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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Because No One Must Know
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Vernon Dursley/Harry
Disclaimer: These characters and places belong to JK Rowling. I am making no profit.
Summary: HP Chan Challenge # 102: Vernon Dursley has always resented the strain Harry puts on his family's financial resources. One day, at a party for his colleagues at which Harry is forced to serve the drinks, Vernon realizes that a few of the men at the party are ogling the young boy (must be about 12 years old here). Vernon finally finds a way to make Harry earn his keep... (Switchknife)
Warning: underage abuse, non-cons


He sits down awkwardly, gingerly, unable to keep from wincing, and Vernon Dursley feels as if all his blood rushes down to his groin and starts throbbing there. The boy's messy bangs fall on his face that looks unhealthy pale, almost translucent. Behind the old ugly glasses his eyes are surrounded with deep purplish shadows. Despite a very warm day he has Dudley's old flannel shirt on - and he still looks as if he's cold. Vernon brings the teacup to his lips and never stops staring at him.

Soon; just the day long wait, and then it will be dark again. And all those stupid clothes will be gone, and the boy will be naked and quivering under him, skin smooth and moist, thin arms trembling. There will be no sounds, all of them muffled into the handkerchief stuffed into Harry's mouth, even when Vernon thrusts into him, the small hole opening for him, the boy's body freezing in pain.

Small. Tight. Hot.

He will shudder while Vernon slams into him mercilessly, every shove of his belly knocking breath out of the insolent brat. And at these moments Vernon will feel than finally eleven years of putting up with the little spawn are paying up. That finally the impudent little slut is getting what he deserves and he, Vernon, teaches him a lesson, teaches him respect. In-out. In-out. For all his impoliteness, his cheek, for all the problems he caused. For his *magic* that can do damn nothing to help him - since he isn't allowed to use it.

He will breathe into the boy's ear, when coming, reminding him: "You're nothing. You're my whore," and feel the thin body shake in choking sobs as the boy's nose is stuffed and he tries to breathe through his gagged mouth. And in the dim light coming from the street Vernon will see silvery trickles of tears on the boy's face.

* * *

"He came again last night and I couldn't stop him. Again. He didn't hit me. I just couldn't make him stop. Why am I so weak - such a coward? The Sorting Hat was wrong, it should've put me into another House. I don't know what House, there is not a fitting one for me.

He says I deserve it. He says it's the only thing I'm good for. He says he raised me and it's time to pay my debts.

I hate it. I don't know why he wants to do these things. He says because I begged for it. Because I teased him, tempted him with my... whatever. I don't want to remember what he says.

I'm not a girl, so I can't get pregnant by that, right?"

* * *

Rick Leroy, the Chief Executive of 'Builders International'; a very prospective customer. Invited for drinks one summer evening. Vernon Dursley is never one to miss a good contact. Petunia is charming as always, and Dudley is so admirably well behaved that Vernon can't help but be proud of him. The only blemish on the spotless image of his family is the little runt, should've kept him locked in his room. But someone has to clean the ashtray while Petunia is occupied in the kitchen. Untidy hair, insolent green eyes behind the thick round glasses, thin arms sticking from the sleeves of an over-sized t-shirt.

"It is your nephew, you've said?"

Vernon hasn't said anything; but Rick is a *very* prospective customer.

"My wife's nephew, actually."

"Oh. How old is he?"

"Twelve. Thirteen next month."

What's about the little brat? Dudley hasn't got so much attention from Rick at all. Vernon grunts and takes a sip of his very best whiskey.

Rick's eyes have a strangely sympathetic look in them.

"No love lost between you and him?"

Vernon sighs eloquently and casts a glance at Petunia's backside; she's frozen in front of the TV screen in the kitchen, entranced in some quiz show.

Rick smiles. "And I assume all the expenses for raising him lie on your shoulders."

"You can say it again."

Vernon loosens his tie slightly; whiskey feels good after this exhausting day. And finally there is someone who understands - who understands how difficult it is for Vernon, all this money spent on the ungrateful boy, the money that could buy another nice thing for Dudley, or a new car, or a tour to Europe for all of them.

"But, come to think about it, a boy like that can bring more than you spend on him," Rick says.

Vernon frowns; he doesn't quite understand. Rick looks at him, smiling patiently. There is an odd glint in his eyes, as there is when Rick tells Vernon one of his 'risky' jokes, like: 'What's the best part of fucking a six-year-old girl? When you're done, you can turn her over and pretend you're fucking a six-year-old boy.'

