A/N: Obviously I don't own the characters or anything else you recognise, otherwise I would be on a beach somewhere rather than writing. This story contains child abuse, if you don't like, don't read. It's a serious crime and is not a joke. No flames please, they're not appreciated. Please review and let me know whether to continue. Enjoy!
Deep in the South-eastern corner of England, in the county of Surrey, stood the small town of Little Whinging. The houses were all very similar; built by the same building firm who had only four differing designs. Privet Drive was a cul-de-sac of four bedroom houses with ample back gardens, each indistinguishable from the next. The Dursley family of number four were very happy with this normality and uniformity and took great pains to make sure that nothing was ever abnormal or strange, thank you very much. An impressive achievement considering the presence in their house of one Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Champion of the Light, The Boy Who Lived. Or just "Boy" as he was called during the torturous summer months when he returned to Privet Drive from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to live with his Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Cousin Dudley. Uncle Vernon was a large man, but like many large men, had more strength than his fat suggested. He worked for a company that made drill bits and had a very over-inflated sense of his own importance. Aunt Petunia was a tall, thin woman, almost the opposite of Vernon, except for the expression on her face, which reminded Harry of somebody who had a bad smell under their nose. All summer, she spent most of her time tending to his Cousin Dudley's every whim, while leaving Harry to clean the house and cook the meals, none of which he was allowed to eat.
The saviour of the wizarding world was currently scrubbing his Cousin's en-suite bathroom clean with a toothbrush. His own to be precise, as punishment for using the family bathroom to relieve himself instead of the bucket in his room. The fact that his back and arms still bore the marks of his Uncle's rage at his "contamination" of the "normal people's bathroom" was something that Harry had learned to ignore. Whining about pain didn't make it go away. In fact, depending on who heard, the pain could very well increase. He was always very careful not to complain or make any sort of noise that could be interpreted as a complaint. He'd known from an early age that complainers didn't get fed, and that the scraps from under the Dursleys table were ample, if he didn't want another beating for "ungratefulness". He ate well most of the year, either Mrs Weasley's wonderful cooking or the house elves' at Hogwarts. Three months on low rations didn't seem that bad for the protection that Dumbledore insisted was his only chance of survival into adulthood. Harry didn't often wonder if Dumbledore knew how he was treated at the Dursleys; it was something he'd rather not think about; mainly because he suspected that the Dursleys would kill him before Voldemort ever got a chance. As he scrubbed round the base of the toilet, Harry started mentally counting the days until he could escape back to Hogwarts. This year would be his third year and he was hoping that nothing out-of-the-ordinary would happen. His first year was a nightmare; his Uncle had beaten him black-and-blue when Hagrid had returned him to Privet Drive, clutching his wand, owl and cauldron. The favours that his Uncle had demanded of him to release said items from the garage were something the Harry still did not like thinking about. He had gone to Hogwarts with no idea what to expect, and found that not everybody was good just because they had magic. He had learned more about Voldemort than he really wished too, and had ended up defeating him over the Philosopher's Stone. His second year was even worse, most of the school thought he was Slytherin's Heir after his display of Parseltongue. The only people who had stood by him were Hermione and Ron, his two best (and only, he sometimes wondered) friends.
His musings were interrupted by Dudley, who proceeded to undo all Harry's hard work by urinating all over the floor, wash basin and Harry himself. Knowing it was pointless, Harry tried to stand up to go and change.
"Where do you think you're going, freak? Who said you could go?"
"I'd like to go and change my wet clothes."
Dudley pushed Harry back down onto his knees and presented his limp penis.
"Suck me off and I won't tell Dad you made a mess in my bathroom. I know you want to, freaks like you always do!"
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Harry started to fondle Dudley, stroking his balls and licking around the base of his penis. As Dudley got harder, he started to push himself further down Harry's throat, choking him. This only made him more excited and he started to thrust in earnest, holding his cousins head to stop him pulling away. He started to pant and groan, muttering,
"Oh yeah, take it…take it all…play with the head…yeah, you like that don't you…freak's a fag too, you must be to be this good…oh yeah…yeah…fuck it…oooh."
With a loud grunt he released his seed and pulled out of Harry's mouth, wiping his rapidly softening penis across Harry's cheeks.
"You do that too well you know, I'll tell Dad you're a fag. Unless you want to try and persuade me to keep quiet that is?" He asked, with a questioning look.
Harry quickly assessed his options, realising that Dudley would tell his Uncle Vernon anyway, but if he agreed, Dudley would want him to do…he shuddered…that again.
"Tell him then, it won't make it true," said Harry, more nervously than he had hoped to sound, "but we both know that you are, don't we?"
Dudley squawked with indignation and punched him square on the nose. For the sixth time in his life, Harry both heard and felt the sickening crunch that meant his nose had been broken. Again. His glasses went flying off into a dark corner of Dudley's bathroom and blood started to pour from his nose. While he desperately attempted to staunch the flow of blood with his shirt, he tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Without his glasses he could see very little, but could see enough to watch Dudley waddle a little closer to him.
"Call me a homo again and I'll do worse than ram it down your throat, you worthless piece of shit."
With that, Dudley swung his foot as hard as he could and kicked Harry between the legs. Harry collapsed on the floor and curled in a ball, the shirt meant to be stemming the flow of blood from his nose forgotten. Blood started to pool on the floor next to him, marking the expensive cream coloured bathroom mats Aunt Petunia had bought only the previous week. His last memory before everything went black was hearing Dudley calling for his parents because the freak had made a mess in his bathroom.