Finally an update, thanks for all the support, alerts, reviews and faves.

They also say that we shouldn't stray too far from what we know.
Of all people, I believe this more than anything.
But sometimes boundaries are preordained to be broken.

Broken Faith

The Boy in the cupboard

Chapter 1

In the darkness the neatly manicured lawns and the bleached white picket fence seem even more eerie. A uniformity slides through the streets, where it is only right when it is the same. Fear of difference lingered in the darkest recesses of those living here. The lines of acceptable all too clearly defined and the thoughts of those who defined them, they keep the neighbours in line. Scandal was a sought of poison here. Toxic and consuming, filling the minds and speech of the nattering members of Privet Drive, Little Whinging.

Harry Potter was a secret, but a badly kept one and thus everyone knew about him. Scrawny and gangly as he was, there was a sense of complexity about him. That despite his size, his intelligent eyes had a sharp edge to them, making him seem like the psychopath Petunia Dursley ranted about. Weekly the woman of Privet Drive gathered, fishing for the gossip and scandal that would perhaps make their own dirty secrets a little less effable. Petunia Dursley was at her height in this situation. She has kept a fair amount of skeletons in her wardrobe, and today she hoped that the licentious behaviour of her frenemies and their families would be of more interest that the peculiar circumstances of her own household. When her nephew had left for his seventh year, she had hoped he would never come back. In a way she did care for him, but he would always be the child of a woman that she lived in the shadow of. Even now, rumours of her family life shrouded her. She somewhat cruelly hoped that he would die, in some quite corner where it would have no significance to her. And as he left the door swinging shut in his wake, she had breathed a sigh of relief. Petunia was now free of the obligations of her sister.

But then he returned. Scowling and petulant as ever, those green eyes, so much like hers, watching her accusingly. As a child she wanted to be special. But she couldn't be, she was never enough in her parent's eyes. Not when they had a daughter as extraordinary, as wonderful, as Lily. And as soon as this became obvious, Petunia strived. She was going to be normal. This was at least one thing she was sure her sister could never achieve. Normalcy was out of the reach of a witch. But even that wasn't possible for her, not with that boy around. She was torn, lost to obscurity when she wanted to be different and standing out in the worst ways when she only wanted to blend in.

Today's high tea was a particular cathartic release. Much to her delight, the mystery around her nephew was left unaddressed, instead they gossiped about Mrs. Morris from number 12. A small mousey woman filing for a divorce after discovering the unthinkable, her husband not only cheating on her, but doing so with a man. Petunia sneered. Homosexuality was just as unnatural as her sister's abilities. Petunia revelled in the juicy titbit, stirring up rumours that would stain the family. But as she did so, vowed that nothing of the kind would ever hurt the reputation of her own family. She uncurled her legs and rolled over, facing Vernon's side of the bed. The sheets were curiously cool, and the mass of her husband absent from bed. She reached out to caress the indentation in the mattress that indicated where he once lay, fingers prodding into the downy feathers of his pillow, where stray hairs lingered, silvery gray in the moonlight. Petunia watched the moon from the open window with wide unfocused eyes, curtains fluttering in a soft breeze, the sounds below her lost amongst the creaks of the house. Suddenly she felt a rage towards the boy, the reason for her husband's absence. Her Dudders had grown up and moved away, but he was still here, muttering nonsense about them. Petunia had let him stay of course, what could she do? The old man who had visited them two years previous had made it clear that Harry must always be welcome in her house. But she just assumed after he turned seventeen and that Voldevort man was dead, he would go away. Vernon was very decisive about it, of course, she thought fondly. Vernon was a good man, always wanting to protect her, he understood the need for the ordinary.

