Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7871419.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Other(s)
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Other_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, First_Time, Drama, Incest
  Collections:
      Ink_Stained_Fingers
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-07-31 Words: 3503
****** Die in Peace ******
by GoldinJade [archived by ISF_Archivist]
Summary
     Harry’s aunt and cousin usually didn’t come back until well after
     dark. His uncle would usually leave too, returning an hour or two
     before sunset smelling like alcohol and other strange things. But
     sometimes he didn’t.
Notes
     This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was
     created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve
     the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an
     Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors
     about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached
     everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact
     me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection
     profile.
Die in Peace






  "Petunia, take Dudley out! I've got mountains of paperwork and I can't
  stand your chattering," Uncle Vernon roared over the babbling television.
  "Dudley, turn off that bloody telly!"

  Harry, from his crouch at the top of the stairs, froze. His finger stopping
  in the middle of the odd whorl he had been tracing in the wood grain of the
  banister.

  "But, dear, it's practically flooding. What will the neighbors think? Me
  and Dudders rushing out in this rain?"

  "Turn off that damned telly, I say!" There was a loud crash that Harry
  suspected was the telly's remote, and Dudley's responding wail. "What
  neighbors, Petunia? Nobody will be looking out their window at the sodding
  rain!"

  As quietly as he could, Harry stood and crept into the bathroom. Maybe his
  Uncle wouldn't find him there. He always looked in the cupboard first.

  Once there, he closed the door, muffling the argument below. This was a
  familiar signal from as far back as he could remember. Whenever his uncle
  wanted the house to himself, he would start an argument. His aunt would
  stomp out of the house, dragging his cousin (as much as one could drag a
  boy his size) behind her. She always left Harry behind.

  In truth, normally Harry didn't mind. His aunt and cousin usually didn't
  come back until well after dark. His uncle would usually leave too,
  returning an hour or two before sunset smelling like alcohol and other
  strange things. But sometimes he didn't.

  Occasionally, Harry Potter wished he could run away. Wished his parents
  were still alive so he could run back to them. Wished he had someone to run
  to. He didn't do it anymore. Sometimes it hurt to keep wishing.

  It was quiet again downstairs, and for a moment, Harry thought that maybe
  his aunt wouldn't leave. Through the high window above the toilet, he could
  see the rain, the light from the bathroom reflecting from the drops
  clinging to the glass, shining like stars against the darkness outside.
  Harry thought it was very pretty, but was too nervous to stare at it for
  long. Occasionally, a flash of lighting, accompanied by a booming roll of
  thunder, turned the glass into a blank slate of light, drawing his
  attention back.

  Thus, it was too late to move from his resting place near the door by the
  time he heard the footsteps in the hall, masked by a rumble of thunder. His
  aunt ended up throwing it open, crushing him. Upon entry, she slammed it
  behind her, and gave a start when she saw Harry.

  "Boy, what are you doing behind there?"

  His aunt had a horse-like face, all chin and cheeks that seemed to swallow
  her thin lips and hide her tiny eyes. Right now, the lids around her eyes
  were red and puffy, the blue irises watery, as if she had been crying.

  Uncle Vernon must really want her to go, Harry thought. He shivered.

  "Well, what are you standing there for? Get out!"

  Jerking back at the shrill pitching of his aunt's voice, Harry backed out
  of the bathroom, but stayed in the hall, standing where her back was faced
  to him so neither she nor the mirror could see him.

  Aunt Petunia was fixing her hair; her blond curls bounced and shined under
  the electric light as she sniffed very so often, turning her head this way
  and that. Watching her, Harry thought her almost pretty, like a doll. Her
  mouth had softened from the perpetual grimace she wore around him and her
  eyes were wide and unfocused.

  Sometimes Harry wondered if his aunt looked anything like her sister, his
  mother. His mother would have smiled just like Aunt Petunia did at Dudley.
  But a smile meant for him.

  "Mum, Harry's watching you again!"

  Harry was wrenched out of his reverie by Dudley. His pounding gait had
  hidden behind the thunder so Harry hadn't heard him coming. His face was
  fixed with a wicked grin; thick lips spread wide and his eyes, almost
  hidden by folds of fat, glittered.

  His aunt whipped around and scowled at him, breaking the spell. Harry
  shrank against the wall and lowered his head, not moving even to rub at his
  chest when Dudley elbowed him as he sauntered past into his room.

  "Get downstairs, Boy," his aunt snapped. Harry just nodded, ignoring the
  cold hand stroking the length of his spine in favor of following orders.

  He crept quietly down the stairs, loitering by the front door. His uncle
  was sitting in the living room, the television blaring, despite his yelling
  earlier.

  "...after country are freeing themselves from Communist rule. The Soviets,
  with Gorbachev, now stand on shaky ground. Despite Gorbachev's new policies
  to reform the communist nation, Stanley, it seems..."

