She watches as the blood pools. The bright red covers everything, the wall, the floor, and her clothes. Reaching down, she pulls the diamond vial from the lifeless, bloody hand. Inside, the liquid glows briefly, and then fades. She slips the vial into her pocket and turns away from the two corpses. Her slender, pale gown flutters as she creeps into the hall.
"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird..." Her young voice sings out quietly into the eerie silence.
"And if that mockingbird don't sing, Momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring..."
She stops at a large wooden door and reaches up for the glass doorknob. It turns slowly, creaking in protest.
"And if that diamond ring turns brass, Momma's gonna buy you a looking glass..."
The innocent tune rings through the silence, and she pulls the door shut with both hands, moving on.
"And if that looking glass gets broke, Momma's gonna buy you a billy goat..."
Her bare feet are cold against the hard wooden floor, but she ignores it.
"And if that billy goat won't pull, Momma's gonna buy you a cart and bull..."
She enters the empty kitchen and looks around. There is nothing there that catches her attention; the pans and cutting knives are no use to her. She knows a trick, but to do it she needs a stick, like the one that was broken back in the bloody room. She patters over to a drawer and looks in. Her childlike face lights up as she finds what she is looking for.
"And if that cart and bull turn over…"
She grabs the stick and slips out of the room. The hallway remains silent and empty, and she pauses in the doorway. To her left is a staircase; to her right the hall continues on, lined with mirrored sets of thick oak doors. She stands there, wavering, deciding which direction to take.
"Momma's gonna buy you a dog named Rover. And if that dog named Rover don't bark…"
Turning right, she continues to search. She finally reaches the master bedroom and listens to his panicked breathing, loud enough to be heard even from the hall. Slowly, she pushes open the door.
She lowers her voice to a whisper as she slowly walks around the room, following the sound of his breathing.
"Momma's gonna buy you a horse and cart…"
He's hiding behind the chest, shaking in fear.
"And if that horse and cart fall down...."
She looks over the top of the chest and giggles, her smile no different than that of a child who has won at hide-and-seek. He yelps and attempts to escape one last time. She pushes the chest hard against his knees, trapping him against the wall.
"Can you hear it?"
"H-hear w-w-what?"
"It says you die." She points the stick at the man's heart and smiles at him. "Lanisecuri!"
He shrieks in pain, blood bursting through skin and muscle. Fingers claw at the back of the chest, digging long splinters into his fingertips and pulling away at his fingernails. His eyes roll up under his eyelids, twitching and flinching, his veins bursting, causing streams of blood to run down his cheeks. He falls forward, limp, his hair hiding his face. She smiles…
The air is brisk against her face as she skips down the front steps and dissolves into the night.
The next morning, on the front page of the Blairgowrie Advertiser:
Family Murdered; Daughter Missing
Last night Mr. And Mrs. Ackers and their son, Mark Ackers were brutally murdered in their own home late last night. Their five-year-old daughter's body was not found, and is suspected to still be alive. So far the police have not found any clues, but were not available for further comment.
The Ackers had lived an isolated life in Blairgowrie for over…
Four years later…
It was hot. Just too damn hot. It didn't matter that the sprinkler was left on all day every day- the grass still turned brown. It didn't matter that it was in the middle of summer vacation- the kids all stayed inside. And it didn't matter that it was 39 degrees Celsius (1) outside- Harry still had to pull the weeds out from under Aunt Petunia's bushes.
Harry stopped pulling at a particularly stubborn sapling and wiped his forehead on his sleeve, leaving a streak of mud. This was torture. Complete bloody torture. Shops closed in this heat, yet here he was, baking in the sun, pulling up thorny, twisted, stubborn weeds until his palms were covered in blisters and the back of his hands bled. Little rivers of sweat meandered down Harry's face and back, leaving him with the uncomfortable feeling of his shirt hugging his torso. From the searing pain on the back of his neck every time he moved, Harry was sure he was severely sunburned.
They say a little work can't kill you, but in Harry's case, he was sure it would.
Worse, Harry hadn't heard a word from his friends all summer. He knew they probably were just busy, but he still felt a little put out. After all, his birthday was only a week away, and Harry was starting to worry that that would go unnoticed as well. Besides, Harry was starting to wonder if something had happened.
Harry watched absentmindedly as the heat made the air waver above the ground, warping the shapes of the bushes and the fence. On the small patio pools of liquid that weren't really there shimmered under the glare of the unforgiving sun. More than any thing else- more than hearing from his friends, more than getting a birthday present, more than killing Voldemort- Harry just wanted to be out of this heat.
Well, maybe that last part was a bit extreme.
At the thought of the pale skinned, snake-eyed monster a shiver went down Harry's spine that (obviously) had nothing to do with the temperature. It seemed like ages ago that Harry and Cadric had been portkeyed to that creepy cemetery. Harry still remembered vividly Wormtail cutting off his own hand to bring back Voldemort, still saw Voldemort's eyes alight with sadistic glee as Harry writhed in pain-
Still woke, drenched in sweat, Cedric's name on Harry's lips, his pale corps fading from Harry's eyes.
It seemed like ages since it happed, but really it had only been a month.
And this was what worried Harry the most. It had only been a month since Voldemort had returned, and Harry had heard nothing. No news, no hints at possible capture, no reports of mass the mass murdering of Muggles, no evidence that Voldemort existed at all. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Harry's worries were only intensified by the periodic burning in his scar. At first the pain wasn't much, and it only happened sporadically. Lately, however, Harry's scar had been causing Harry great amounts of pain for minutes on end, happening almost every day. Harry knew he should tell someone- either Sirius or Dumbledore at least- but he wasn't sure what to say. "Hi, it's been nice hearing from you. How's everything with Voldemort? By the way, my scar's been hurting a lot" just seemed like he was whining. And besides, his scar hurt before loads of times, and he was still alive.
And maybe Harry was an intsy-wintsy tinsy bit annoyed with them for not writing. Just a bit.
Harry sighed, spotting Uncle Vermin glaring at him out of the kitchen window, and returned to pulling up the stubborn sapling.
Harry had finally come to one solid and absolute conclusion…
His life sucked.
(1). about 102 degrees Fahrenheit