Harry had only met his aunt once before, and he hardly remembered her at all because it was on the day he was born and he'd spent most of that day sleeping. She had come into the hospital delivery room carrying her own exceedingly pudgy infant, propped up on her hip. She had visited only very briefly, looked at him, frowned, handed over a rather cheap-looking teddy bear and promptly left.
As such, Harry almost had no idea who the woman was when she woke him up with her blood curdling scream the following morning. She had actually slammed the door once she was done screaming and he had wondered if he'd be better off at this point climbing out of the basket and just wandering away until someone picked him up and took him to the authorities. He'd end up in another orphanage, but at least he was familiar with that. His mum's muggle sister was another matter entirely.
But she came back, and brought her husband with her. The enormous man was wide-eyed, red-faced, and had a mustache that seriously reminded Harry of a walrus. Not to mention the similarities the man shared with the creature in relation to his girth.
They had quickly scooped his basket up and brought him inside, muttering something about the neighbors seeing him. They quickly placed the basket, with him still inside, on the floor and stepped back as if they were afraid it held some sort of contagious toxin. The woman, whom he had properly identified as his aunt by this point, snatched the letter out from beside him and quickly opened it. The walrus-man began to read it over her shoulder and his already red-face was quickly turning puce. Then both paled considerably.
Harry never found out exactly what had been written in that letter, but whatever it was apparently gave his relatives the impression that they had absolutely no choice but to take Harry in.
–
Harry was very familiar with what it was like to be feared and loathed. Obviously, as an adult, he helped to run an army of revolutionaries that the standing government liked to portray as evil monsters out to spread fear and death among the masses. He was feared and loathed by a lot people. But even as a child, he had been accustomed to it. The children at the orphanage had been afraid of he and Tom. Several of them had hated the strange pair of children simply because they were different. But these children, and the matrons and nuns of the orphanage had mostly feared Tom and Heri because they were the unknown. They were different. Their powers were frightening because the children and the caretakers didn't understand it.
The Dursley's knew what Harry was. He could tell. They never said as much – in fact, the word 'magic' seemed to be taboo in their home – but it was still more than obvious that they knew about the world of magic. They knew that Harry was a wizard. And they hated him that much more, for it.
He was a burden in their house; one they wanted nothing to do with. Petunia had a child of her own to care for, and had no desire to take care of another. Her son Dudley who was born just over a month earlier than Harry had been, and he was a fussy, needy baby.
Harry had a sinking suspicion that if Dudley hadn't been around and still in diapers himself, she probably wouldn't have bothered getting any for him. As it were, he 'potty trained' himself within a month of entering the Dursley's household out of necessity. Petunia didn't exactly deem changing his soiled nappy on any regular basis as very important and Harry found that he really hated diaper rashes.
Despite the convenience his 'potty trained status' brought to Petunia, and the fact that she'd be hard pressed to find a potty-trained year and a half old baby anywhere else in Surrey, the fact that Harry had done it seemed to be yet another sign of his 'unnaturalness' and reason for scorn, instead of an action to be praised or appreciated.
Harry was often left to his own devices, and as long as he didn't get into anything and start making a mess, he was ignored. Of course the second little 'Dudders' was turned loose on the living room, he quickly set to emptying out the little rectangular basket that held all of Petunia's magazines and began ripping them to shreds, or he would grab the remote to the telly and start banging it on the coffee table so hard that the little plastic back and the batteries came popping out. In comparison, Harry's quiet contemplating and eerily observant eyes, was accompanied by a him calmly sitting, often looking out the window or simply watching Petunia as she tended to his cousin or the housework. He blended into the background and very rarely demanded anything outside of food, and so he was easy to overlook.
For the first four months in the Dursley's house, Harry had been put in a small, uncomfortable, travel cot in Dudley's nursery with him. This was entirely because it was more convenient for Petunia to simply have them both in the same place. At the end of that time, Petunia relocated Harry to a separate room of his own so that their precious Dudders wouldn't have to share. However, using the word 'room' was probably going a bit far in this case, since in reality, it was a boot cupboard. A large storage closet, under the stairs, just beyond the entry hall.
Apparently little Dudders needed his own space and the 'freak' was making it difficult for Dudley to sleep at night.