The boy's things were immediately locked away, including that stick of his. He wasn't safe with that stick around. She had told him so, sick of the unnaturalness that plagued her home. And he was left to do as he pleased as long as he did his chores and kept out of their way. Then of course the little snot had the audacity to indulge in vile acts in full view of the neighbourhood. Kissing boys no less. Had he no sense of propriety? What if the neighbours had seen? It would tarnish her reputation with the woman of Privet Drive. It had been her luck that no one else had seen it. Vernon very quietly shut the boy up, and dragged her nephew home. He was going to stay in that closet till he stopped with his disgusting behaviour. Even without his stick he was filling Petunia's home with vile thoughts and desires. She couldn't beat the magic out of him, but she was doing to starve the homosexuality, the unnaturalness out of him. But the boy was stubborn. Even weeks of hunger, with only water and the occasional stale slice of bread and he refused to concede, the brat, going on and on about how he was born that way. Vernon was just as sick of it as she was, and he swore he was going to shut that boy up one way or another. Vernon was down there dealing with the boy right now. The creaks and moans stopped suddenly and the house was doused in silence. Moments later the stairs shook, almost buckling under the bulk of Vernon Dursley.

"Vernon..?" Petunia whispered into the darkness as a shape appeared in her doorway. A gruff noise of agreement sounded, and Petunia relaxed into her pillow, watching the form of her husband. The moonlight caught on him, light rounding the edges of his pudge with moved with him.

"Petunia," He approached her, into bed and then bearing his weight down onto her. She gasped at the familiar sensation, and reached up one hand to touch the roundness of his face, the other trailing down the gap between their bodies, along the warmth of his chest. Wetness blossomed on her fingertips, caught from his shirt. Not the heady smell of sweat, but a much fainter metallic scent that filled her nostrils. His hands slipped up her nightie, and the nakedness of his lower half, which she had not felt earlier, pushed into her. Petunia breaths out, hands grasping his face as she moved with him, wet fingers leaving smears on his face that shone with blood redness in the moonlight.

o o o

In the cupboard under the stairs, Harry awoke for once with a feeling of numbness. For so many days he had lain here curled on his childhood bed, legs complaining from the distinct lack of space, stomach complaining from a lack of food, and the survival instinct that was invaluable to him in the past whispering for him to just give in. For him to just renounce his homosexuality and be let out again, at least long enough for him to snatch his wand, and disappear into the night. But he was proving a point, or that's how he justified it in his mind. The days he had lain there silently had comforted him, cocooned in his weak blankets, the closed space protecting him from the world outside. In some ways he did not mind the hunger that much, just relishing in his self imposed isolation, where he could at least shake that feeling of betrayal that had haunted him since Voldemort's death.

Merely days after his victory the elders within the Order had shipped him back to the Dursleys. Never mind that he was seventeen now and could technically do as he pleased. He was stripped of his wand upon entering number four Privet Drive, and pushed back into Dudley's spare room. A variation of the underage trace had been put on him, to preserve his 'safely'. After all killing a Dark Lord clearly rendered Harry an invalid and incapable of defending himself from any rogue Death Eaters. His magical possessions were locked away and for the most part he was left to do as he pleased. Coming and going as he liked as long as his chores were completed. Spending the late summer evenings wandering the quiet streets of Little Whinging, he was consumed by bitterness at all the people he once held so dear.

Mrs Weasley, who had once been his most zealous advocator when it came to the Dursleys, simply forgot about him, only actually talking to him and for the most part talking at him when it was about the wedding she craved so desperately for Ginny and Harry. Harry had not realized that he was getting married to Ginny, having not asked Ginny to marry him or even getting back together with him. But Ginny had taken the first occasion of eye contact after the war as an offer, and soon everyone was congratulating him, not at all commenting on the absence of a ring on Ginny's finger. Ron had been the first to clap him on the back with brotherly affection before being distracted by Hermione so much that neither of them actually noticed Harry's presence anymore. The little time he did spend with them, he sat there quietly while they stared longingly into each other's eyes and then kissing long and slow as Harry let himself out.

He hadn't been all that close to the other Weasley's, except for Fred and George. But since Fred's death George had pulled into himself, spending most of his time at the shop, and the remaining almost completely silent when he was around. The absence of the twin's joking company made Harry feel worse. Embittered at the fact no one seemed all too concerned about him anymore, and on his long walks he would stew in his anger, the same insecurities running circles in his mind. That was how he met Simon.