"On the other hand," Rick says, "you'll probably prefer not to share, won't you? Which reminds me the joke I heard..."

Petunia comes in, snacks on the tray, and Rick's joke sounds quite innocent.

Vernon thinks more after Rick leaves. He thinks about the contract that Rick as much as guaranteed him. But he also thinks about other bits of conversation.

"Children today are so insolent, aren't they? Oh, your son is an extremely well mannered boy, of course. But there are so many much less satisfying examples out there."

Petunia keeps them company at the moment and nods eagerly, twisting her face in a congenial grimace.

"They don't appreciate what's done for them."

"You might put all your heart into bringing up a boy - and what he pays you with?"

"You can't imagine," Vernon growls.

"I honestly think sometimes it's a shame that no one punishes little brats as they deserve it any more," Rick says.

It's true. Vernon never even punished the boy fittingly, an odd shove and punch don't count. And the little bastard is *so* disrespectful.

At night, lying without sleep, with Petunia snoring next to him, her face glistening with a thick layer of cream in the dim light, Vernon recounts everything the damned boy did to him. Owls. Being ousted out of his house by all those letters. Dudley's pigtail. Lost contract with the Masons. Broken bars of the window. All humiliations, losses, injuries Vernon had to suffer.

Who will pay for it? No one? Never?

He gets up and walks out of the room, unable to stay quiet. There is no light or sound behind the boy's door, and for some reason it infuriates Vernon even more. How dares the brat deny him a chance to yell at him and shake some sense into him?

He pushes the door anyway and enters. The moonlight on the barren walls and Dudley's broken toys in the corners makes the room look eerie. The boy wakes up, his eyes hazy, and reaches hastily for the glasses on the nightstand. His worn-off pajama jacket misses a few buttons, and Vernon sees his narrow smooth chest in the opening. The boy's bangs fall on his forehead, scar dark-crimson in the dim light.

Would someone really be interested in him, Vernon wonders. Interested *like that*.

He doesn't let the thought form, what exactly *like that* means - but at this moment something happens to him, a part of him springs to life. A very special part. His erection strains so hard, so demanding as he hasn't felt with Petunia for a long, long time. The arousal is unrelenting, washing over him. He flushes deeply. He feels... he feels flustered. But he also feels good.

The boy frowns, looking at him, starts saying something:

"What hap..."

The palm covers his mouth, cutting off the rest of it, and Vernon leans towards him, hissing:

"Don't you make a sound, boy, or I'll wrench the neck of your damned bird."

Green eyes go wide and confused - and it's good to see the boy like this, to know that finally Vernon has managed to put some fear into his heart. Harry's hand gropes on the nightstand and Vernon catches it, twisting it cruelly. The wrist is so thin in his grasp, so easy to break - why didn't he think about it before? The boy's is just a runt, he can't give any real fight.

"And don't even think of threatening me with your stick - I know what happens to you if you use it. They'll kick you out. But maybe that's what you deserve."

He lets go and slaps the boy, so hard that the glasses are knocked off his face and rattle on the floor. And it's so satisfying, the feeling of the soft cheek under his palm, the sensation of the boy's head jerking under the blow, the sight of a small trickle of blood leaking from the boy's lip.

This trickle is what really makes Vernon snap. His self-control is gone. He doesn't know what he's doing - he grabs the boy, hurls him face down - and why did Petunia's cream turn out to be in his bathrobe's pocket, when did he take it? The cream feels cool and pleasant on his burning erection, and the boy's asscheeks are smooth and straining as Vernon pulls them apart. And there - unbearable heat and tightness of the resisting little hole, stretching under his thrusts, letting him in, accepting him - and it's better than anything he experienced in his life.

The boy doesn't scream - he can't, his face buried into the pillow, he probably can barely breathe. And Vernon slams and slams in, and the resistance of the tight entrance is ruined, but the tightness stays, enveloping him.

When it is over, he has to stay in place for a while, leaning over the boy, feeling feeble and exhausted. The boy's breath is harsh, as if he's choking - and even though Vernon's weight presses against him, he still shudders so hugely that Vernon can feel it.

When he withdraws, there is blood on his cock. But not too much of it. The boy looks miserable, curling on the bed, wrapping his arms around himself.

Vernon points at the cage with the nasty white bird before leaving.

"Remember. One word from you and this thing is dead."

In the morning Petunia doesn't remark in any way about the dark bruise on the boy's cheekbone. Dudley teases him but Harry stays apathetically quiet, his eyes turned down.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't complain. Not that Petunia would believe him anyway.