In reality, Dudley was a fat, spoiled baby with a touch of colic who was accustomed to waking at least once a night in order to get coddled by his mother. Despite the poor quality of the 'room' he was moved into, Harry found he was actually rather relieved to finally be removed from Dudley's room. He was sick of getting woken up several times a night by the stupid boy's wailing cries.
In addition to that, being in the cupboard meant he was on the first floor, while the Dursley's were all up on the second floor. It was a small level of security, but he was glad for it.
–
As soon as Harry had woken in front of the Dursley's house that first morning, he had been able to sense that there were wards around the house. He could feel the power of the magic, but hadn't been able to decipher exactly what sort of wards they were with his still limited perceptions.
As part of the modifications he made to his astral tether, he now and forever had a direct connection to his magical core. He also had nearly forty years of experience, wielding a diverse range of magics, and a perfect, crystal-clear, memory of how to use it.
Despite all of this, his body was still less than two years old and wasn't made to handle such power. He was going to have to wait some time still, to summon any significant quantity of magic into himself.
Shortly after he was moved to his 'cupboard', he had started to spend his hours of alone time focusing and summoning his magic slowly into his young body. His body was still weak and most definitely not equipped to handle a lot of magic, but Harry had a plan for force-feeding his magic upon himself until he adjusted to it. He meditated and syphoned the magic through his small body every day. Just feeling the magic move through him and through the things around him. Not making it do anything, yet. Not trying to bend it to his will; simply pulling it into himself and letting his body grow accustomed to it.
He continued on in this vein for more than a year. It wasn't like he had much else to do. The Dursley's ignored him as much as possible. It was legitimate neglect, but Harry preferred it that way... to a point. He would really have liked more food than he was given. But he did prefer to be left to his own devices. It made things easier for him.
When he was noticed – specifically when he was noticed by Vernon Dursley – it was rarely, if ever positive. He was called a 'freak' and admonished for his unnaturalness. Vernon would rant and rave about having to support the 'worthless little monster', on a regular basis. The fact that Harry would stare at the fat man with cold, unwavering eyes, and absolute silence, certainly didn't help. But Harry enjoyed the unsettled and flustered looks the man would get. The fact that this enormous whale of a man could feel intimidated by a mere two-year old was entirely amusing to him.
At least, it was amusing until the first time Vernon hit him.
The man was enormous. He had enormous meaty hands, and a fierce back-hand. Harry had been caught off guard by the sudden movement and hadn't been able to dodge. He'd ended up getting thrown back against the wall behind him and knocked unconscious.
He'd gotten what was probably a severe concussion from that incident. The fact that he could focus his magic into specific areas of his body to localize healing was probably the only thing that saved him.
It quickly became clear that, as Harry grew older, Vernon's ability to restrain his violent urges grew weaker and weaker. Harry's tendency to remain utterly silent the majority of the time, and glower fiercely up at his relatives, didn't help much. His aunt even called his icy glares demonic, on several occasions. She seemed to grow more and more convinced that he were simply possessed by some sort of horrible evil that went far beyond his 'freakish nature'.
It was almost comical how close to correct her assumptions were.
But then again, Harry wasn't exerting a lot of effort in concealing his true nature from them. He hated them and had no energy or will power to conceal his disdain. Nor did he have the energy or will to pretend to act like a normal three-year-old. This was actually the primary reason that he remained mostly mute. He didn't want to pretend to possess the limited vocabulary of a toddler, so he simply chose not to speak much at all.
So he turned three years old and still barely said any words at all to his relatives. Dudley was finally jabbering in something resembling coherent speech. Petunia cooed and fawned over her little boy to a sickening degree that disgusted Harry. The boy was going to be such a spoiled brat of a child. He was already a spoiled brat of a toddler. It would only get worse.
–
It was around this point that his efforts in forcing his body to rapidly adjust to, and accept, his magic began to bare fruit.
One thing that had been especially bothering Harry, was his eye sight. It had never really improved over the years. If anything, it was getting worse. On top of that, he had grown accustomed to having the Black Sight during his previous life, and now that he was without it, he felt as if he had been deprived of one of his senses. Which, was true, actually. It was almost as if he were deaf. A vital sense that he had grown dependent upon was gone. He wanted it back.
The Black Sight would give him the ability to see and identify certain types of magic, as well as energies and spirits, ethereal strings, and searching tethers from the astral plane. The ritual to acquire the Black Sight was a type of ancient necromantic magic and as such, did not make use of a wand.
