, or a rough grab at his arse with a kick to the back of his knee to compensate.

Then it got bad.

"It's your fault, you freak! If you weren't so damn ungrateful, I wouldn't have to work so much! Petunia would be happy! But you just had to fucking show up at our door, get your parents killed!" Vernon snarled into Harry's ear. Harry squirmed under Vernon's weight but to no avail, his runty body too small for as much as a twitch.

Harry wanted to scream for help, but his mouth was covered with packing tape. And so he settled for mute tears pouring down his slowly hollowing cheeks.

He was flipped over onto his back. He was forced to stare at the fat, lumpy mass of lard that made up his relative's body, and then the sausage-like cock being set free from Vernon's work pants.

He had to watch every excruciating moment of something he would never forget, not for a second; it was what would haunt his dreams for years.

A thick hand was spat on and rubbed on a cock almost as an afterthought. Vernon shoving into Harry's body like a sledgehammer. Something tore. Harry stared up at the ceiling of his tiny, dirty room, and tried to focus on anything, anything other than this, but all he could process was the feeling of self-hatred and shame and being called a "stupid, worthless little whore" like it was his legal title.

Something filled him, hot and revolting, and he didn't feel like he'd be clean again.

Harry snorted. He was right. He still felt dirty from that night, and all the nights after it. Even when he caked his face with his finest makeup and wore his most expensive clothes, he felt like a whore.

Perhaps he was one, really. It explained why he wanted to flirt with all of those boys, even now, when he was just past eleven years. Eleven years of existing, as of two days ago. What a joke.

He waited until there was loud snoring upstairs, and used a trick he had learned shortly after he and his Uncle's "sessions" to focus on the many latches of his bedroom door. A formality for the social worker, really - if she wasn't visiting every few weeks, he'd still be in the cupboard like he was when he started kindergarten.

When he got outside, he made sure his short shorts were low enough on his hips, but high enough for a mystery beneath. He checked his half shirt for any stains (something else he could make disappear with his so-called "freakishness"), and applied one more layer of Royal Raspberry Ravish to his lips before he stepped outside.

The wind was chilly on his bare feet and legs, but when he put on his stilettos, he was a new boy.

He wasn't Harry Potter, burden to his caretakers and whore, but the hot teenage boy that nobody had the balls to approach.

"What can I get ya', James?" Kyle asked when Harry sat at his bar, legs crossed. Harry had to admit that Scottish accent was pretty damn sexy.

"Let's see..." The assumed teen confirmed. "I'll have a virgin strawberry daiquiri, and you, if you'll take me." Harry winked.

To his surprise, Kyle blushed. Usually his advances were accepted with a good-natured 'no, thanks', but there was something different about tonight.

"Eh? What's that I see?" Harry pushed teasingly. "Did I do something with my hair?"

"No, ye' look perfect, as always," Kyle said, his features covered by his big, calloused hands (dammit Harry! Stop staring at them!). Suddenly, the redhead tore his hands from his face, and set them purposefully on the club's glass countertop. "Ah, to 'ell with it."

Kyle grabbed Harry's face and shoved it towards his own.

My first kiss.

Harry didn't care about any of that "special first kiss" nonsense. He was aware most of his firsts had been already taken. But this kiss... It was special, to him. Not in a way that Harry ever loved Kyle, not like that, but he was quite a handsome fellow, and Harry had always imagined what that shallow stubble would feel like against his cheek. Or his thighs.

But as fast as it happened, it ended, and Kyle leaped back with regret staining his features. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't 'ave done tha' - I'll go. Sam, take over tonight, yeah, lad?" Kyle rushed to grab his keys and his things, leaving his nametag on the back counter and rushing through the employee exit.

That bastard really thinks he can just storm off after giving me the best kiss of my life?! I don't think so.

Harry climbed off the stool and ran as fast as hot pink stiletto heels would allow through the employee exit. "Kyle! Don't you dare drive off on me!" Something wet dropped onto Harry's nose. Oh shit... rain. Just what he needed.

"Goddammit, you hot Scottish piece of arse! Get those bloody keys out of the ignition before I do it myself!"

Harry yanked open the driver's side open, revealing the ginger in all his glory, staring blankly ahead in defeat.

"What in the hell possessed you to run off like that?" Harry asked, softer this time, fixing his eyes on Kyle's pretty chocolate pair.

