Scars

Warnings: This story contains descriptions of self-harm and non-consensual (and consensual) sexual acts. If any of these things make you uncomfortable, don't read it.

Chapter 1.

They always occurred together. The evil three: sex, guilt, and pain. Sometimes in that order, sometimes not. Sometimes, all at once.

The first time it happened, he was only twelve years old. He'd just got home from school for the summer, the first time he'd been with his parents since he'd left in the Autumn. The first time he'd been with them since he'd been placed into Gryffindor house. Mr. and Mrs. Black were calm, expressing their "surprise" that their oldest son hadn't been sorted into Slytherin, like the rest of their family (apart from his no-good Ravenclaw cousin, Andromeda). His younger brother, Regulus - about to start school that September - was suffering the immense pressure of their parents' expectations. "I hope you make it into Slytherin, Regulus," said Mrs. Black regularly, in an attempt to make both of her sons uncomfortable and anxious.

That first night home, Sirius was awoken by the feeling of cold steel and hot breath on his neck. A warm hand pushed his hair out of his eyes, and a heavy weight settled beside him on the bed. "Shhh," whispered his father, "If you make a sound, this knife will go straight into your throat." The moonlight, shining through the small gap between the curtains, glittered off the small kitchen knife in his father's hand. Sirius noticed that his father was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. "Such a pretty boy," said Mr. Black. "You remind me of your mother when she was younger," The knife-free hand wrapped Sirius' hair around its fingers. "Your dark hair..." It moved to stroke his face, "Your pale skin..." The hand quickly moved down, underneath the covers. "...Your slim hips." The hand - Merlin, how he hated that hand by now - moved towards his crotch, stroking him through his pyjamas.

Sirius whimpered, and looked his father in the eye for the first time that night. Grey met grey, and there was a jarring sensation, like slate scraping over slate. "I told you to be quiet," whispered his father. "You wouldn't want your mother or Regulus to hear, would you?" Sirius shook his head, as his father pulled off his pyjama bottoms. "Good boy," he said, discarding them on to the floor before taking off his own boxer shorts. He got underneath the covers and lay on top of Sirius, propping himself up on his knees so that he didn't crush his son. He pulled Sirius' buttocks apart, and roughly entered him. Sirius whimpered again, but made no more noise after another glance from his father.

This was because he was in Gryffindor, he thought. His father was trying to prove to him that Gryffindor wasn't where he belonged. It was a test of his bravery. A tear slipped out of his eye. How could any child withstand this? The knife glinting at his throat, the heavy weight on top of him, his father inside him. He began to cry in earnest. His father reached his hand up and slapped him in the face. "No crying, Sirius." Shocked, Sirius nodded. This was his punishment for where he belonged (he did belong there, he knew it, no matter how much he cried now). This was his punishment for three terms of fun and friends and belonging. This was what he deserved.

His father continued to thrust in and out of him, until eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, his thrusts lost their rhythm, and Sirius felt himself fill up with warm liquid. His father stood up and pulled on his boxers. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll kill you. Do you understand?" Sirius nodded again, and his father left the room.

After a few minutes of silent crying, Sirius knelt up on his bed, and began to bang his head on the wall. Bang, bang, bang. Almost in time with the thrusts his father had made. He banged his head until Regulus' weary call from next door made him stop. It was then that he noticed that his father had left the knife behind. He picked it up, and it glistened. Without thinking about it, he pulled the sharp edge across his right thigh. Blood spilled out of his pale skin, and ran down his leg. Numb, he stared at it until the bleeding stopped, put his pyjama bottoms back on, slid the knife underneath his mattress, and went to sleep.

Two weeks later, it happened again. No knife this time, just the rough removal of the pyjamas and the inevitable pain that followed. Mr. Black saw the scar on Sirius' leg, pressed his thumb hard on to it, grinned, and continued to thrust into him.

For four years, whenever Sirius was home from school, his father regularly raped him. And everytime it happened, Sirius would use that knife to hurt himself. Rape was what happened to him, what he deserved, he thought. The pain he inflicted upon himself was nothing compared to the pain inflicted upon him by his father. Every time he dragged that blade across his naked flesh, he became numb. And it was better to be numb than to face the horror of what had happened, and continued to happen, to him.