It did, however, require a small ritual that involved ingredients that he did not actually have.
When Petunia did her grocery shopping at the market, she would put her precious Dudders in the seat of the grocery cart. But Harry, had to walk. One day in the late fall of the year he had turned three, he slipped away from his aunt and went to the spices section, then on to the fresh vegetables section, then the floral department, and finally he visited the section of the store where loose-leaf teas were sold.
In the end, he managed to find quite a few of the ingredients he needed, or items that would work as suitable replacements. The ones he had never expected to find in a muggle market were, surprisingly enough, found in with the loose-leaf teas. He'd managed to get gotu kola, eleuthero, rooibos, cardamom, and kava root there. Many of them were mixed in with other things, so he would have to carefully sift through them and separate what he needed versus what he would discard, but it was the best he could hope for. In the end, he thanked the muggles ever-growing love of exotic teas for his success and found his way back to an annoyed aunt Petunia who scolded him for wandering off.
He did not even bother trying to pay for the things he'd found. He probably could have slipped them into his aunt's cart, but then he would have to retrieve them from the grocery bags before she found them and he didn't want to risk that. So he'd simply stowed his bounty in the overly-large rags his filthy caretakers clothed him in. It wasn't that hard. Very few people would actually suspect a three-year-old of being a shoplifter.
Despite his success in finding far more of the ingredients he needed than he had expected, he still did not have everything he needed. For the final few ingredients he would have no choice but to wait until spring. He still needed some chickweed – which he had seen growing near the park the previous spring, but hadn't had the forethought to pick at the time – and the fresh, crushed leaves of the bilberry shrub. The great thing about the bilberry shrub was that it was a very pretty-looking decorative shrub, and it was growing in the yards of several of their neighbors. Unfortunately it was practically barren and yellow at the moment since winter was drawing near. He would have to wait.
–
In the spring he finished collecting everything he needed. The trouble now was brewing the potion, drinking it, and remaining uninterrupted for a full ten hours. One night, after his relatives had gone to bed, he focused as much of his magic as he could muster on unlocking the small bolt lock that kept him trapped inside his cupboard during the night. He felt incredibly drained afterwards, but he forced himself onward. Wandless standard magic had never been his forte. Tom had always remarked how strange it was that Heri could do the most remarkable necromantic magics without use of a wand, but ask him to do something more complex than summoning something from across a room without a wand and he'd find himself breaking a sweat and worn out.
Heri's response was always to point out that the old necromantic spells used entirely different means of focusing for the magic, while the traditional spells used by wizards today were designed to be focused through a wand. But it didn't matter now. Harry's body, while far more advanced than any normal 3-year old wizard, was still that of a child. The fact that he could wandlessly unlock the door at all was impressive. He was honestly surprised.
He slipped into the kitchen in the darkness of night, and pulled out a large stainless steel pot. He pulled one of the chairs up to the sink, filled it with the appropriate amount of water and then shakily transferred it to the stove where he started the burner. Muggle appliances had come a long way since his youth, growing up in the orphanage, and he was thankful for it. He got the water to a boil and began to add in the various ingredients. All the while, he was hyper aware of every noise or creak made in the house, constantly darting his eyes to the kitchen door.
Miraculously enough, he managed to get the entire thing done without anyone waking or stumbling upon him. He finished the potion around four in the morning. He stored it in an old thermos and quickly began to clean up after himself. He hid the thermos in the far back of his cupboard, focused his magic and relocked himself back in. He fell asleep upon his ratty little cot quickly after that.
He waited until Friday night to perform the ritual. The Dursley's enjoyed sleeping in Saturday mornings, so it was the best opportunity he would have. He slipped into his cupboard early, drank the potion, and began the complex series of hand-motions while quietly whispering the appropriate incanted word with each one. After thirty minutes of constant incanting, his forearms were growing weary, but he could feel the powerful magic swelling inside him. He spoke the last word and felt the rush of magic in his veins suddenly surge towards his eyes.
He barely managed to contain the yelp as his body was jolted with sharp stabbing pain and he collapsed back onto his cot, holding his fists to his eyes.
He clenched his teeth and breathed in sharp pants as he pushed through the pain. An hour later and he thankfully passed out.