"I don' know 'ow old ye are, if ye even wanted me ta do tha', or anything more than tha'-"

Harry, in a rare moment of courage, leant down and kissed him, lust invading both of their senses like a virus. "You want me to prove I want you? Alright, can do." He sat on Kyle's lap, legs on either side of the bartender, and his left high heel slipped onto the old Cadillac's floor.

On instinct (and from what Harry had seen from people at the park) he kissed Kyle roughly and ran his fingers through the scruffy copper locks. His kisses lead down Kyle's jaw and jugular, and then the man's neck, where Harry left a barely-there hickey. At the throaty groan he earned, he reached a hand down to unzip Kyle's pants and palmed the hardening erection through his boxers.

Harry knew what he was getting into. He'd seen enough from when he ventured into the back of certain stores, as well as heard enough from the meager amount of male prostitutes on the corner to know how and what was to happen. And so in the huskiest, most desperate keening voice he could muster, he said in Kyle's ear,

"Fuck me."

Harry woke up with his pants off and leaning back against a leather steering wheel. He groaned, his mouth tasting like something rotted and died, and he bet he would look a mess when he stood in front of a mirror. Dried come was splashed between his thighs and in his arse, hair messier than usual (a feat in itself, really), and one of his shoes was in the back seat. The man beneath him was out cold and was not nearly as rumpled as Harry himself, but still looked like he had a nice fuck the night before, and that was pretty hot in the first place to Harry.

Yet, he knew he couldn't stay. He got up slowly, as not to wake the man, and grabbed his clothes. He hoped nobody was outside in the parking lot and clambered out of the vehicle, naked from the waist down. As soon as he stood, he had to grab the Cadillac's hood to keep from falling; his arse hurt. He braced himself, and let go, pulling on his pants.

At least I didn't wear underwear.

Taking one last glance at Kyle, the black-haired boy walked off, his pink heels hooked on his fingers and barefoot on the cold, damp cement.

Harry passed people walking their dogs, teenagers with coffee in their hand and fast food uniforms on, elderly folk feeding birds. They looked at him strangely, many with a look of disgust on thier face as they stared at his hickeys and mussed hair, and Harry knew what they were thinking from just that.

"Whore!"

"Slut!"

He couldn't bring himself to care, though. It wasn't like he hadn't been called that before.

He approached Number 4, Privet Drive with silent indifference. He knew Vernon wasn't home, which he was extremely grateful for, but there was somebody else there. He could feel it. They were obviously not Dudley or Petunia, nor any of Dudley's gang. He focused on their aura, or maybe auras, and tried to identify them, but they were unfamiliar. Not just any other person on the street, but… different.

It scared him, because it reminded Harry of his own.

He cracked open the door.

Standing in the entrance, he saw a stern woman with gray hair in a bun, wearing some formal dress-thing. Why was she here?

Oh, shit. Don't tell me she's from the Government. Fuck. If she sees me, she'll know exactly what went on last night.

"Miss Dursley, I demand to speak to-" The old woman said, cut off by Petunia's shreik.

"There he is!" Petunia screamed, pointing her bony finger at Harry accusationally, it trembling slightly. "There's the boy!"

Harry's eyes widened and he froze. His shoes fell from his hand in a heap on the floor. "Pl-Please don't take me to a foster home." He whimpered.

"Foster home? Harry, that's preposterous…" The woman said. "What in the name of Merlin are you wearing?!"

"Whatever I like wearing!" Harry's temper fumed, but he quickly reigned it in. "I, er, apologize for that."

The woman coughed into her fist. "My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I am a professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Surely you have received your letter?"

Harry shook his head, confused. "Wizardry? Sorry, I don't follow."

"I'm going to incinerate that Dursley…" Minerva grumbled under her breath. She sent a death glare to Petunia. "Of course they didn't tell you. Has anything strange ever happened to you? Say, when you're angry, or scared?"

"That's magic?" Harry concluded. He heard the word from hushed tones by the Dursleys when they believed he wasn't listening in. They called it the 'M' word, but one time Petunia let it slip. She treated it like a swear word.

"Yes, it is…" She confirmed. "Usually children are more shocked."

He shrugged. "Strange things happen to me. And I never really thought that appearing on the school roof was normal - there had to be a logical answer to it."

