A/N: This chapter has been updated to its full length. Please reread if you have only seen the 500 word version that I posted just to make sure I did not forget.

SEVERE SEVERE SEVERE CHILD TORTURE AND DEATH. NOT FOR THOSE WITH A WEAK STOMACH.

"regular"

/parseltongue/

"Angel tongue."

"Demon tongue."

'thought'

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A small hoot came from the floor above, and Vernon's left eye twitched. The boy was on thin ice as it was, and he could at least keep that bloody bird quiet!

Just the other day, his Dudders, his pride and joy, had come to him whimpering about being threatened with it. Vernon was furious. His mustache quivered as he got immersed in memory, and his complexion slowly started to purple. His thick, stubbly fingers flexed slightly, and he almost broke the large bottle of brandy he was drinking. His rage lessened for a moment as he relaxed his grip and took a large swig of alcohol. One swig turned into two. Then three. Not long after, the entire bottle was empty, and Vernon Dursley was a bumbling mess of flab, rage, and alcohol.

"BOY!" He yelled up the stairs, at he trodded thickly to the cupboard under the stairs. Despite his fumbling and swearing, he managed to unlock and open it right as the Freak came into view. Drunkenly, Vernon broke into the large wooden trunk, and searched hazily for the damnable magic stick.

"No! Harry cried, momentarily forgetting any self-preservation in his sudden terror. Vernon's back became rigid, and the hulking man turned slowly to the messy-haired, nearly-12-year-old. Face surprising impassive, the man dropped the wand to the floor. With a sharp glint of malice in his eye, Vernon Dursley stepped on the stick. Harry's lower lip trembled, and he nearly dove down the stairs in a vain attempt to rescue his source of power.

You see, Hogwarts both trained, and disabled you. You were instructed on how to cast spells, write runes, make wards, etc. But you were also stripped of the ability to perform wandless magic, due to the heavy reliance on the magical conduit, a wizard's wand. During the period that Phineas Nigellus Black was the Headmaster of Hogwarts School, it was noted that purebloods had difficulties with spellcasting that muggleborns and half-bloods did not. These observations were taken to the Board of Governors, and as the Board was made up of primarily bigoted and proud purebloods, it was discreetly passed that all witches and wizards were to carry a wand. Once it was learned that wands made casting much, much easier, Wizarding Britain proudly promoted the dependency of wand-usage. As such, Harry, being muggle-raised, and trained only to use a wand, had just lost his source of power, and his only method of protection.

"You little," hiccup, "Freak, thinking you can disobey ME! " He howled, kicking the small child beneath him. Harry bit his lip harshly as the heavy appendage was forced into his abdomen. Ribs creaking, he instinctively curled in on himself and bit through his lip as a second kick impacted against his hip. Blood filled his mouth as the abused skin was broken through and his lip tore under the stress of his suppressed screams. A second, third, fourth, and fifth harsh kick to the same location caused a squelching POP to reverberate through the room, and a scream of agony to escape the battered lips of the 11-nearly-12-year-old. From the malnutrition, the child's bones were more fragile and brittle. This unfortunately, increased the damage done in the half hour of abuse that had occurred so far.

A clock rang loudly from the other room, but Vernon didn't hear it in his drunken rage. Petunia and Dudley would be home from the store in another hour. And that was all he would need. You might wonder why the police hadn't been called by the muggle neighbors in the quiet, normal neighborhood. The reason is, because of the Blood Wards. The wards were set up to protect the young Potter, to shield him from magicals who would wish him harm, and to hide any unusual happenings. Very mild Notice-Me-Not charms were in place, and despite it not being their original purpose, they were strong enough to convince the muggles that nothing was out of the ordinary. The squib, Mrs. Figg, being rather elderly and having need of a replacement hearing aid, cocked her head from her rocking chair, as her half-Kneazle Mr. Tibbles yowled rather frighteningly. She was momentarily worried at his behavior, what with his ears laid back and fur raised, but as she could hear nothing, she simply assumed it was a nearby dog. Hesitating for a moment, she decided against contacting Dumbledore. If it were anything big, Albus would certainly already know.

Harry cried out as he was yanked upward from his spot on the wooden floor, and his displaced hip was knocked even further from its natural position. This only served to enrage the obscenely large man before him. Vernon slapped the small boy soundly, and Harry's head whipped around at the extreme force behind the offending limb. A rough shake caused a whimper of pain to echo in the dark hallway, and Harry James Potter was thrown against the door of the cupboard he had lived in for so long. Impact against the door handle caused the boy to arch his spine instinctively away from the protruding handle, and tears to spring to his eyes as he felt pain rock through his body. His ribs screamed in protest, and an audible SNAP! signaled the fracturing of the smallest rib on his left side.

