Secrets

It had begun the moment his uncle slammed the door. Harry stood huddled in the corner and watched as his uncle’s face became contorted in rage. Without a second glance, he tore the letter Snape had handed him to shreds. Then, he walked over to Harry’s corner and glared down at the boy. Standing there, staring up at his uncle’s face in fear, Harry realized that it didn’t matter if he ever got back into Hogwarts, because he might not live to see that possibility. Just a day ago, he had been living nearly fancy free at school, attending lessons, eating with friends, and fretting over homework assignments. He had been safe. Now, however, he was in peril, and was powerless against everyone. He quaked in fear.

“So,” sputtered Vernon, “you thought you’d just drop by, then, hmm? Well, you’ll pay for this inconvenience. We just got this house straightened up, and here you are, ready to destroy it again. I’ll have you know,” he said, throwing a punch at Harry’s stomach, “that we are not excited to have you here.” Harry received another cuff, this time to the face. “That said, I’m sure we’ll make do with your presence.”

That said, Vernon grabbed Harry by his arms and pulled him away from the wall. Had Harry not been terrified, he might have realized how odd this would look to an outsider, to see a frightened boy being beaten in a well decorated parlor.

“Your shirt,” Vernon began, taking off his belt, “comes off.” Quickly, Harry moved to comply, knowing that to do otherwise would be foolish, and only result in further pain. Without being asked, he stood with his face against the wall, back exposed. He knew what was coming. Suddenly, Harry heard the familiar whistle of a belt flying through air. He heard the terrifying crack that leather makes just before it hits the skin, yet he was somehow surprised when it finally struck him. He yelped in surprise, trying to hold back tears as his uncle lay into him. Vernon was muttering something, but Harry didn’t care. At this point, when he knew that he would never be happy again, he cared little about what the bastard said. The only desire that Harry had was to shorten the punishments as much as possible.

Abruptly, the beating stopped, leaving Harry wondering, apprehensively, what would come next. He got his answer presently, when he was thrown down upon the sofa. Had it been any other occasion, he might have been happy to lay on the soft, velveteen fabric. Now, however, all he could hope for is that the fabric would somehow soften what was to come. He felt his uncle undo his pants, pulling them off and throwing them onto the floor.

“Having you home won’t be all bad,” said Vernon, menacingly. “I have missed our little encounters.” He moved to remove his pants. “Now, you’ll be good during this or else you’ll get some extra punishment. Remember, boy, this is nothing more than you deserve.” With that statement, Vernon spread the boy’s legs and pushed into him. Harry couldn’t help but scream, writhing in agony from the pain. Vernon punched the boy in the kidneys, but did not reprimand him for his outburst. He liked it when the boy screamed. It made him feel in control. Again and again, he plunged into the boy, causing one outburst after another until he was sated.

Nearly as soon as it had begun, it was over, and Harry was thrown unceremoniously into his cupboard, the door locked. The boy who lived, sat, rubbing his sore body, and looked around his tiny abode. Everything looked just as it had when he had left for school. His pitiful poetry and artwork still adorned the walls. The lump of linens he called a bed were present and accounted for. His stomach sank, as he realized that this was his home forever. He brightened a little, however, when he realized that since his cupboard had remained untouched during his absence, there might be some heroin stashed somewhere. With that thought fueling his movements, giving him energy, he tore through his pitiful piles of belongings. He emerged triumphant, finding a bag identical to the one that Dumbledore had somehow procured.

