Notes: Set in the Shattered universe. If you haven't read that, this may not make much sense, but it can still be read outside of that. Snapshots of Harry's childhood. Harry has Dissociative Identity Disorder.

Triggering for child abuse, child sexual abuse, and rape in this chapter, please proceed with caution.

Pretty girl, pretty boy, don't you want to be pretty, be pretty for me, come for me, come to me, oh so pretty...

Kitten likes her nights with Uncle Vernon. The rest of the household is sleeping, Aunt Petunia tucked up tight in the big queen-size bed her and Uncle share, Dudley sprawled and snoring in his own that sags in the middle from his grotesque weight. Uncle unlocks the cupboard, easing it open with extra care so the hinge doesn't squeak, before he retrieves her. He's always breathing heavily when he does, his shirt stained with sweat, but his thick fingers are gentle on her arms as he lifts her out. She's so light it isn't even a strain.

They never go anywhere exciting. At most, when Uncle is so insistent to be with her that she can feel the throbbing against her cheek when she stumbles and 'accidentally' ends up with a faceful of his crotch, he will bend her over the back of the sofa and do it there, sinking into her and making her wish it could last forever, this twisted mixture of pain and pleasure that hurts so good, she can barely stand it.

Usually, though, he takes her down into the basement, holding her hand as gently as Aunt does Dudders at the shopping mall, and she skips along beside him, slightly chapped bottom lip tucked up tight beneath her front teeth, peeking through her eyelashes. He turns on the bare lightbulb and draws her to the customary spot, a slightly scuffed mat that has gone through more washings and refurbishings than even the stained, paper-thin mattress in their cupboard.

"Undress," he orders hoarsely and Kitten obeys, removing each overly large, patched item of clothing with teasing reverence, watching the greedy look in his eyes intensify until he drags her to him, pulling off the rest and shoving her to the mat, unbuckling his pants as he does. The sound of the buckle frightens Blue and Freak, as it always does, and Kitten shoves them back, pushing them out of the way so that she can have her moment. Her time to shine, her time to enjoy, and his mouth is on hers, slobbering over her lips, and he tastes unpleasant, like stale alcohol and sour sweat, but she doesn't mind.

His hands caress her rail-thin frame and she curses the flat, boyish planes of their body, the equipment tucked neatly between their legs, Harry's legs, it is a jarringly unpleasant reminder that she is cursed to look like a boy, although Uncle knows she's not, doesn't he? Of course he does with how often he says she's a pretty girl, she's his pretty kitten, and oh when he does, how her hips twitch, how she moans low in her throat when he presses her to the floor and takes her.

It hurts, it always does, but Kitten doesn't care. To her, the pain is pleasure, and pleasure is pain, and it all intermingles in one glorious, if slightly shabby, whole as he pushes her into the mat. She can't breathe, choking on dust and her own wadded-up shirt crushed beneath her, but it's okay. When he empties himself into her, collapsing to one side with a thick, put-upon groan, she cuddles up to his side, ignoring the pain in her arse, ignoring everything but his sweat-shined body next to hers. He puts an arm over her for a moment, patting her shoulder with one pudgy hand.

"Good kitten," he sighs, and for a moment, just one moment, Kitten is happy.