If one had looked, visible bruising and raised skin would have easily shown the massive amount of internal bleeding occurring. His kidneys had taken multiple kicks, and he was pretty sure his lungs were bleeding. As he curled up protectively into the fetal position, his hand was stepped on and ground into the floor by the heel on his Uncle's shoe, and Harry vaguely remembered his Health and P.E. teacher lecturing about the skeletal system. In the mind numbing haze of pain, he idly thought 'there go my phalanges. I wonder if my patella and femur are next.'

Despite what Hermione and his professors at Hogwarts thought, Harry was incredibly smart without even trying. However, due to becoming accustomed to purposely failing so that he was never better than Dudley, and desperately wanting to keep his first friend, who didn't even try in school, his grades remained poor, and his intelligence hidden. His embarrassment in his first Potions class had briefly caused him to put in his maximum effort, before he noticed Ron insulting those who studied, and he meekly lowered his amount of effort. His morals made him want to scold Ron for insulting Hermione after Charms that fateful day on Hallowe'en, but his desperation for a friend had him keep his mouth shut. He nearly explained this to Hermione, after they became friends, but seeing how his first friend still treated brainiacs, he ended up not saying anything.

As if reading his mind, not that he could, especially what with how insane he was at the moment, Vernon Dursley tossed him like a rag doll into the opposite wall, shattering his kneecap and breaking his femur, the thigh bone. His tibia creaked dangerously, and his fibula was broken in three separate places, poking grotesquely out of the skin, blood spurting onto the floor. At the sight of the red life giving liquid, Dursley snarled inhumanly. Unknown to the two humans currently residing inside Number 4 Privet Drive, a dark entity with a wide smile that legitimately went from ear to ear, or rather, hearing cavity to hearing cavity, cackled evilly.

Fueled by powers unknown to the duo, the obese drunk grabbed the 11-almost-12-year-old and twisting his arm, dragged the limp child to the kitchen, leaving a thin trail of blood across the tiles of the pristine vinyl floor. With a ugly grin full of blood-lust, Vernon grabbed a wickedly sharp carving knife from the cutlery holder. Fear flooded Harry's body, blocking out most of the pain as adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his fight-or-flight reflexes landed frantically on flight. Panicked, Harry dragged his body as far as he could from the his insane uncle, gritting his teeth as he army-crawled towards the front door. The glasses started to shake, and a light fixture above Vernon exploded, before the mysterious figure watching distantly through the kitchen window clamped down on the intensely powerful straining magic with ease.

It's ghastly wide grin dropped minutely, and an animalistic snarl echoed down the street. A dog yelped, and the being chuckled. It twisted with its dark form of magic, if it could be called that.

Harry gasped and stopped mid-crawl as something deep within him, in his heart and soul, was wound up and twisted with growing tension. His magic, not that he knew it, was physically yanked and twisted round and round until it could twist no more. Then it was let go, and Harry was pushed by an unseen force, flying into the drawers next to the sink. He cracked open a single eyelid, and his stomach sunk. His magic and soul were whimpering like an injured pup from whatever had just attacked him, and his heart was beating out of his chest at the immediate danger that was before him. Vernon was approaching at a steady pace, knife in hand.

From a distance, the dark being lazily dragged a single clawed finger diagonally through the air.

The boy's injured hand flew to his face, as a long scratch was made deep into the flesh of his face by an invisible force, carving itself into the bone marrow as if it were butter. Vernon ignored this anomaly, marking it down as the thing's freakishness. It didn't occur to his tiny brain, that the boy wouldn't do this to himself.

Bleeding hands desperately scrabbled for purchase as the small figure attempted to reach the drawer closest, which the boy knew held forks and small knives. But he was quickly ripped away, and his throat was held in an iron grip. A wickedly sharp blade was slashed across the side of his neck, below his ear, severing his carotid artery. A follow-up stab to side of the neck left the blade broken off into the muscle as the first scarlet geyser erupted with force and morbid beauty. A hammer that had been left on the floor next to a loose nail that Dursley had been meaning to fix, was quickly hefted, and bashed in the jugular of the raven-haired, green-eyed child.