  Uncle Vernon abruptly switched the channel, muttering `bloody Bolsheviks'
  under his breath, alongside a jaunty commercial tune.

  Aunt Petunia suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, one hand clutching
  her new blue handbag, the other one, an umbrella. Dudley was behind her.
  She gave Harry a disapproving stare, her lips twisting tighter, before
  making her way down the stairs. Dudley snickered, before sobering once he
  looked out the window.

  "Do we have ta' go, Mum? I want to stay and play on my computer."

  Harry glanced out at the rain through the window in the hall. He wouldn't
  be able to go outside. He glanced back at his aunt. He felt himself go
  colder.

  "Dudders, your father needs some space."

  Before Harry could lose his courage, he interrupted.

  "Aunt Petunia, can I go with you?"

  Harry immediately wanted to take his words back. He should know better by
  now. But rather than the cold sneer she usually bestowed on him, she gave
  him a blank stare. There was something strange behind her eyes, hidden
  though, so Harry didn't know what it was.

  "No."

  And that was that. Dudley, rejuvenated by the refusal, instantly reversed
  his sentiment, letting his mother herd him out into the rain to the car,
  giving Harry another fatty grin, triumphant in receiving what Harry could
  not.

  The telly was still on, and for a bit, Harry thought maybe his uncle would
  leave him alone. Leave him to sink into the corner and become a water stain
  on his aunt's flowery wallpaper, smelling the scent of gardenias and roses
  until he was either torn down or faded away.

  Then the television was abruptly turned off with an associating crash of
  thunder.

  "Boy, I know you're there. Come here."

  Harry could only obey. Otherwise, his uncle would come and fetch him. It
  was easier to obey.

  Harry entered the living room.

  His uncle was seated on the settee, one of three other pieces of furniture,
  all colored a deep blue, like the sky without a sunset. The rest of the
  room was pale: pale blue curtains, pale green wallpaper, and crme carpet.
  Even the wood of the coffee table and stands, holding decorative lamps and
  the telly, were pale. Every light was on, though it was only late morning.
  The clouds outside made it feel like midnight.

  "Come closer, Boy. I've had a long week at work."

  His Uncle Vernon was not as portly as his son, mostly muscle overlade with
  fat. And he was tall too, with blond hair and watery blue eyes like his
  son. Everything was big about him, his face and his mouth and his hands.
  Harry took another step, coming parallel to the dark television that threw
  back a distorted facsimile of a reflection.

  "How old are you, Boy?"

  Harry tried to lower his head even further.

  "Ten."

  His uncle shifted in his seat.

  "You know what to do."

  Harry nodded, just a slight tilting of his head. He did.

  It was sometime last year that this had started. At first he had done it,
  not understanding his uncle's requests, but doing it anyway. But being in
  Grade Six had lent new information to the ear, and now Harry knew that what
  he did was not normal. And it shamed him. That he deserved this.

  Harry took a step towards his uncle, when abruptly, the man held out a
  beefy hand, stopping him. Harry looked at him questioningly.

  "Take off your clothes."

  And that was when the dread twisted into fear.

  Usually, his uncle only requested that he climb onto his lap, sitting like
  a child. The first time he'd been asked, Harry had been overjoyed, thinking
  that his uncle was finally releasing some long held back affection. In a
  way, he had.

  His uncle had ordered him to sit on his lap, his back right against the
  man's fatty stomach, and had held him down firmly with two large hands. At
  first, he had been quiet, shifting Harry painfully, pressing him harder
  against his stomach and legs until it hurt. Then he had started to speak.
  His breath had shortened and he had hissed every so often, silencing any
  oncoming questions from Harry with a menacing, `Boy'. Then that name had
  become a short of chant, hissed in-between pants. Afterwards, he had fallen
  to phrases.

  "You're such a bad boy." "Naughty boy. Should be scoured with soap. Boiled.
  Such a dirty boy."

  At first, Harry had thought he'd been in trouble. That it had been a new
  sort of punishment, like the cupboard, or no food. But his uncle had been
  the one that had sounded hurt, moaning softly every so often, eyes closed.
  Then he had shuddered, and had collapsed against the back of the settee.
  For a moment, he had thought his uncle dead, but then the man had drawn a
  huge breath, had opened his strangely lit eyes, and had pushed Harry off
  his lap and onto the floor, leaving him bewildered and a bit frightened.

  Uncle Vernon only did it when his aunt and cousin were gone. It was like a
  secret no one talked about. Like his parents, or the weird things that
  sometimes happened when Harry got mad.

  But this, him taking off his cloths, was different.

  Seeing his hesitation, his uncle growled impatiently.

  "Do it!"

  Fighting off the feeling of wrongness, Harry did as he was told.