Simon was tall, ridiculously so, practically towering over Harry. But his soft cornflower coloured hair and easy smile soothed something in Harry. He wasn't in love, Harry wasn't that naïve. However there was just something special about Simon. Harry was swinging absently on the a swing set just too small for him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed and glimmering with angry tears, when a rough clap to the shoulder toppled him out of the swing. Glancing back he saw Simon, grinning, not maliciously, but carefree and harmless. He helped Harry up, and surprised him with a hug. Harry closed his eyes and fell into the warm embrace of his new friend. Their time spent together was a conversation of touches and lingering looks. No words were needed to explain the feelings shared between them, a sense of kinship. They had known each other for a week when uncle Vernon had caught them. It was the first time Harry had ever kissed a boy. Uncle Vernon locked him in his old cupboard, face puce with rage and a strange look in his eyes. Harry then cried for the first time since the death of Voldemort. Not for Simon, he knew nothing about Simon apart from his name. But for the loss of a friend, the only person he had left, even if that person was a stranger. His first crush.

Aunt Petunia was furious when she heard, not only was he magical but a homosexual, which in her book was just as bad. She refused to feed him, perhaps she thought starvation would stop these new desires, but it was like a floodgate had opened inside his mind. His sexuality was emerging in a new way, and inside his cupboard he came to terms with it. Once every few days, he would be given a jug of water and bread, each time served by Uncle Vernon who barely fit into the closet, and each time eyed Harry with a queer look in his eye. Then one night, he understood.

His malnutrition body was unable to fight back against his uncle, who was at least twice Harry's size even when Harry was healthy. Harry was dragged off the bed, a silver roll of duct tape clutched in his uncle's meaty hands. The tape bound Harry's wrists together and to a bedpost, a sock shoved unceremoniously into his mouth, his yelp of panic and terror muffled by the sweaty cotton. Harry fought, his legs lashing out, body half in, half out of the cupboard. Uncle Vernon disappeared and reappeared with a camera which he set up with relish, positioning to face his bound nephew. Harry experienced a growing feeling of dread that consumed him, suffocating him, and turning his body cold with fear as he met his uncle's hungry eyes and watched meaty fingers unzip a fly.

Aunt Petunia walks past them, unseeing and unhearing, despite half her husband is visible through the doorway of the cupboard under the stairs and the creaks and moans that fill the house. She pats Vernon, and he turns to her,

"Just teaching the boy a lesson, Petunia," She smiles, her eyes vacant. She doesn't him, and he doesn't see her. Tears leak from Harry's bloodshot eyes.

There is no pain when Harry awakes and there is no light. That feeling of numbness fills his bones and the crevasses of his mind. There is a pressure in his knees where his legs are pressed haphazardly against the closed cupboard door, but he is in no hurry to move them. His head lolls back, and a smile cuts across his face. The air filled with the pungent stench of sex and the faint scent of blood. Harry's lower half is uncovered, all manner of bodily fluid coating the cold wooden floor. His body feels broken, bruised; his body does not feel like his own. He could hear the clock ticking from the hall way outside, beating in rhythm with his own heart beats. He longs for a moment for his heart to stop, the pounding rush of blood makes his head throb and his vision fill with bright light. He wondered for a moment where were all those who claimed they cared. His mentors, his friends, Ron, Hermione…

They had not even invited him to spend time in the burrow with them these holidays. When he left they both hugged him, half hearted before turning back to each other. As he let himself out of their life. He had no longer any intention of returning to the Burrow or even Hogwarts, at least not with this dirt that coated his body from the inside. Harry's weak framed racked from a dry shuddering cough, and blood flowed from him, curling around his weak frame. He no longer felt tears in his eyes, nor any other emotion. Just a blank bleak emptiness and the comfort of the four walls around him.

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