Ruined fingers clawed at his throat, and Harry's crushed larynx struggled to make noise. The darkness of unconsciousness and the soon-following death, was pressing down, making his vision spotten and darken. The rapid spurts of blood pumped in rhythm with the quick heartbeat, and in moments, a pint of blood was pooled on the floor, draining into the cracks of the stone, vinyl, and varnishing. Harry's head spun, and he barely felt his radial artery being slashed open, until his headache worsen drastically, and he felt like vomiting. A few more red geysers spurting from his inner elbow and his neck made the feeling become a reality. As he emptied his rather small and shriveled stomach (Aunt Petunia hadn't allowed him much food, and he hadn't gotten anything from Mrs. Weasley since the middle of his second week of summer,) he couldn't help but think, 'Aunt Petunia would be furious.'

A second pint of sticky, scarlet life liquid joined the first, and a fine mist of blood decorated the cabinets he'd been left against. The dull sound of a car door being slammed shut caused Harry to moan in pain as his head throbbed, and an insanely grinning Vernon Dursley to look up, smile slipping slightly as the control on his mind was let go. He glanced at his nephew apathetically, until it penetrated his thick skull that normal people didn't torture children, and that his family was home. Covered in blood, his face paled to match the skin tone of his blood-deprived and dying nephew. He futilely tried to tug the nearly-dead corpse somewhere out of sight, when the front door opened.

"-ut Mum! Piers said that only lame kids don't have..." The overweight boy trailed off. "Mum?" He said thickly, voice colored slightly with confusion.

"Yes, Duddikins? What is i..." She stopped abruptly. A horrified scream left her mouth at the sight of her beloved, normal, husband tugging what looked to be the body of her murdered nephew. With a bloody knife on the kitchen floor next to him, and his shirt and trousers soaked with blood, it was undeniable what had happened. "Vernon what have you done?!" She wailed, pushing her large, heavy son behind her protectively as she took in the scene. Dudley Dursley could only dry heave as the image of his mutilated and dying cousin replayed in his mind. The large boy stumbled put of the house, falling on his fat rear onto the wet grass as he crawled backward away from the house. A nice shade of chartreuse, the ice cream and obscene amount of chocolate he'd eaten came back up and spilled onto the ground, with disgusting noises playing in the background, making it obvious to his mother what had happened, even if she couldn't tear her eyes away from the horrific scene to see it.

"Au-Aunt Pet-Petuni-Tuney-aaaaa." Harry gargled through the blood that flooded his ruined throat. His small body shuddered, and his eyelids fluttered over his dimming brilliant emerald green eyes. Then suddenly, he went limp, and the eyes he'd gained from his deceased mother closed and went dark.

As his juvenile brain started to shut down as his heart stopped, his nervous system caused his left leg to spasm visibly. His last reflex movement sent the murder weapon with small traces of meat, flesh, and a lot of sticky blood attached to the blade, was sent spinning across the room to rest at the dead child's Aunt's feet. Simultaneously, Vernon Dursley's grip on the matted mess of inky black hair loosened, and he dropped the cooling corpse, with blood still gushing from the death wounds, and Petunia Dursley puked on her $112.55 shoes.

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"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." The shadowed entity begged mockingly, face tilted to the cloudy, dark blue evening sky. Inky black tears flowed down the veiled face of the being, and dropped to the ground forming a small puddle that shivered with sentient amusement. As the seventh oily tear dropped, the being's face cleared, and a wide smirk took center stage. "As if I'd ever care for the opinion of an old fool." It said, sneering. "My Father would be proud. And so he shall."

"Azazel." A weak, broken voice whispered he ground rumbled slightly. It wasn't noticeable to the hairless apes, but it was to the servant of Hell. "Yes, Gadreel?" The being, Azazel, drawled, rolling his cold yellow eyes. "The angels may be fools, and our Father may have given up on us in his disappointment, but you shall not bring Hell to Earth. Not only will the Vessels fight your Father and my Brothers the whole way, the Child shall be the Savior. His destiny is greater than you know.

"Oh put a sock in it, Gaydreel. Don't you have something else to do, like spend some 'quality time' with your fellow winged prisoner, Abner? He doesn't love you back, you know." The General of Hell shot back harshly. The angel's words had struck a nerve.

Silence reigned for a long moment. "I know." Gadreel said in an impossibly low voice. Azazel laughed maliciously.

A flutter of wings sounded behind the demon. "Thank you, Brother. You may be a failure to our Father, and you may have not meant to, but you have lead Heaven to this General of Hell. I shall inform The Jailor to give you a day's rest." Said Uriel respectfully. The broken presence retreated as if stung, and Azazel turned around lazily.

"Hello, Uriel." He said. With a fluttering of shadows, Azazel departed. Uriel looked around curiously, before departing in a sweeping woosh of wings. The angel did not notice Number 4 Privet Drive. It was hidden to this Warrior of Heaven.