  The baggy, hand-me-downs slipped off easily, and soon, he was standing,
  shivering slightly, under the bright lights of the living room.

  Harry knew he made an unlovely sight. Aunt Petunia had told him so, many
  times: pale skin, thin limbs, unmanageable hair, and worse of all, the scar
  on his forehead. Aunt Petunia thought it was hideous, but Harry liked it.
  It reminded him that he'd once had parents.

  Feeling self-conscious under his uncle's appraising glance, Harry hurriedly
  brought up his hand to smooth down the hair over his forehead.
                                                                              
  His uncle smirked at the gesture, and then beckoned for him to sit on his
  lap. Harry climbed up awkwardly, the sensation of wrongness intensifying.
  He found himself squashed against the cotton covering his uncle's stomach,
  his hips settled tightly between his uncle's slightly parted legs.

  The room was cold and Harry couldn't help but lean back into the warmth
  radiating from his uncle's body.

  "Now, Harry," at the use of his name, Harry jerked in surprise. He could
  count on one hand the number of situations where his uncle used his given
  name. His uncle's tone was light, masking a threat. "I want you to touch
  yourself."

  Harry jerked again. He knew what his uncle was talking about. From the
  health lectures at school, the ones when they separated the boys and girls
  into different groups and made them sit in different classrooms, he knew
  that the proper name for the part that hung between his legs was `penis'
  and that it was somehow used when one got older to make babies. From
  schoolyard talk, he knew that touching it would feel good.

  But it was one of those things you were supposed to do in private - in the
  dark holding pictures of older women in bikinis. Not in the brightly lit
  living room while sitting on your uncle's lap.

  Harry, suddenly overwhelmed by nerves, tried to get up. His uncle gripped
  his upper arms with a growl, holding him back.

  "Do it."

  And Harry knew he couldn't refuse.

  Slowly, he gripped his limp penis between his hands. The sudden heat sent a
  prickle of sensation through it. He started to push his hand up and down
  it, just like the whispers had instructed.

  Suddenly, Harry felt his uncle's warm breath against his naked shoulder. He
  almost stopped, but didn't.

  "Yeesss... just like that. Where'd you learn that? You dirty boy. Touching
  yourself; pleasing yourself in the dark in that cupboard of yours."

  His heart was racing. Thump thump thump. But he kept doing it, trying to
  ignore his uncle's words and the hot breath creating goose-bumps along his
  neck.

  "Faster, Harry. Who are you thinking of, hmmm? Are you thinking of our
  little sessions? Or do you have some dirty slut at school that you lust
  after?"

  Harry complied, speeding up his hand. His penis was hardening, and it felt
  pleasant enough in a weird way, but Harry wondered what else his uncle
  wanted him to do. Already the man's breath was shortening, like pants, with
  soft moans every so often between words. Harry could feel something against
  his back and tried not to think about it.

  "... dirty... little... slut. See?... You like it... Boy."

  Harry expected his uncle to shudder soon, and then dump him on the floor
  and let him hide for the rest of the day.

  The grip on his arms tightened, and suddenly Harry found himself thrown
  against the settee, the fabric itchy against his skin, with his uncle
  supported on hands and knees above him. The grip on his arms was painful,
  digging into his muscle and pushed against his bone as it supported most of
  his uncle's weight. Harry let go of his penis in surprise and gave a small
  cry in protest and pain.

  "You're such a dirty boy. Nasty slut. I could do whatever I want to you."

  He didn't know what slut meant, but he didn't think it was good. The front
  of his uncle's pants was bulging outwards.

  "Uncle Vernon, you're hurting me." He knew the protest was pitiful and
  probably useless, but Harry couldn't pull the words back. The grip on his
  arms was sure to leave bruises.

  Surprisingly, his uncle let go. Standing, he disappeared upstairs.

  Harry lay there on the couch for a moment, letting the relief wash over him
  as he stared up at the ceiling, partly astonished that his uncle had let
  him off so easily. That had just been... odd. In a bad way.

  But before he could get off the couch and put his clothes back on, he heard
  his uncle thudding back down the stairs. Harry tensed back up.

  He was carrying something in his hands. There was something about his smile
  that frightened him. Panic started to creep through him, speeding up his
  heart again.

  Thumpthumpthumpthump.

  Harry struggled to sit up, suddenly unwilling to be lying down, vulnerable,
  in his uncle's presence.

  "Lay back, Boy." His uncle's voice was gravelly; his tone eager.

  And again, his uncle kneeled over him, knees on either side of him. In his
  hand was a brightly colored rod, an ugly pink. It was a bit bumpy. It
  struck Harry suddenly that it looked like an inflated penis.

  "This is your Aunt's. That bitch." Harry jerked at the obscenity,
  especially since it was leveled at his aunt via his uncle's mouth. He
  didn't know that husbands could call their wives that.