When he woke to the sound of impatient pounding against his cupboard door and the sound of the bolt being unlocked, he warily pried his eyes open.
His eyes were still sore, and his entire head ached, but he smiled none the less. He had his Sight back. It had worked.
– –
He did a magical survey of the house he had been abandoned to. With the use of his Sight, he could examine the wards in more detail. There were a lot of layers to them. There were all of the standard fair wards; anti-apparition and anti-portkey. There were a few different magic detection wards. One seemed to be the same ones that he knew the Ministry had used back in his youth on the homes of any identified muggle-born or muggle-raised students' homes to track any accidental magic in front of muggles that would require the work of the obliviation squads. The second set, however, was clearly different. He knew it was possible that the Ministry had simply created a new set of observation wards over the years since a lot of time had passed since his previous life, however he suspected that wasn't actually the case.
From what he could make out of these wards, they were not rigged to report back to the Ministry, but rather, they were rigged to report back to the specific individual who had cast them. Harry suspected it was Dumbledore. These wards also appeared to be more sensitive. The Ministry's wards probably wouldn't pick up any lesser accidental magic at all, and they would only record any magic performed in front of muggles. Dumbledore's ward, however, looked like it would record the slightest bit of magic performed within them. Harry wondered if his use of wandless magic had popped up on the man's radar or not. It was inconspicuous enough that it wouldn't deem much concern.
Neither of these wards, however, would be able to detect his necromantic magic. It was an entirely different sort of magic and it was old enough, and had been kept secret enough, that no wards in use today were able to identify it.
There also appeared to be a very complex and powerful ward that – as best Harry could tell – identified the magic associated with the Dark Mark, and prevented entry from anyone who had one.
The final dome of wards was the strangest and Harry couldn't quite make sense of what little he could see of them. His Sight didn't seem to be able to make them out very clearly, and it took him months of observing and studying the wards before he began to form a theory.
They seemed to be based on some strange ancient form of Light magic. It was much like his necromantic powers were so old and secret that no one knew much about it except those who practiced it. Whatever this Light magic was, it was a power Harry knew nothing of. It was the only ward in the batch that actually did not appear to have been cast by Dumbledore. Yet the magical signature was still familiar. When he finally realized where he knew it from he cursed his own idiocy for not realizing it instantly.
It was his mother's magical signature. Lily Potter.
Had his mum cast protective wards around her sister's house? Harry actually had trouble believing it. From what he had gathered, his mum and aunt weren't exactly on good terms. And while he was sure that if Petunia had asked for it, his mum would have cast protective wards around her house, Harry seriously doubted that Petunia would ever ask for such a thing. She despised magic. It was unnatural and freaky and she wanted nothing to do with it, even if it would save her. She would have hated the idea of there being some sort of invisible magical thing around her house.
So what was this ward, and why was it there?
– –
Another confusing revelation had come with the reacquisition of his Black Sight. Ever since that fateful halloween night, Harry's forehead had been graced with a very strange scar. It was a cursed scar – Harry could tell that much. A strange mark left behind by the killing curse that had mysteriously not killed him. It was in the shape of a lightening bolt, and even before he got his Sight back, he could tell that there was some sort of strange power in it.
With the return of his sight, he could See that there was far more to his strange scar than he had ever suspected. It pulsed and swirled with subtly restrained Dark magic. Magic that had been sealed and restrained by some incredibly powerful Light magic. It was as if there was a microscopic war being waged inside the small mark on his forehead. A war that had reached a stalemate and was resting, stagnant. Waiting.
It was shortly after his realization about the nature of the strange ward around Privet Drive that he realized that the Light magic that was encircling and entrapping the Dark power in his scar, was the very same as the ward. It was faintly touched by her magical signature; although it appeared that Dumbledore's magic was in there too.
He had faint memories of Dumbledore hovering over him with his wand in hand and frowning, as Harry came in and out of consciousness that day after the attack. Had Dumbledore done something to him?
It was standard practice with cursed scars to try and cleanse the effected area of all traces of Dark magic, but it didn't appear that what Dumbledore did was a cleansing. Perhaps whatever Dark residue was left by the killing curse could not be cleansed? So instead, Dumbledore sealed it in. Somehow, magic from his mother had also played a role in this. How, he really truly did not understand. She had been dead before he even got hit with the curse.
