Title: My Secrets
Rating: M
Pairings: Theodore Nott/OC, mentions of Theodore Nott/OC, Blaise Zabine/Numerous characters, and a little Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Summary: Keeping secrets is something I'm rather good at. I've kept secrets all my life. Big, mind blowing, life changing secrets, and small insignificant, 'who really cares?' Secrets.
Warnings: SLASH! Child sexual abuse (rape) suggestive and actual scenes, swearing and anorexia, and other things.
Hey,
This is actually the first 'adult' fic I've written. Lately I read two different books on child sexual abuse (Our Little Secret and Sold). This story will have little humor and will be written differently to most of my fics. Updates may be slow (considering I've got four other fics I'm trying to write) so this will probably be like a once a month update. I advice those who are light hearted and who are not comfortable with rape and child abuse to NOT read this fic. I'm sorry if it will offend anyone.
Written in Theo's POV. First chapter is an introductory. I own nothing.
Chapter 1: I am
Keeping secrets is something I'm rather good at. I've kept secrets all my life. Big, mind blowing, life changing secrets, and small insignificant, 'who really cares?' Secrets. The first secret I ever kept was when I was five years-old. Still haven't told a soul about it. I broke my father's priceless family heirloom vase. Ran into when I was running away from my evil cousin, knocked the table, the vase wobbled dangerously then, as though in slow motion, tipped sideways and plumaged to the ground beside me, smashing into millions of little pieces.
I blamed it on my father's owl. He believed me.
But that's just one of the small secrets, one of the ones that don't really matter. Who cares if I broke a vase that my father repaired with a simple spell?
No, the big secrets are the ones I cling on to in the darkness of night, in the brightness of day. I carry them with me in my soul, locked behind a barrier, like a damn, restless to break free. I add to the damn, I made it bigger, I make it deeper, but I also make the barrier bigger, stronger, able to hold that damn so it will never break free and all my secrets I carry with me will not spill out and threaten to consume my whole being.
I live with the fear that it may.
People don't understand me. I know you hear it from everyone, the 'nobody understands me' speech. Ok, so maybe I lied, I'm sure there are people out there who do understand me, I just don't know them, and somehow I don't want to. Because revealing my secrets make them real, making them real is a reality I can never face.
At school I'm antisocial and practically invisible. I have friends; I just don't really talk to them. I would rather sit on my bed, curtains drawn, and draw, dragging my mind from my sick reality, from my secrets I hide. Or I drink away the pain, consume my senses in an alcoholic haze so I, for those few short hours, can forget.
I once took Muggle drugs, cocaine. I saw haunting images and never touched the stuff again.
My friends know there is something wrong with me. They don't know what, since I never reveal my secrets, but they suspect something. I know by the looks, by the way they try to reach out to me, but I push them away, block them out and I sit in the dark, the only company are my secrets.
When I draw I always have a certain purpose to it. I draw me, how I want me to be. The drawings of the me I want to be are beautiful, I deliberately make them so. In these pictures I look more like my mother, I'm not boney thin like I am now, my hair is longer then the shoulder length I keep it. My eyes are the same coconut-shell brown that my mother's were, not the honey-brown I have, the ones that are dead and dulled by my secrets.
When I have finished drawing the me I want to be, I look into the bathroom mirror, and staring back at me is the person I am resigned to be. I'm thin, rather boney thin, with dark, shoulder length hair and honey-brown eyes that are dull and lifeless. I'm shorter then most of the guys in my year, which I hate. To me, I look tainted and ugly and I can hardly look at myself.
When I was thirteen, before I started drinking, before I tried that Muggle drug, I found a way to 'ease my pain'. While everyone slept I would creep into the bathroom, stick my fingers down my throat until I gagged and vomited what little food that was in my stomach into the toilet bowl. I did this for almost five months, until Draco, one of my few friends, found me and made me stop.
He threatened to tell Pomfrey, to get me help. I begged him not to, swore I would stop.
A few months before my fifteenth birthday I started drinking. Blaise, another of my friends, got me onto it. He used to steal his mother's liquor and he'd share it with me. I haven't stopped drinking since. Draco tries to make me stop, but I never listen to him.
I suppose you're curious as to how I got hold of Muggle drugs? Being a pureblood wizard I have little to no contact with Muggles, not that I want to. Well it all started when I met Wilson. I don't remember his first name. He was a Hufflepuff seventh year when I was a fifth year student. He was at one of the parties I went to with other Slytherins. Wilson is a Muggle-born with an addiction to cocaine. Curious, I had tried some.
I can remember some of the images my drug induced mind had conjured up. They were haunting, not just because of the actual image, no, it was because they had been real and I have lived through them.
I suppose everyone wants to know what my big secrets are. What scares me, what drives me to destroy my life and my health? Well, it's horrifying, so I won't share minute details.