* * *

"I told Hedwig to go today and not come back. If she isn't here, maybe, maybe I'll manage to stop him. But she returned. Stupid bird.

I don't want him to harm Hedwig. And I don't want him to stop me from going back to school, he says he can do it. Maybe he lies. I don't want him to come. Please, please, if he doesn't come again, I'll do anything, I'll do all my homework, I'll be polite to everyone, just please, please make him not come again.

I hate to stay in the darkness and wait for him. He took out the bulb. He says electricity is expensive.

I hate washing these sheets. I hate him. I hate myself. The Boy Who Lived. No one knows what I'm letting him do. No one knows how weak I am. If Dumbledore knew - he always knows everything, doesn't he? - maybe he could make it stop. But I can't tell him, he must not know how weak I am, how I let everyone down.

Just please make it stop."

* * *

And so it goes. Vernon barely can wait for the night, for his wife and son to fall asleep. He learned to walk very quietly along the corridor, no board creaking. One night, in the beginning, the boy tried to block the door to prevent him from coming. But Vernon said he would pluck his bird slowly and then gut it and make him watch - and it was the threat that worked very well. After that the brat never tried anything like that again.

He tries not to weep when Vernon enters him - but he always fails. His tears smell salty. His sweat smells warm and nice. His blood smells brackish.

"So, do you have any success in disciplining your recalcitrant nephew?" Rick asks once, when inviting Vernon to his office, to discuss the details of the contract, as he says. The cognac he offers Vernon is very expensive, dark amber in a big round glass. There is something *knowing* in Rick's eyes, something mildly ironic - and, almost despite himself, Vernon finds himself saying brashly:

"Yes, I found the way of keeping him in line."

"Oh." Rick's expression changes a little. "Is it satisfying?"

"You bet," Vernon says.

"What do you think about visiting me this Saturday? And take your nephew along, of course."

Vernon will visit him - why not?

On Saturday, Dudley whines that *he* wants to go.

"Why can't he?" Petunia asks peevishly.

"Let it rest, woman," Vernon snaps finally. "The brat will hold the box with the samples while I make a presentation."

But the boy knows. He sits quiet like a mouse on the back seat, his face very pale, his eyes surrounded with dark circles. He's lost his smug, insolent look finally, this expression of imagining himself to be someone that he brings from his damned school. He looks ill. He looks like he wants to become as small as possible, become invisible.

There are no bruises on his face any more. Those that are there are hidden under the clothes.

The afternoon at Rick's place is an eye-opener. Rick shows things Vernon couldn't even imagine he could enjoy so much. Like spanking, for example - the boy thrown over his lap, and Vernon can give way to all his anger, as the boy's narrow ass becomes first red and then black and blue with bruises. And the friction - oh, the delicious rubbing as the boy squirms, trying to escape the blows, and tears flow over his face.

Rick shows him how to play with the boy's nipples. So tiny and tender, he says twisting them in his fingers. Harry's face is distorted in pain, his mouth half-opened.

Rick asks if Vernon has already trained the little slut in blowjobs. Vernon flushes. He only read about it and saw in porno movies. Petunia would never...

But the little whore takes it all. Forced on his knees, he looks at Rick with his wide green eyes as Rick says, towering over him:

"If you dare anything - if I even feel your teeth, boy, I'll shove my fist up your hole until you feel it in your stomach."

And the boy dares nothing. He gags and chokes and spit leaks over his chin, tears trickling from his eyes, and his throat works agonizingly as Rick slams his cock into his mouth.

* * *

"What he makes me do, what they make me do... I can't write about it. I don't want to think about it.

I'm such a coward. Why can't I stop them from doing it?

Sometimes I want someone to know. Just so that they come and make it stop. Even if they laugh at me, even if they know how weak I am. But no, I can't. I can't let them know.

There are thirty-eight days till I go back to school. I can't stand it any more. It's so long."

* * *

It sets the routine. The weekdays are for Vernon alone - every night, the narrow thighs pulled apart for him, a hitching gasp accompanying every of his thrusts. The boy doesn't make much more sounds. He's also very quiet by day, and he moves as if sleepwalking. He moves as if he's constantly in pain, so slowly, so carefully - to much delight of Dudley who's got too heavy to chase him around the house, and now he doesn't have to do it.

Sometimes there is no blood on Vernon's cock when he pulls out but mostly there is.

He wonders sometimes if Petunia suspects anything. The boy washes blood from the sheets and his underwear himself but there might be some traces left. And Vernon didn't make attempts to coax her into bed since the beginning of the summer. She must be relieved, she was never much into it.