However this came to be, Harry found himself mildly conflicted about the whole thing. He was probably better off with whatever this was, sealed away. It would probably be slowing killing him if it was free. Or he would be dead already. He would have to continue to observe and monitor it. He needed to understand what it was. Clearly, Dumbledore had been unable to remove it, but Harry knew a lot more about Dark curses than Dumbledore did. What Dumbledore had needed to seal away, Harry could very well remove. He just had to figure out what the hell it was first.
– –
His time spent on Privet Drive with the Dursley's was slowly driving him mad. He was both bored and frustrated and terribly terribly angry. He was impatient and wanted nothing more than to find some way to try and find Tom. He knew the rituals that were needed to bring Tom back, and yet he was helpless to do anything with that knowledge. His body was still too weak, and too young. He still did not have his wand, and even if he did, he couldn't perform any standard magic while in the Dursley's house because it would be detected and Dumbledore would be alerted.
In addition to that anger-inducing frustration, there was also his continually deteriorating treatment at the hands of his relatives. The older he got, the less inclined they seemed to be to feed him properly, and the more often Vernon would resort to physical violence.
The spring of his fourth year, Harry found that he'd had enough. He refused to allow some stupid, fat, muggle, to continually cause him bodily harm. At this point, his left shoulder had been dislocated multiple times by the stupid man, due to his tendency to grab Harry by the upper arm and yank hard to pull him in whatever direction Vernon wanted. Once it had been dislocated that first time, it was prone to doing it again and again with ease and it was indescribably painful!
Harry had also sustained at least one more concussion, and what he assumed was a couple bone fractures – not that he got medical treatment for any of these incidents. He was fucking four years old and he'd already had numerous dislocated shoulders and fractured bones. He would not endure this treatment any longer! Most certainly not from some stupid filthy muggle!
But Dumbledore's wards were still a problem that he would have to work around, and Harry still had no wand. Whatever he did, it couldn't be standard fair magic. He would have to rely on his necromantic skills. This would be perfectly fine if he were willing to resort to lethal force. But if his uncle suddenly and mysteriously died, it would likely draw in Dumbledore's attention anyway. Even if it didn't, Petunia would no doubt run screaming to the man, insisting that the devil-boy he had left in their care had murdered her husband.
So non-lethal it would have to be. Unfortunately, necromancy wasn't big on non-lethal. The name said it all, really. Necromancy was originally named for the greek word nekros – meaning 'dead body'. Although the Renaissance name, nigromancy was equally appropriate. Black Magic. He had found he rather liked that definition.
In several cultures of the world, necromancers were known by the title 'black mage', or 'death mage'. The terms were all interchangeable and varied in names depending on language, location, and culture. But the magics were all similar no matter what area of the world it had been developed in. Still – the Greeks and the Romans had taken it far, and it was from there that his heritage and the largest portion of his knowledge had stemmed from.
He searched his memories, replaying for himself the words of many of the books and grimoires he had read over the years in his last life, in an attempt to determine what would be the best solution to his problem with the Dursley's. Finally, the week after his fat pig of a cousin turned five, Harry had determined exactly what he was going to do.
The spell he wanted to use did not require any potions or exotic ingredients. It did, however, require a life sacrifice, and some blood. Not a human sacrifice, but a living sacrifice, none-the-less.
He chose to go with one of the cats that belonged to the squib down the street. Her name was Mrs. Figg, and she was the one that the Dursley's often left him with whenever they wanted to go somewhere fun, or when they went on holidays. Obviously, they weren't willing to take Harry somewhere fun, so they left him behind with the crazy old cat lady from down the street.
Up until Harry had gotten his Sight back, he had thought that she was nothing more than just that – a crazy old lady with too many cats. The first time he was left in her care after getting his Sight back, he realized that there was a lot more to the woman than he had ever suspected. For one thing, her house had some magical wards around it. They were very basic though, and underpowered. Cheap wards. Secondly, her fireplace was hooked up to the floo network. She also had a few magical objects in her house, but not many.
When he looked at her, he could also tell that her body was capable of magic, but her soul had no magical core. She was a muggle's soul in a witches body. Physically compatible with magic, and yet incapable of it. A squib.