Leaning against the wall, Harry felt relief swim over him. He might have to spend eternity in the cupboard, but at least he could be high during it.
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Snape felt a strange emptiness as he stared out into the seemingly vacant eyes of his afternoon potions class. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, not that he’d want to, but something seemed wrong. He watched the students working on their potions, and felt as if the class was incomplete. True, Granger was about, bushy haired as ever, and working diligently to be the brightest student in the class. Weasely was present as well, burning things here and breaking flasks there. He had gone through more equipment in one day than he had all last term. Furthermore, Granger and Weasely kept bickering like an old married couple, having been paired together after the departure of Potter. Their bickering upset the flow of the class. Furthermore, their voices reverberating off of the stone walls of the dungeon gave Snape a headache. Sighing, he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate some of the tension. He gave up, though, after seeing Neville attempt to boil iron. Instead, he began to pace eerily around the class, glowering over the shoulders of unsuspecting students occasionally, just to give them the willies. He caused Crabbe to drop a flask; soon after, Seamus melted a cauldron he was using. Snape was pleased. He had caused two accidents in less than a minute.

He missed Harry. No, that couldn’t be it. That was a ridiculous, preposterous thought. The school had never been so peaceful, never been so productive, never been so…bloody boring. None of the other students fascinated Snape the way that Harry did. There was something about the way the boy moved, something about the way he talked that seemed so very eternally childlike. It was as if he’d never fully grown up. He talked in a small voice, flinched when anyone startled him, and nearly panicked when anyone male touched him. He was quite intelligent, and yet seemed to be ignorant of some basic life skills, such as self-care. He did not seem to be aware of needing to eat, for instance. Actually, now that Snape thought about it, the boy had always acted peculiar. It was strange, was it not, that he could not seem to be comfortable around men, that loud noises startled him? Had Potter been any other student, Snape probably would have noticed the strange behaviors. He was quite at detecting abnormalities in humans, and Potter’s actions went beyond normal shyness.

It frustrated Snape to have to admit that he might care. Abruptly, he dismissed the class. He had some thinking to do.
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He didn’t know what day it was. Frankly, he didn’t care. Get up, clean house, be picked on by Petunia, serve as Dudley’s human punching bag, serve as Vernon’s human punching bag, get raped, and then be thrown in the cupboard until the next morning. Rinse, repeat. Really, the only thing Harry cared about anymore was being able to sneak out of the house, late at night, to acquire more drugs. He’d gotten to a point where he would do anything to get a fix. Steal something, sure, why not? Maybe he’d get caught and be sent to jail. Unfortunately, Harry was too adept a thief for that. Suck some guy off? Sure. It’s not like he hadn’t done it before. Vernon was his uncle, after all.

That particular night had been interesting. He’d wound up stealing some cash off a street vendor, paying off the dealer, and then sitting in the park near his house, making sure that he was high as a kite before he went back. Currently, he was sitting on a swing, staring at the stars. The moonlight bathed his face in cool, white light. Like a grade school child, his feet scraped the gravel beneath them.

He didn’t even know why he went back. Probably because no matter where he went, Vernon would be able to find him. Besides, where would he go? Harry felt alone in the world, as if no one cared for him. Sometimes he thought about leaving one night and never coming back. He’d never gotten the courage, mainly because he was afraid. Part of him still wanted a family that loved him. Well, he’d lost that as a baby, and he’d gotten the Durselys. Sure, they weren’t the best family, but they might love him, someday. If he was the best nephew, if he did everything that Vernon and Petunia demanded, then maybe one day, they would love him.

Love. He didn’t even know the meaning of the word. Dumbledore said that love had saved him once, but he suspected that was just an old man’s way of saying that no one really knew what had happened. Love couldn’t possibly save anything. It was intangible, distributed unequally, and difficult to keep, if you ever got it. He only knew that he wanted it, more than ever. He wanted to be loved for being himself. He didn’t want to be a punching bag, a good fuck, or Harry Potter, the boy who lived. He wanted to be loved because he was Harry. Nothing more. He smiled wryly as it occurred to him that he wouldn’t know love if it hit him with a ten-foot pole.

The boy who lived stood up unsteadily and began walking back to the Durselys. He quested for their love, but in the meantime, he was going to cook up some good heroin and read some Walt Whitman.

Sometimes, in his dreams, he saw a man in black.