Title: Bang, Bang, You're Dead
Authors: Melancholyangel and S.S.Harry
Summary: "Harry James Potter, you are charged for the murders of Mr. Albus Dumbledore, Ms. Hermione Granger, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Mr. Dean Thomas, how do you plead?"
EDITED AS OF 04/11/2008!!
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"Harry James Potter, you are charged for the murders of Mr. Albus Dumbledore, Ms. Hermione Granger, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Mr. Dean Thomas, how do you plead?" asked Minister Fudge. The hearing, consisting of Wizengamot and the school governors, watched eagerly, many holding their breath, others watching in pure disbelief. "Guilty," Harry said bored. Audible gasps and murmuring was heard from the jury and witnesses. The Minister's mouth hung open momentarily; once gaining his composure, his face was set in stony resolve. "Mr. Harry James Potter, I find you guilty on all charges of murder. You are to serve life imprisonment in Azkaban prison."
I'm an empty shell, walking the earth until someone has the courtesy to take my life away; to help me find peace. My waking life is haunted by smiling faces and sneers. Emotional widows come to my final place of distress finding their husbands' souls have been absorbed over night, or that they've committed suicide from depression during the night; and they weep for now they are truly alone.
At noon I can see the wives of the minor criminals down the long winding hall. They look at me with hate, pity, and love, for the savior I once was. Savior, such irony. I both the savior from those they loathe, and the murderer of those they love. Each passing day, I wonder what it's like to care… to truly see… to smile… to feel. I wonder how they can care for a world with so many flaws; we create nothing but death, destruction, hate, deceit- the legacy of man- so often man is defeated, yet they walk proud, strong, willing to live.
"What is will?" I sometime wonder. Even the saddest, ostracized, most prosecuted child weilds the will to survive, but not I. Not anymore. I learned that my worst enemies were those closest to me. The deceive me for foolish reasons, believe it dangerous to allow me to live in enlightenment; they smother me in darkness out of love.
They took my name away, my individuality, my voice. They replaced my name with crude nicknames; my name blessed upon my does not satisfy them. To they, I am the retard, the weirdo, the faggot: the freak. These names eat at me hungrily, this mantra follows me like the vicious chant of savages going to battle; the words change you. One day I looked into the mirror and no longer recognized the person staring back at me; I'm no longer a boy, I'm a changeling, I'm an IT.
I hear the names and something inside snapped. My morale was lost; my dignity, my pride, my birthright- gone. I must regain my name. I must through fire find glory. Win it back in the grand theatre in which cruel critics took my name away and coined me the freak. Every person is a critic, some who care to destroy my reputation, and some who care not enough to remember my name. Now that I'm finished… you will never forget my name again.
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"There is nothing to dispute, boy! There's too many tasks to be completed here for me to allow you to wander off to with the delinquent bastards you associate with!" Uncle Vernon gave Harry a stern look as he sunk into his favourite chair, the chair creaking as the full weight of the large man eased himself into it with little grace.
Harry's fists clenched; he looked down to see the shiny scars scattered across his pale white arms. He could imagine them throbbing with the rage currently suppressed in him. Almost a man, he felt too old to be under their control. Harry longed for the freedom and liberty he felt he was depraved of.
"You cannot tell me what to fucking do any more; do you understand me? I'm sick of this bullshit! Sick of this fucking life in this miserable soulless structure you call a home. I hate you" words so vicious and with such burning honesty that he not only startled Vernon, but himself as well. Vernon, recovering from his initial shock, stood. His massive hand swiped hard across Harry's face; the satisfying "SMACK!" sound filled Vernon with superiority. Grabbing Harry, he dragged him up the stairs. Flinging open his upstairs room, with a mighty toss, he threw him in the small room like a bag of garbage. He slammed the door shut, and locked it. He locked him away, as if it were an annual ritual, he pretended Harry wasn't part of the family, part of the race, part of the genus.