They visit Rick every Saturday. And there are things - toys - that make Vernon flush even when he thinks about them: nipple clamps and dildoes and leather cuffs to keep the boy in place, and whips...

Sometimes there is a friend or two at Rick's. Vernon finds out that he enjoys watching almost as much as participating. When the little slut is on his fours, taken from both ends, his head bobbing, his ass red of spanking and stretched around someone's cock, Vernon brings himself to another mind-shattering orgasm effortlessly.

And sometimes on the way back, he's still so excited that he pulls to stop, in a secluded place, and takes the boy on the backseat, quickly and brutally, listening to his hoarse, broken gasps.

* * *

"It was my birthday and he came again. Please, please make it stop somehow.

I can't tell anyone about it. I can't tell Ron. He can't imagine I can let it happen to me. I write and write and then I burn letters, I can't send them. Because no one must know.

I think something is wrong with me. I pissed blood today. It's probably because of what they did last time. Maybe I'll die. And then it'll stop."

* * *

"Remember I told you about the possibility to make some profit with the boy?" Rick asks. He's already given some money to Vernon, little appreciation gifts from friends, as he calls them. "Can you send your wife and son out over the weekend?"

The beginning of the school year is getting closer, so Vernon wants to derive all the pleasure he can from the little slut.

"I think so. I can convince them go to Leeds, to visit Petunia's school friend."

"Do so," Rich says. "Then we'll have a party."

Vernon says it to the boy on Saturday morning.

"We're having a reception, and don't you even think about embarrassing me, slut. There will be important people there."

Rick said they could be prospective customers as well - if he manages to please them.

And then the boy whispers in his painfully hoarse, quiet voice:

"Please. Please don't."

Vernon can't believe his ears. The boy must be mad. Does he think he can tell Vernon what to do? Does he think Vernon will *obey* him?

The brat's face goes blank as Vernon grabs him, squeezes his arm, hissing at his face:

"Shut your mouth, boy, do you want me to knock some sense into you?"

And as it happens so often, anger mutates into something else almost immediately, and Vernon can see that Harry understands it as well, his eyes acquiring that desperate, doomed expression.

Vernon jerks him, throws over the back of the bed, pulls baggy pants down. The brat doesn't even try to squeal. Downstairs Petunia's radio keeps droning, and from Dudley's room shrill sounds of his Playstation come.

Washed-off underwear goes next, with a bloodied Petunia's cotton pad that the boy uses to prevent blood soaking into clothes.

The little hole is crusted with blood and bruised, and for a moment Vernon looks at it, entranced. That's what he's done; that's what he'll do again.

Then he thrusts in, no lube this time, the slut can take it all, just his breath hitching - and oh, he's so tight, so hot, and his hips are so narrow, his ass so smooth, and the bed creaks softly at every Vernon's shove, and Harry's breath is inaudible behind the sound of blood drumming in Vernon's ears.

Under the old t-shirt his nipples are still swollen and so very tender, and the boy shivers when Vernon squeezes them, and it feels good, and he keeps tweaking, and the boy shudders and clenches his teeth but doesn't cry any more.

In the evening - Petunia and Dudley are gone - the boy stands in the middle of the sitting room, dressed in the garment that Rick has brought. Black garter belt and long black stockings, all in such a small size, who are they made for, Vernon wonders, for a little girl? Petunia's black pumps on the boy's feet make his legs look longer and even thinner. A tiny black bra covers his chest, his nipples visible through the thin lace.

His face is so pale as if he's going to faint and his eyes have a wild look in them but his mouth is bright and crumpled and swollen, inflamed after all those welcome blow-jobs he's given.

Vernon looks around. There are five people, apart from him and Rick. Seven; he feels a little twitch of unease. A bit too many, aren't there? But Rick said it would be all right. And they all paid, a nice sum that will allow him, Petunia and Dudley spend Christmas in Spain.

So, he puts it out of his mind, and drinks, and Rick is right, everything goes smoothly. A couple hours later he can't even imagine he was worried about something.

The boy's bra is pulled down his chest, revealing his sore nipples. Around the left one there is a round trace of teeth and a trickle of blood is smeared down Harry's ribs.

They took turns spanking him, and his ass, thighs and lower back are already not red but purple, bruised heavily. The stockings are laddered, the pumps are long gone. The boy's eyes are glazed. He moans feebly when another man jerks out of him and passes him to his companion. The man grabs him by the hips and shoves him down on his straining cock.

