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Warning: Attempted Rape


It was early evening when Harry set foot in Privet Drive. Dusk was settling with shadows stretching as the sun sets, reds and oranges burning into the blue. He could feel his neighbours eyeing him suspiciously, none too subtly making sure their doors were locked and their windows shut. Clenching his jaw, Harry lamented on their wilful blindness concerning him and the Dursley's. Everyone was so quick to take their word that he was a criminal, a liar, a charlatan, eagerly ignoring the obvious signs of abuse and starvation. He remembered confiding in a teacher in Primary School but was dismissed, called a horrible child who was intentionally trying to cause trouble. She had been warned about this, she told him; his Aunt had made sure to let the teachers know about his dishonesty and behavioural problems. Petunia had covered her bases, and Harry knew that no one would believe him; no one would even try to save him.

Reaching the Dursley's, Harry carefully listened at the door only to hear the loud blaring of the TV. Turning his key as quietly as possible, Harry pushed open the front door slowly and crept inside. The deafening sound of the TV masked his scuffles, and Harry sighed in relief that the Dursley's hadn't noticed his entrance. Feeling breath on his neck, Harry spun around, letting go of the closing door, causing it to slam shut behind him. He cringed, waiting for the thundering of approaching footsteps. Hearing the still booming television, Harry breathed a sigh of relief – they hadn't heard him.

Scurrying upstairs – mindful of missing the creaky steps, he made his way to his room, closing the door firmly behind him. Harry's head knocked against the wood as he lay against it, resting for a beat before pushing off towards his desk. Dudley's neglectful care had left it dented, scratched, and stained, but it was solid. Pulling his textbooks out of his bag, he prepared to settle into his homework for the night. Fingers brushing against the diary, Harry felt a jolt of energy snake up his arm. Cautiously, he laid it on the desk in front of him.

Feeling much like Pandora opening her box, he opened the diary slowly. Blank pages greeted him once again. Scoffing at his paranoia, Harry started leafing through the pages, wondering if he had missed anything. Harry felt his finger slice open towards the middle of the book and was not quick enough to put it in his mouth before a spot of crimson fell, staining the crisp, white page. After a few seconds, he noted the taste of iron no longer persisted. He removed his finger and found the cut healed, ignoring the oddity surrounding his rapid recovery rates with practised ease.

Harry refocused on the diary finding it to have snapped shut without him there to clamp it open. Flicking through it again, more mindful than before, he reached the end and was disappointed to have found nothing, not even an inkblot. There was also no blood. His fingers began to itch for a pen, his mind racing, seeking out a tangent to record in the diary. Harry frowned at the compulsion, forcing it away. He wasn't usually one to give in to impulse. Pushing the journal away, he brought his homework to the centre and began, noting his theories and questions in the margins as he went.

As he writ his last word, Harry sighed. Done. Stretching his back, he moaned as his vertebrae popped. The clock beside him, cracked, and missing a hand, told him a few hours had passed. He'd missed his dinner window. His stomach rumbled to remind him of this fact; he supposed he would have to steal to the kitchen and scrounge up something for himself. He doubted there were leftovers from Petunia's cooking; Dudley left nothing but the picked clean carcass.

Caleb had ruined his ability to subsist on nothing. After they had become friends, with weeks going by and Harry bringing nothing out to eat, Caleb had started packing lunch for two, threatening him until he swallowed every morsel. Harry smiled as he reflected fondly on his friend's mother hen tendencies.

Deciding the risk was worth it, Harry cracked open his door, straining to hear any sounds from downstairs. Silence. There was no rambling from the television, and his Uncle and Cousin's roaring voices were absent. They must be in bed. Edging out of his room, Harry tiptoed downstairs and to the kitchen. The coast was clear. Harry began collecting a pile of small edibles: granola bars, packets of chips, and the odd lolly bag. Job well done, he turned around only to freeze. Sitting in an armchair, a glass of half-drunk whisky beside him, was his Uncle. His eyes were the glazed eyes of a drunk, but it couldn't temper the rage bubbling beneath.

"You little thief," Vernon growled. "How dare you steal from me! We feed you, we clothe you, and this is how you repay us, repay me?!"

As Vernon raged, Harry took small steps back, unintentionally trapping himself against the kitchen wall. Before he could think of a plan of escape, his Uncle appeared in front of him, the stinging smell of alcohol and sweat wafting off of him. Large, calloused, meaty hands encircled his neck, strangling him, choking off any possible defence. He tried to pry them off fruitlessly, and dark spots danced across his vision. The grip on his neck loosened, allowing him to take a shuddering breath before his Uncle slammed him against the wall behind, jarring him.

"You little freak, you think I don't know why you always come home so late?" Vernon snarled.

Harry knew he wasn't going to like whatever theory Vernon had concocted and shivered. Vernon's face was red, fevered, with a peculiar gleam shining in his eyes. A mix of fury and avarice.

"I know what you do," Vernon spat, holding Harry to the wall with one hand as his other one pointed at his face accusatorily. "You're a fag," he roared, grabbing Harry's crotch, "and I know you're spreading your legs for that fag boyfriend of yours".

Harry flinched violently, seeking to dislodge Vernon's hold but couldn't. He was defenceless. Stories echoed in his head, recounts from the boy's who had gone to correctional and been unlucky. It could go one of two ways – a beating or something much worse. Feeling Vernon's hand trail up his zip, his fingers fiddling with the lip of his pants, Harry's panic sharply increased. Digging his nails into the flesh of Vernon's hand, Harry raked his nails in earnest, needing to escape. In retaliation, Vernon smashed him against the wall, his grip tightening around Harry's neck to hold him still – his excitement palpable. Harry's vision swam, his eyes growing heavier from the onset of anoxia.

Tears pricked his eyes as Vernon exposed him to the elements. His last cloth of innocence lost. Unconsciousness called to him, begging him to let it take him under. The smell of ozone infected his senses, a thread of lightning coiling through him. Vernon let out a cry and released him, causing Harry to crumble to the floor, gasping for breath, ignoring the pain from his abused throat. Still on alert, he went to find Vernon. He located him quickly, passed out a short distance from his crumpled figure, a steadily bleeding wound on his head. The kitchen counter had struck him. Hands blistering, dick limply hanging out – Vernon was in a miserable state. The stench of alcohol draped over his form, and Harry desperately hoped he was inebriated enough that he wouldn't remember tonight.

Edging away from Vernon, Harry inched back to his room with quick, silent taps. Choked sobs were building in his chest, tears spilling down his face. Securing the door behind him, he collapsed. Curling his knees to his chest, Harry slowly rocked himself in a beg to calm down. Splintering. His mind, a web of fractured glass, gouged every thought to its sinew—emotions raging like the sea in storm. Snatching the diary and a pen, Harry clumsily opened it and began to write.