Harry was furious, blind in the bright summer's embrace. He attacked the door, kicked, screamed, clawed at it. His uncle had soundproofed his room so many summers ago, to block out the screaming from the nightmares Harry had routinely. Rage filled him to where rational thought was no longer necessary. So many years he had suffered at the hands of these people, the ones he called "Family." They were his blood protectors, without them he would surely die, however often it seems with them he'll surely die as well. As the sun began to set Harry's anger overcame him and he fell asleep.
Harry, his uncle Vernon, aunt petunia and his cousin Dudley live in your typical suburbia in Surrey. Since his mother and father had been murdered while he was infant, he was sent to be raised by his Aunt and Uncle. For the last 15 years, they pretended he didn't exist. The Dursley family was racists, the head of the house, Uncle Vernon hated anything he considered not normal: blacks, homosexuals, and especially witches and wizards. Often the middle class man looked down upon his neighbors and even strangers.
"Son, look at him," Vernon said once, grabbing a fistful of Harry's hair. He pointed at the small scar on Harry's forehead right above a large bloody cut from Vernon lunging him at the table, and squeezes a teacup turned frog in his other hand. He had been furious; Harry pleaded, swearing that he did not know how the frog got there, and that before it was a teacup.
"Its freaks like him son, freaks like him that disgrace us. Look at this disgusting creature, this fucking amphibian! Freaks let animals into our homes. Freaks live with the animals; they turn castles into barns and ladies into whores! Remember this son," Vernon glared at Harry angrily. His dark beady eyes darted around the room and he noticed the source that the teacup came from. There was a tea set arranged neatly on the ground. Broken figurines that once belonged to Dudley before he mutilated them. Each figurine as a teacup, a saucer, a napkin and a biscuit.
Vernon's eyes bulged widely. "Playing tea, you little faggot? I'm not raising no queer!"
"NO, no not at all Uncle Vernon. I was just imagining I was just playing…"
"Playing faggot games!" he snarled. "You wanna be a faggot? Ill treat you like a faggot!"
"No Uncle Vernon please…"
Vernon grabbed him by the leg and forced him to kneel, his stomach pressed against the bed. He roughly snatched Harry's pants down.
"Remember this son, " Vernon said unbuckling his own pants.
"This is what you do to queers."
Harry awoke with tears in his eyes. He remembered that day. He had been 10 years old; through blurred tears he could see the confused look in Dudley's eyes as he stared straight back at him. Harry had been so sore. Once the skin tore it was not as painful, the blood had acted as a lubricant. Harry couldn't sit down for a month afterwards, and often stole ice cubes from the refrigerator to numb himself. The nightmare made him feel weak. He remember the fear that Vernon used to enforce in him, he remembered crying, begging, pleading for his Uncle not to hurt him again. He remembered his aunt's cold caring. Quietly, she'd sneak him pain killers, more ice, or ice cream after Vernon came to his room to violate him. It was the only time he'd half felt loved. It was the only sign in the house that someone maybe understood, even if they didn't want to.
Harry felt paranoid. Although it had been years since Vernon had assaulted him in that manner, he felt a cold dread, as if Vernon would come to him tonight, force him the ways he used to. He couldn't bear it, not again. Harry panicked, pacing the room. He looked out to his window, it was open. Easily, he could slip away, pack his things and go to Ron Weasley's home where everything would be ok, where things would be safe, where love waits for him. He thought of going to the Weasley's and merely crying in his dear Hermione's arms for hours on end, while Mrs. Weasley knit him a new sweater and hummed lullabies. The idea made his heart leap in yearning.
No. He couldn't run away again. He cant flee in fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Harry needed revenge:
Revenge for the cruel way this family treated him.
Revenge for the way his mother suffered at her sister's hands.
Revenge for the love he never had.
Revenge.
It was time for them to know: he will not tolerate.
Harry lifted a loose floor board he used to hide his figurines as a child. He looked fondly at the objects inside: a small sharp box cutter, still stained from his last cutting, the old figurines and broken tea set, letters from Hermione and Ron, and a small bag of muggle money given to him by Dumbledore in case of emergencies. He took the bag of cash and put it inside of his pants pocket. Standing in front of the window, he scaled the distance, and realized how far 2 stories off the ground really is. He contemplated his options: jump and hope for the best, or climb and risk the Dursley's catching him?