The fact that this woman was living in Little Whinging, just down the street from him, and that she had ended up being the only one of his many neighbors willing to babysit him for free... well, Harry thought it was fairly obvious that the woman probably worked for Dumbledore.
What pissed him off the most was that she still made his time with her miserable. She also knew, precisely, how he was treated by the Dursley's and yet she did nothing. Or perhaps, she had told Dumbledore and it was he who did nothing. No matter, really. They were all bastards. And while he couldn't do anything to Dumbledore – yet – he could do something to exact at least a small bit of revenge against the bloody squib. And deal with Vernon at the same time.
So Harry slipped out one evening when the two elder Dursley's were glued to the telly. Dudley was spending the night with his friend from down the street – some boy name Pierce or something. The adult Dursley's in the living room didn't even notice Harry leave out the back kitchen door – not that they ever paid him any attention. He jogged, stealthily down the alley until he came to Mrs. Figg's back gate and slipped inside.
There were cats everywhere. There were always cats everywhere. He slinked forward and found one of them that he knew the batty old bint especially liked. He pet the cat and cooed at it quietly, and sending out calming waves of magic. Finally he was able to calm it enough that he was able to grab it and carry it back out, down the alley, and back to the Dursley's house.
He subdued it's weak struggles with some soothing waves of his magic, licking at the pitiful creature's very soul. It was a simple matter to calm animals – especially mundane animals like a house cat. Part of him felt the slightest inkling of pity for the poor feline. Killing animals had never been his thing. That was Tom's thing. But Harry was far from squeamish. If he needed to kill a cat for this spell to work, he would kill the ruddy cat.
He slipped into the kitchen and retrieved one of the carving knives from the counter, and then a wide bowl from the cupboard. The cat was practically lethargic at this point and did not struggle at all as Harry held it by the scuff of it's neck over the bowl with one hand and held the knife with another. He continued to pour waves of calming magic into it, lulling it to a peaceful sleep that it would never wake from.
He quietly chanted a series of seven words over and over three times before he brought the knife to the cat's neck, slicing it open and holding it there while the blood poured into the bowl. He set the bloody knife down on the floor, grabbed the not-quite-dead-yet cat by the scruff of its neck with one hand and the bowl with the other. He carried the two objects, dripping a trail of blood on the floor as he walked, out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the open door to the living room. He was coming in behind his relatives, who were both sitting on the couch that had its back to the doorway and was facing the obnoxiously blaring telly.
Harry silently set the dying cat down on the floor, and it's blood continued to pump from it's neck and pool on the floor at his feet. He brought his hands up, staring directly at the back of Vernon Dursley's head and began to perform a series of fast, complicated, hand gestures. Each gesture was accompanied by a quietly whispered word and he focused all of his Dark black magic on his task. He felt the power surging forth and coursing through his tiny, malnourished body, filling him with strength and a tinge of glorious madness. He reached out and found the astral tether connected from his uncle's physical body, through the ethereal mists to his astral body and he latched his claws into it, wrapping the magics he was wielding around it and locking his control over it, deep into the man's very soul. He knew the moment the magic had peaked and finished his chant with the closing command.
He watched as Vernon suddenly jerked forward in his seat slightly, as if he had just been kicked in the chest. Harry reached down quickly, grabbed the bowl, and placed his foot over top of the cat's skull. With one quick motion, he had smashed the feline's head in and with a flick of his hand holding the bowl, the blood was sent flying, soaking the fat man's head with blood.
The screams of horror, and the raging bellows of fury that followed was monstrous. The two muggles seemed stunned beyond words for an instant, but before Harry could even blink, both had risen from their seats and spun around to look at him.
Petunia looked as if she were about to faint, right then and there. Vernon's face was flushed nearly as red as the blood now dripping down from his head.
"WHAT UNNATURALNESS IS THIS? WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE YOU FREAKISH LITTLE MONSTER?" Vernon Dursley bellowed in a rage.
Harry saw as Petunia's eyes focused on the dead cat and the blood all over her plush carpet, and then as her eyes traveled down to her couch, which was also soaked in blood. And finally, she realized that she had some of the blood on herself – splash damage from Harry's attack on Vernon. She was screaming quite loudly. Her shrill wails were almost enough to overpower Vernon's bellowing.