The source of my secrets is one man. August Huber. He's a good friend of my father's; they work together, in the Ministry. Huber is in his mid forties with cruel dark eyes and steel grey hair. He and my father would sit together in the sitting room, drinking rum and talking about work and about the Dark Lord and the good old days. They're both Death Eaters, which makes me sick. Why anyone wants to follow that freak is far beyond me.
Huber I knew little of. I was nine when I first met him. You should know that when I was eight my mother killed herself, slit her wrists in the bathroom and bled herself to death like a Muggle. I walked in on her in her final minutes. She killed herself because she found out my father cheated on her with my now step-mother, Cosette. I was devastated, still numb with shock. I think Huber knew this, I think my father had told him.
Whatever he knew doesn't really matter. Actually, maybe it does. He knew I was weak and venerable and he took advantage of that.
The first time he spoke to me was at the celebration of the birth of my step-brother, Bernard, my father's favorite son. My father's friends and family had been invited to the Manor to celebrate. They toasted to Bernard and everyone congratulated my father on such a fine son, as though it was his first and I had never been born. I think perhaps my father wishes that I weren't.
I had been sitting in my room, playing the classical music my mother adored. She used to play it while I slept the familiar notes soothing. I didn't realize Huber had come into my room, not until I heard the lock click.
I jumped up from the cross legged position I had take up on the floor, turning to face him. Consumed with rum and Champaign, although sober enough to know what was up and what was down, Huber had wondered further into the room, closer to me.
Nervously I spoke, almost yelling above the violins and piano music. "Mr. Huber, is something wrong?"
His eyes were a little bloodshot, one lid was half closed, but they were focused, unweaving, on me. As though he could see right through me. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling fear trickle down my spine. I was young; I couldn't understand why he was there or why I should be afraid. I cringe now when I think back to it.
His hand reached out and touched my neck. I instinctivly cringed away from the touch. "Shh, don't be scared." He murmured, coming closer to me. "I know that your father doesn't treat you well." His voice was soft and I was frozen in place, unable to move. "It's unfair."
"I…" I didn't know what to say. I wanted him to leave, but somehow I found the smallest comfort in thinking that Huber was sympathetic, that he was being nice, showing affection my father never had.
"I could take care of you, Theodore." He promised, coming closer, his hands running down my sides. "I could take care of you, make you feel good."
I didn't like him touching me, but I could not deny that I wanted someone, anyone, to take care of me the way my mother once did, before she ended her life on a bathroom floor.
I could give him no reply because he was kissing me. It didn't feel right, it was bruising and he was shoving his tongue into my mouth. I squirmed, not liking it. He held my waist, his nails digging through the cloth of my pajama shirt, into my flesh. I tried to cry out, tried to shove him away, but the sound was muffled, he was too strong, and I accidentally bit his tongue.
He pulled back, the taste of the alcohol still on my lips, and swore loudly. I jumped, starting to shake in fear as he spat curses. He was no longer trying to act nice, trying to make me feel safe, he was angry and he didn't try to hide it.
"You little bastard!" He growled. The back of his hand caught my cheek. I screamed in pain, falling to the ground. The music played on, a heightened tense sound. No one was coming to my rescue. No one had heard.
Huber grabbed me under the arms, pulling me to my feet and dragging me to my bed. I tried to struggle but he hit me again and I smartly fell still, my heart racing, my breathing quick and sharp.
He threw me face down on my bed, leaning down so his body was pressed against my back. He was heavy and my bed groaned slightly under his weight. My cheek was pressed into the sheets, I couldn't talk, could hardly breathe he was so heavy.
"Now you'll be good," He growled, "and I won't hurt you. Much."
It hurt the first time. I cried, the pain running through my whole body as he thrust himself inside of me, his breathing quick and excited, the bed rocking slightly with the motion. I wanted it to end, for him to leave me and never return.
Finally for what seemed like years, he rolled off of me. I didn't move, tears silently running down my cheeks and the pain in my lower half so strong I could hardly move. Finally I heard him zip up his pants and stand. He took my arm and turned me onto my side so I had no choice but to face him.
He was smiling happily, a look of bliss on his face, as though what he had done to me had been wonderful, a great source of excitment. "Now Theodore, you have to promise not to tell anyone. It's our secret." He pressed a finger to his lips to show I shouldn't tell.
I nodded. I did not know what else to do. My father would never believe me, and if he did, he wouldn't care.
It wasn't the last time that Huber came to my room and entered my body. Every time he came to the house, actually. Almost twice a week since I was nine he came to my room, once he even convinced my Father to allow me to go to his house one afternoon, so he could 'take me off his hands'.
These are my secrets I bare in the damn, behind my barrier. Nobody has known about them, nobody but Huber and I. No one has tried to bring down the barrier, to let my secrets flow out into the world.
Nobody, that is, until I met him.
-TBC-
Well I would love opinions on this fic. Should I continue? Should I delete it? Should I never attempt this line of story ever again?
Please REVIEW!
Thank you, and with love,
Harpy Wings.