The boy's flaccid penis and small balls are blue and swollen, groped so many times. Vernon doesn't think they try to arouse him, they just like playing with him. Harry's bruised chest moves oddly, as if he can't take a deep breath.

Vernon watches the man rocking his hips, fucking the boy - and that's why he misses it. There is no bell ring, no knock on the door. Just somehow everyone hushes at once and looks at the doorway.

"Hey," Rick says frowning. "Who the hell you are?"

And Vernon looks, and he knows the answer, knows it at once - and it is even worse than it would be if neighbors came here, if police came. He knows. It's one of *them*.

Somehow *they* got to know; somehow they came for the boy.

One of *them*, in a ridiculous black garment, his unclean black hair hanging over the sharp face - and there is the *stick* in his hand, the damned stick. But what scares Vernon most of all is the expression in the man's black cold eyes. He thinks he's never looked at the promise of pure destruction before.

Harry is pushed on the floor as his customer gets up - and suddenly the boy's eyes open widely as he looks at the newcomer, and he makes a terrified, distressed shriek, crumbling, pulling his legs to his chest - and there is an expression on his face that Vernon knows so well, has seen so many times. As if the boy wants it to be untrue, wants to be anywhere but here.

Then the man turns to Vernon - and the world starts shifting.

* * *

Harry sits on the floor, his eyes closed, his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to become as small as possible. It never works but he still tries. He wishes he could disappear all together. He isn't sure he wants to lose consciousness because then nothing changes, he just won't feel it. Well, maybe it won't hurt then at least, the wrenching, exhausting pain in his most shameful places will be gone.

It's Professor Snape. He's here. Why, why does it have to be Snape? Harry dreamed so much, of someone coming and stopping it all but he never wanted it to be him. It's... it's even worse. Snape seeing him like this is even worse, oh God, the bra, the stockings... 'Mr. Potter. Our new celebrity.'

Whore, whore, slut, little girl slut, sweet mouth, I like your little tight hole, yes, cry for me, yes...

He hears the noise, as if a heavy weight falls, and someone is begging, begging... he begged, too, but it did no good. He begged like a slut, like a weakling, he didn't beg Tom Riddle but he begged Uncle Vernon... 'Fame isn't everything, Mr. Potter.'

There is a cool hand touching his shoulder, and he convulses, torn between the wish to curl even tighter and to wrench away and run. And then something dark and warm cloaks him, and this darkness is good and comforting, and he feels safe, and he floats... And the darkness whispers in Snape's voice the words Harry doesn't know but he doesn't care.

The light is warm and orange and the shadows it casts are thick and moving. He knows this place - this white, pristine partition that he sees as he lies on his belly, cheek pressed to a smooth cool pillow. His glasses are gone, so everything is vague, but he can see the shadow on the partition shift.

"His kidneys are damaged," Madame Pomfrey says. "Bastards. And two ribs are fractured. I don't even mention the rest of it."

More shadows appear, tall and black ones. Harry hears the voice that he used to dislike but for some reason it sounds comforting and safe now.

"I followed your orders, Albus, since you told me not to harm that... that *Muggle*. So I just tinkered with his brain a bit so that it never came to his mind to do something like this again. Not that he will be able to, anyway. But since you said nothing about the others..."

"All right, Severus," Dumbledore's voice sounds tired and sad. "I knew you would do your best."

"I still don't understand why he should stay there. If not for that paper the boy's owl brought, we would never find out..."

"It's safer," Dumbledore says. "He needs all protection we can give him, especially with Black roaming around, looking for him."

Snape makes a sound much like an angry cat.

"He's awake," Pomfrey says. Harry sees her when she comes around his bed and bends over him. "Here, young man, open your mouth and swallow that."

It's just a potion, just a potion she means. It's bitter and makes him cough but he still gulps it with relief because for a moment he thought... for a moment he was back there.

The partition is moved away, and the Headmaster appears, his robe bright blue and splendid, embroidered gold. Behind him, Snape is a dark, narrow shadow, his lips compressed. His eyes are very black, catching Harry's gaze for a moment. Then Dumbledore blocks him from Harry's view.

Dumbledore's faded blue eyes are so kind, and he touches Harry's shoulder so carefully. Harry strains to raise his head, and his voice sounds so hoarse, and he knows why but he's too tired to feel shame.

"What will happen to me, sir?"

"You'll be all right, Harry," Dumbledore says. "You'll be all right."

Then he raises his wand, and Harry has time to hear, before everything goes blank:

"I don't want you to remember it. We need you undamaged, Harry."


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