The large man was quickly making his way around the couch in a rush to tackle the almost-five-year-old boy, but suddenly came up short – stopping dead in his tracks and suddenly looking deathly pale. His raging screams had died in his throat as well, and left only the horrified shrieks of Petunia to fill the room.
"Oh do shut up, you stupid bint!" Harry yelled.
Harry didn't know if it was shock from all the blood, or just stunned surprise from the fact that he almost never spoke at all, but Petunia did shut up. Her gaze darted from him, to her oddly silent husband and back again.
Vernon looked like he was going puce again. He still wasn't moving, but he was clearly struggling against something.
"I would stop doing that if I were you, Vernon," Harry drawled as he dropped the bowl to the floor. It made a bit of a squelching sound as it landed on the cat's dead body.
"What are you doing to him?" Petunia cried.
"Right now? Nothing, really. Just keeping him in place. It's really for his own good at the moment. He needs to know the consequences of his actions before he does anything stupid. I'm only holding him like this until I can finish explaining to the two of you just what it is that I've done here, this evening." Harry finished with a rather frightening, wicked, grin. Petunia shivered in horror and Vernon paled again.
"You truly are some sort of demon, aren't you?" Petunia whispered.
Harry's smirk grew even wider. "A demon, am I? Perhaps I am. A demon, trapped in the body of an innocent looking child. It's not that far off. But if I'm a demon, the pair of you are beasts. The blatant disrespect that you have shown me; it's disgusting."
"Disrespect?" Vernon hissed through his clenched teeth as his face went a bit red again.
"Yes, Vernon. Disrespect! The pair of you have lied to me. Tried to deceive me since the day I was left on your doorstep. Did you honestly believe that you would be able to keep me ignorant my whole life? That I would never discover what my parents were? What I am? Did you think you could hide the magical world from me forever?"
Both Dursley's paled considerably at this, but neither said a word.
"The sheer arrogant stupidity you must possess, astounds me. You man-handle me on a daily basis. Me, a wizard! You dare to to lay a hand on me in violence? You have broken my bones, bruised and cut my flesh, dislocated my shoulder, and insulted me and my parents more times than I can count and I have been here for less than four years! You neglect my basic human needs, denying me food, water, and regular access to bathing facilities. The monumental lack of respect that you have shown to me is unforgivable!" Harry hissed angrily through clenched teeth.
He paused and gave the pair of them a disinterested, yet appraising look, tilting his head slightly to the side.
"Did you think this would never happen?" he asked, airily. "Surely you knew that, even if I had never learned of what I am on my own that someday others like me would come for me. When I turn eleven, I'll be going to wizarding school. I'll be taught magic. You both know this. Did you think that your disgusting treatment of me would never have repercussions?"
"How do you know all this?" Petunia bellowed suddenly. "You... I've always known you were a freak of a child. Even for a w-wizard! My perfect freak sister wasn't even as weird as you are, as a child! You don't speak like a child should speak! You don't act like a child should act! You know things you shouldn't know! What are you?"
"That is my little secret. You have not earned the right to ask questions, Petunia,"he hissed and she flinched back. "Now, dear uncle Vernon," Harry said, turning to face the fat man and giving him a rather twisted grin. "I suppose I should get on with explaining exactly what it is that I've done to you. You see, everyone that lives has a set number of days to their life. Things can interfere of course. Freak accidents can take a person's life early. Murder, can, of course, also bring about a person's death earlier than their life-clock dictates, and wizards and other wielders of magic can extend their number of days through magic – but if a person reaches the end of their allotted time, they will die by one means or another. It may look like a heart attack, or a stroke, or a brain aneurysm. It might look like a freak accident. They may just walk out into the middle of the road for no apparent reason and get run over by a lorry. But it will happen on the day that their time runs out. It is unavoidable.
"So what is it that I've done?" Harry asked rhetorically before pausing and giving his uncle another devious smirk. "Well, Vernon Dursley, basically, your days are numbered, just like everyone else's, however, now I am the one that dictates exactly what that number is. What I have done goes further than that though. I control more than just your fundamental morality. I have full control of your bodies life and decay."
"That's impossible! I don't care what you say, you couldn't possibly do such a thing, you little freak!" Vernon bellowed.
Harry shot him an angry, frightening glare that was so powerful the man actually recoiled from it. Harry raised his hand into the air and snapped his fingers. Vernon's knees buckled and his hand went up to his chest as he gasped in shock.