"Very good, Harry," McGonagall said, ignoring Petunia, who was squawking about "freaks needing out of her house". "Be quiet, you scarecrow! Now, Mr. Potter, allow me to tell you about Hogwarts."

Harry couldn't believe his eyes when bricks moved from a wall. And he was further bewildered by the place called Diagon Alley. Ha-ha. Diagonally. What was so important off in a diagonal direction that indicated that label?

His emerald eyes sparkled when he saw the massive bookstore in all its glory. He'd never seen so many in one place! Even at school, the library didn't have such a diverse selection, and at the Dursleys the only books were Dudley's comic books and a discarded Atlas (which Harry had memorized by now).

McGonagall sighed defeatedly and waited for Harry to get tuckered out as he flew from shelf to shelf, picking out book after book like a child's favorite candy. While she waited, she gathered his required textbooks and brought them to the counter - the man there was practically salivating and the business he was to receive.

Forty-five minutes later, Harry returned with a couple stacks of books behind him, carried by three boys, who's faces were obscured by the immense number of texts.

"Thanks, boys," Harry said flirtatiously to the three.

Minerva was appalled when the three children sat the books down, revealing the faces of Draco Malfoy, of all people, and his two lackeys.

Draco's face was flushed at the tone, and he mumbled a "no problem".

"You going to Hogwarts?" Harry asked the blond boy, who nodded fervently. He eyed Draco's robes, and saw the crest with an 'M' etched into it with interest. "I'm sure we can meet on the train; what's your name, Mr. M?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy." For a moment, Draco's narcissism slipped through, but was retracted when he saw Harry's face again. "Yours?"

"Potter. Harry Potter." Draco's jaw hit the floor.

Minerva thought best if she interrupted now, hoping to keep shopping for supplies. "Mr. Potter, if you would check out your things."

"Oh! Sorry, I nearly forgot. I was too distracted by that pretty thing over there, won't happen again." Harry pointedly ignored Draco's reddening face and waited until all of his books had been paid for.

McGonagall caught a glimpse of books on all subjects, but the overwhelming majority consisted of beauty glamours and other books to alter appearance. One of them was extremely alarming - a text on how to give the illusion of another age, older or younger. But she kept her mouth shut, because damn if she couldn't humor the poor child for a while.

At Ollivander's, the strange old man was ecstatic when Harry arrived. He had given him the wand he 'knew' would be Harry's, considering the holly and phoenix core was Voldemort's brother wand. But when the eleven year old sauntered inside, Ollivander saw how different Harry was from how he was anticipated to be.

He could see Harry's personality was far from the martyr type, unlike His hopes. Harry was manipulative, cunning, and so thoroughly unlike his parents it shocked him. However, Ollivander was excited to see what wand Harry would end up with. He knew it would be quite a unique wand... A darker core, no doubt.

"Hello, Mr. Potter. I've been expecting you," Ollivander said. "Come, show me your wand arm." Harry seemed to understand that 'wand arm' meant primary arm, and set to measuring.

Harry tried many different wands, first being the holly and Phoenix wand (just to be sure). He then swished a unicorn core wand, a birch and dragon scale core wand, and even a swishy wand with a veela hair core (quite a rare core if Ollivander said so himself), all of which turning out to be too weak for his powerful magical core, just as the wand maker anticipated.

When Ollivander initially fetched the holly and Phoenix, he looked prepared. Too prepared, in Harry's eyes. Who was orchestrating this? Ollivander surely didn't - the man seemed too satisfied when the wand didn't work for Harry. So who? Who had all of this planned out?

"Mr. Potter, I may need to collect one or two more... Unique wands from the back. One moment."

Ollivander returned in five minutes time with a smile threatening to slip into his face. "Try this; thirteen and a half inches, dementor essence core and yew wood." Perfect for a powerful Dark wizard's core. I remember when Mr. Riddle tried this very wand.

Confirming Ollivander's suspicions, the wand flared to life, sending large sparks of blue and silver throughout the room and turning the man's hair lavender.

"Oh. My. God. That is so cool!" Harry gushed. He could only begin to think of the possibilities to which his wand would reach. Little did he know Ollivander was imagining the same thing.

There are great things ahead for you, Mr. Potter. Hopefully, you will learn to live up to them.