Eyes can speak, too!
Legal Disclaimer anything you recognise in this story belongs to someone else, most likely to JK Rowling and/or her business partners. Any characters you don't recognise are mine. The specific plot in this fic may be mine; I say "may be" because fanfiction is vast, and one can never be sure there isn't a very similar one elsewhere. I'm not getting anything out of writing this except the satisfaction of fixing what I perceive to be brokenness in the world that JKR created; think of it as a variation on the mindset depicted in xkcd 386.
(Context: end of 5th year, just after Vernon is threatened by the order, and they all return home).
Harry lifted his trunk with some effort and, as quietly as he could, walked upstairs to his small bedroom. There was hardly any space there, filled as it was with junk toys that Dudley did not use, and yet perversely refused to allow to be thrown away. His bed was high enough for the trunk to fit under it though, but only just. And it was a pain to pull it out or push it back in if he needed something.
But now he had work to do, and quickly at that. There was no mistaking the evil glint in Vernon's eye. He was sure he would be coming up in a few minutes and would at least try to beat Harry again, regardless of the warnings from the order.
He had left the photo album of his parents, his most precious possession, with Hermione, telling her he'd take it back when they met again in September. He had no idea what prescient thought had made him do this, but now he was glad he had.
His invisibility cloak could not be charmed, so he had put it in a bag, and had asked Tonks to jinx it so that if anyone except himself and Hermione (and Tonks herself) touched it, they would get hit by a strong petrification curse.
His broomstick had also been shrunk and put in the same bag. He would not be able to unshrink it, but maybe he could risk using it if something really bad happened - whether with Vernon or death-eaters.
He'd just hidden the bag under the loose floor-board, and shoved the trunk under the bed, and was now lying down on his bed, staring vacantly at the ceiling. He had no idea how long he had been lying there, half-asleep. He was hungry, having eaten nothing since breakfast, tired, and physically exhausted.
Mentally he was in worse shape. Sirius's death had been a huge shock to him, and his depression had gradually given way to a burning anger at Dumbledore, Snape, Malfoy, and - of course - Lestrange. He let the anger grow, since it was better than the depression that replaced it if he calmed himself.
Meanwhile, from sounds wafting up to his room, he realised Vernon was drinking. He knew the sequence: the first 2 drinks would be quiet, and after that, Vernon would start shouting, increasingly loudly, for the next few drinks. If Harry was nearby he would try to beat him with whatever he could lay his hands on, though - luckily for Harry - in all the past incidents Vernon had not been able to grab anything that could really cause damage.
An hour or so later, he heard drunken, heavy, footsteps on the stairs.
He opened the door, and walked the few steps to the landing. The spot in front of his room was too tight to allow him to dodge; the landing was broader and he had a small chance of being able to duck or take other evasive action.
To his horror, he realised Vernon had a large golf bag in his hand. The whole bag. Not just one club, but the whole bag. This was the most bizarre thing he had ever seen or expected, but Vernon's drunker, bloodshot, angry eyes refocused his attention.
Vernon came to the last step but one, to see Harry standing on the landing, as if he was waiting for him. How dare the freak challenge me in my own house?, he thought, for what else could it mean, standing like that?
He hefted the bag, and swung it. Not directly at Harry, but behind his right shoulder, as if the bag was just one - large - golf club and he was preparing for a swing at Harry.
Under the right circumstances, he may even have succeeded.
In this case, however, there were two things that played against him. First, he himself was tottering a bit (who knew how many drinks he had had!).
Second, and worse, his backward swing was way too energetic, as if he expected to hit something on the back swing also, instead of on the subsequent forward swing.
Unfortunately, this backward swing hit the wall, which was on his right. If he had been a left-hander, and swung to the left, things would have been fine - the bannister was not that high, and the bag would have swung cleanly, and he would have, presumably, brought it back round for the forward stroke, to lop off Harry's head (as he often dreamt).
When someone swings a bag that weighs almost 15 kilos, in as powerful a swing as he can make it, and the bag is stopped short by something as immovable as a wall, something else has to move. That something else, is usually the person swinging the bag.
When said person is on a flat surface, he may totter a bit. He may let go of the bag and try to regain his balance, or he may completely fall over, hurting his butt or his nose or a limb or two.
But when that person is already tottering on account of being drunk, and on top of that, is standing on the top stair but one of a typical staircase in a medium size house... well regaining his balance is hard. Very hard.