"You just lost one week off your life. Next time you call me a freak, you lose two weeks. Say it again, and you lose a month. Again, and you lose six months. Again, and you lose a year. You insult my parents, you lose a year. You deny me food? A year."
Harry paused and his cold glare shifted into a sadistic smirk. "Remove your left shoe."
"What?" Vernon croaked.
"Remove – your – shoe!" Harry bellowed in what was a surprisingly powerful voice for one that sounded so young.
Vernon gasped and his legs shook again for a moment. His eyes were wide with fear and rage. He seemed to be torn between his stubborn desire to scream at the boy, and his own self-preservation instincts. Finally he bent down and removed his shoe.
"The sock too." Harry commanded. It was an entirely odd thing to witness such a small, young child, ordering around a pair of blood-soaked adults, and managing to appear entirely intimidating while doing it.
Vernon Dursley removed his sock and stood back up, trying to puff out his chest in defiance, even though he had just followed the orders of a 4-year old.
"Since it seems that demonstrations are the only way to get through that thick muggle skull of yours," Harry sneered, "I'm going to give you a little proof to show I'm not just lying. I'm only going to tell you this once. I will not tolerate anymore abuse from you filthy pathetic creatures. I am a wizard! You are muggles! You are ants at my feet, and you have no right to treat me with such blatant disrespect, any longer. Next time you hit me, you lose a toe."
With that, he snapped his fingers again – although it was really just for dramatic effect. The actual action was all being driven through the magical connection he now had, directly with Vernon's astral tether. The moment Harry snapped his fingers, Vernon started to scream in pain. The pinky toe on his foot suddenly started to turn yellow and black and red. It began to shrivel and contort. The skin broke and puss began to ooze from the surface. Petunia began screaming as well; pleading with Harry to stop it.
Vernon collapsed to the floor and his hands began to frantically grab at his foot and his body rocked back and forth as tears streamed down his face. Within a matter of seconds, the toe actually fell off, and the skin from where it had been closed up and healed.
After a frantic minute of wails, whimpers, and muffled screams, the room finally fell quiet again. Harry was looking down at the entire scene with impassive boredom. "That's was gangrene. Death of living tissue. You hit me, you lose another. Hit me again? Lose another. If you run out of toes, I'll start taking fingers. If you try to attack me in my sleep, I'll take your whole bloody foot. Before you try anything out of desperation, know that your life is tied to mine. If I die, you die."
"How? How can you be doing this?" Petunia wailed. "My sister could never do anything like this!"
"Oh, I suspect that if she had ever had the desire, she could have performed something along these lines. However, Lily Potter was a very kind, loving, witch. She was a Light witch, and she would never resort to the Dark Arts. But I am not my mother, am I?"
"But you're just a child! How is this even possible! You shouldn't know anything yet! Even after seven years in that blasted school, I doubt my sister could have done any of this!"
"Perhaps I am more than just a child wizard. Perhaps I am something much, much, more. You were the one that suggested I was some sort of demon, were you not? But I'm not about to waste my breath explaining it to you. A pair of stupid muggles like you would never understand it anyway. All you need to know is that I'm the one in control now. More specifically, I control when Vernon here lives or dies."
"What do you want?" Vernon asked through clenched teeth.
"I want Dudley's second room. I want a bed with a new mattress and sheets, and a quality comforter set. I want new clothing that fits. I want three full meals a day. I want access to the bath and the toilet whenever I want and for as long as I want. I want to be left alone. I will make specific requests from time to time and I expect those requests to be honored. I expect to be treated respectfully and left to my own devices. You leave me be and I'll leave you be. You act civilly, and I won't have any need to punish you. I'm not asking for miracles here, I'm simply asking to be treated the way reasonable adults would treat a guest in their home."
Vernon scoffed out an angry laugh. "Guest? As if we had a choice!"
"Yes, exactly. You haven't got a choice, have you? I've told you my demands. You have until tomorrow afternoon to prepare Dudley's second bedroom. I expect to be taken shopping for some clothing by next week. Oh... and Petunia? Clean this up, will you? I'm going to use the shower."
With that Harry turned on the spot and began to leave. He snapped his fingers as he passed through the doorway and the cat's body began to smoke and sizzle. A moment later, the body had turned completely to ash. Not even bones were left.
– –