Launching himself out the window Harry landed with cat like grace. The impact however, still stunned him and he lay dazed for a moment, catching his breath, before heaving himself onto his feet.
Harry walked down Whisteria Walk to the small dingy shop entitled "Guns N' Ammo." As he entered the dingy shop a small bell rang signaling the clerk that a customer awaits.
"How may I help you?" asked the withered man looking at Harry through thick glasses. What can I get for this?" He asked putting the reserve bag of muggle money on the counter. He didn't at all look fazed at the young age of the boy, but still looked out the window quickly as if to see if this were a set-up. He counted the money slowly and carefully, then looking at Harry as if trying to read him. With a final glance, he ushered Harry behind the wooden counter.
"You don't know me. I don't know you," he said looking at Harry sternly.
Harry nodded; wishing the man would quicken his pace. His anger was being overshadows by contemplation. "What if's" and worse-case scenarios taunted him, fueling fear that was slowly matching his anger. He needed anger to fuel his revenge. He wouldn't step down.
The man handed him a small hand gun and box of bullets. The gun felt good in Harry's hand; It was power; it was respect. He was mesmerized by its smooth shiny surface. How could something so beautiful be so devastating?
He checked the gun thoroughly, examining it for any cracks or evident flaws, not knowing what he was truly looking for, he searched for things he would assume as damage. "This will work," he said, The clerk demonstrated how to adjust the safety setting. Thanking him, Harry put the gun and it's bullets in his pockets, his hand stroking them as if they were the most precious metal or jewel.
He departed, his step quickening. He was anxious to return to the house before the Dursley's realized his absemce. The tapped his thigh reassuringly as he walked.. Approaching the Dursley's hom, he glanced around. Seeing no nosy neighbors (the past neighbor, Mrs. Door had died the summer before), he took a deep breath and burst through the front door
Dudley waddled down the stairs startled at the loud noise of the glass panes in the door shattering. "Hey what's -BANG." Dudley looks blankly at the wall before falling heavily down the remaining steps.
Vernon charged into the living room, wielding a large kitchen knife in one hand, ready to face the intruder. Realizing it was Harry, he paused BANG just long enough for him to end up with a bullet in his chest.
Petunia walked in timidly, glancing from the massive profusely bleeding corpses of Vernon, knife still in had, and her son lying crinkled at the foot of the stairs. Finally her eyes fell upon Harry, standing with the gun pointed directly at her, his eyes clouded with anger. Sorrow and resentment was evident in her eyes. Harry approached her slowly, and she stared at him, too frightened to move. He came close to here, staring into the small blue eyes that were now so full of fear, so much sadness, so much pain. "Im sorry," she said quietly. Harry kissed her gently on the lips. "I know," he said, stroking her hair. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers. She stood there, confused and lost in her past. Quickly Harry turned his head, his arm was steady, but on the inside he was quivering like a baby calf learning to walk BANG- it echoed through his head as he heard a small thump upon the floor, "Sorry mum," Harry said sadly...
I never knew how much blood a human body contained until I was on my knee's scrubbing away my sins. The hallways seemed to be flooded with it. I could imagine when they found the bodies, unwinding the yellow tape, miles and miles of yellow tape; by the time my tasks have been complete the entire World police force won't have enough.
I reminisce about my actions, they way the gun made me feel… there is no other word for it; I felt powerful, respected. When I pulled that trigger it brought me to an ecstasy that not even Hermione's kisses could match. The looks of shock and pain satisfied me better than a glass of cold lemonade on a hot day in Surrey, and the drip of the blood made me feel complete. Blood is the life.
After I finished cleaning away the stains of my rampage, I packed my bags to travel to Ron's home. I left the Dursley's in the cupboard under the stairs to rot, the way the used to leave me. At Ron's however, I did not find the salvation I was looking for. It was there my insanity and growing hatred for humanity would reach a whole new level. It was there that I felt the sting of utmost betrayal…