  His uncle was holding the rod in both hands, twisting it, staring at him
  intently. The rain was still falling heavily outside, as if they were under
  a bucket being drenched by a hose.

  "Your aunt's small. `Fraid of me coming on her. Should fit you all right
  though."

  Fit?

  The almost contemplative mood swiftly fled from his uncle's face. It was
  replaced with a wild look, like he had drunk too many beers. His blue eyes
  were shining, the sky at the peak of summer heat. His handle-like mustache
  was quivering. Swift changes of moods in his uncle were often something to
  dread.

  "You deserve this, you nasty slut. You eat our food. Upset our lives. You
  and your nasty fits. By God, you deserve this."

  Harry was sure his heart was going to stop. The fear broke through his dumb
  mask. Beads of sweat budded above his upper lip. This was not good. Not at
  all.

  "No, Uncle Vernon. Please stop. Please." Harry's whispers cracked on the
  last, panic flitting through the hole in his throat. He knew it would do no
  good.

  The fear seemed to spur his uncle on, exciting him in some way. Taking one
  hand from the rod, he swiftly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down
  slightly, causing his penis to jut out. It was massive. An ugly purple
  thing covered in veins rising from a thatch of hay. Harry was instantly
  repulsed.

  "What are you doing, Uncle Vernon?" Harry's voice raised an octave. He was
  unable to pull his eyes from the sight of uncle's privates.

  But the menacing glee in the man's voice caused his eyes to snap up.

  "I'm going to stick this in you."

  Harry looked at him, confused. Stick it where? His uncle chuckled.

  Then, one of his uncle's hands was on Harry's penis, rubbing and pulling.
  Harry couldn't even feel a spark of warmth that he'd felt earlier, his mind
  crowded as it was with panic. It stayed limp in his uncle's roving finders.
  He didn't know what his uncle was doing. But he wanted it over. He wanted
  to hide in his cupboard and never come out.

  His thoughts were abruptly severed by a towering flame of pain.

  Screaming, Harry clawed at the couch, trying to escape this abominable
  pain. Suddenly, he knew where his uncle had stuck the rod.

  "Get it out! Get it out, Uncle Vernon! It HURTS!"

  But his uncle wasn't listening to him. Placing most of his crushing weight
  on Harry, through the crippling pain, Harry realized the man was rubbing
  his penis against one of his legs. One of his hands was still holding the
  rod.

  And suddenly he twisted it, shoving it deeper.

  Oh God, did Harry scream.

  The screams went on and on as the rod kept twisting and pumping in and out
  of him, mixing with the sound of the heavy rain and thunder outside.

  When his throat could no longer scream, Harry started to cry, great,
  wracking sobs until the salt water and snot dripped onto the couch.

  By the time the pain had faded to a constant twine of fire, one woven into
  every nerve of his body, his uncle suddenly stopped his muttering and
  moaned, shuddering and covering Harry's leg with some sort of liquid.

  The movements of the rod stopped, but the pain didn't. Harry could still
  feel it there. Invading him. And he couldn't move.

  Uncle Vernon's weight was crushing him, the man having collapsed completely
  on the smaller boy after shuddering. It was constricting his lungs, almost
  suffocating him.

  Harry wanted to die. Let the air rush from his lungs and not. come. back.

  But it did, once, and then twice, and kept coming until his uncle found it
  within himself to climb off of Harry. There was a brief flash of intense
  pain as he pulled the rod out, but other than that, Harry couldn't discern
  it from his general state of hurting.

  Harry heard a rustle of fabric from his uncle, but didn't look over,
  keeping his gaze fixed on the white ceiling.

  It wasn't really white, the ceiling, but a mixture of colors, giving an
  overall picture of whiteness. There was blue and grey and even a bit of
  green.

  "Boy."

  Harry didn't acknowledge his uncle and kept staring at the ceiling.

  "Boy, I'm talking to you."

  Still, he didn't turn.

  Suddenly, a rough hand grasped at his chin, forcing him to look. Harry
  tried to flinch away, but couldn't move. He was too tattered to try to pry
  away those fingers. It wouldn't have worked anyway. His uncle's eyes were a
  steady blue - too pale. They were rational again, but beneath the mask
  Harry could see that wildness hiding, waiting.

  "Boy. You're not to tell anyone, you understand? Or you'll regret it."

  Harry understood. He understood perfectly well.

  "That's what happens when little boys like you are bad. Know that."

  Harry knew that, too.

  "Now, clean this mess up."

  And with that, his uncle was gone, taking with him a bloody rod.

  The rain was slowing down, and the living room was quiet once again.

  It was perfect.

  There was nothing in his life, or his future, that could make him endure
  this again. Nothing.

  Now, Harry thought,I could just die.

  And the white ceiling flickered and then winked into blackness.

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