Vernon, already drunk, was further dis-oriented by the jarring pain that went up his body, via his wrists and elbows, when the bag hit the wall. Instinctively, he let go of the bag, which promptly fell.
In an equally instinctive effort to avoid the bag falling on his feet, he stepped back.
His right foot felt air, and his eyes grew wide as he suddenly realised his predicament. No sobering potion in the wizarding world could have worked as well as this situation - his mind was now as sharply focused on the problem as if he had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life.
As he flailed his arms trying to re-balance himself, his eyes were saying things to his nephew.
"I'll never hurt you again. I'll give you all the food you need. I'll do all the chores you have to do. I'll do anything you want - just pull me forward! Please! PLEASE!"
This was what his eyes conveyed to Harry. All in a milli-second.
It appeared to have worked. Harry moved forward quickly, and reached out a hand.
"Thank you, thank you my boy. I will not forget this!", said Vernon's eyes.
Harry's hand, however, did not appear to be preparing to grasp anything. His fist was closed, and only the forefinger was pointing forward.
"HUH?" said Vernon's eyes when they saw this a few milliseconds later.
"I don't trust you to keep your word. For all I know, you'll think I am too weak and soft and treat me even worse after this. And then you'll taunt me for being stupid enough to believe you", glared Harry's eyes.
"NO! NO! I won't do any-"
Harry's eyes would never know what Vernon's eyes would have said, or did say, after that. Because by then, Harry's forefinger had reached Vernon's pudgy chest.
A very light push - barely enough to topple a house of cards - and Vernon's eyes were out of range of Harry's eyes.
A few seconds later, even though the eyes were open, they weren't saying anything. If they could, they would have probably been saying, "Oh, this is an interesting angle of view". Or something like that.
Epilogue
The muggle investigation ruled it an accidental death due to drinking, though no one - not even Petunia - could explain why he was carrying a bag of golf clubs upstairs. (Harry suspected he had tried to extricate one club from it, and failed to do so, and in his drunken state had decided to take the whole bag). Petunia had claimed she was with him all through, and this happened just when she went to the bathroom. (Harry guessed that she had been pacifying him, and he had pretended to be pacified until she had momentarily left him).
Harry's statement was that he was in his room, reading, and only came out after he heard the crash.
When Draco Malfoy was found at the bottom of one of Hogwart's longest flight of stairs, some of the order members who knew of Vernon's death had some suspicions. Regardless, Snape's extremely loud and public accusations of Harry played in favour of the boy, and no one dared concur. Who would believe them?
Two days later, Snape was found dead at the bottom of the same set of stairs. But Harry was in classes, with all of his housemates and those of at least one other house, from the time Snape was last seen alive till the time he was found dead.
Dumbledore died a month later, due to some curse on his right hand that no one could do anything about. He tried to speak to Harry from his deathbed, but Harry refused. He had not spoken to him since the day he heard the prophecy and smashed all the instruments in the manipulative bastard's office.
Several other mysterious deaths of important purebloods happened over the next few days, while the British wizarding world was busy mourning Dumbledore. All these deaths happened in Malfoy Manor, but the DMLE was neither informed nor allowed to investigate if they found out by some other means. Unofficially, everyone knew the Dark Lord was living there, so no one cared anyway.
However, as a result, several of Voldemort's plans were derailed, including plans to free Lucius and company from Azkaban, and to kill Amelia Bones. Since Scrimgeour was basically honest, if a little political, the ministry only became better and better in its handling of the crisis. Many ministry employees and aurors also found themselves arrested and jailed.
Harry and Voldemort met once again - in the veil room where he had been taken after a sudden, 3am, raid on Malfoy Manor by almost the entire auror force. Amelia herself came to Hogwarts to escort Harry to the Ministry.
When Harry pushed Voldemort through the veil, he felt a tearing sensation in his scar. Observers noted red smoke screaming out of it, and going into the veil. They all rushed him to St Mungos, so there was no one left in the veil room to notice more streams of red smoke materialise in the veil room and plunge into the veil.
Harry was happy. Hermione was his girlfriend. He was quidditch captain. Life was good.
Hermione was happy. Harry was her boyfriend. She was sure she would be Head Girl next year, and Harry would be Head Boy. Life was good.
Dobby was happy. He had found a master who truly knew what free elves were capable of, and appreciated him all the more for it. Life was being good.