BOCA DEL INFIERNO

Chapter One

If Wishes were Fishes...

All was quiet in the sleeping town of Little Whinging. The sun was just beginning to rise above the rooftops; a new day full of possibilities. Perfectly normal families living perfectly normal lives in a perfectly normal town in Surrey. One family, however, was anything but perfect. They hid a very important secret behind their doors and no one in the little town knew it – just the way the Dursleys liked it. Each perfectly normal day, Vernon Dursley trotted off to Grunnings, the drill company he worked for, and Petunia Dursley spent her day nosing into others' business; she was quite content to spy on and gossip about her neighbours to anyone who would listen. Their son, Dudley, was a large boy who delighted in reinforcing his superiority over the other boys in the area whenever he was home from school. Upon entering the Dursley household, that was the family in its entirety, for all intents and purposes. Photos of Dudley proudly put on show, displaying his development and growth from birth to the enormous human whale he now impersonated. In fact, the Dursleys seemed like a perfectly normal, happy family – what secret could they possibly have?

Hidden away from prying eyes, another boy lived in this house, in the littlest bedroom on the second floor. But the secret was not that the boy inhabited the house, oh no. Even if most of the neighbourhoud hardly ever saw him, they knew that there was another boy who lived there – the orphaned nephew of Petunia Dursley. That knowledge was impossible to contain. It was unavoidable – he had, after all, had to attend school. What the Dursleys kept secret was that the boy was a freak. Yes, a freak, and that he attended the local school for criminally insane delinquent boys, St Brutus'. Or so they told anyone whoever enquired after the boy's whereabouts during term. Yet even this was not the real secret. The real secret was that the boy was a wizard, and every September, he left for King's Cross and the train that would take him away to wizard school. For the moment, though, it was summer, and both boys were at home for the holidays.

As the sun gradually began its slow path across the sky, the neighbourhood of Privet Drive, Little Whinging, was beginning to show signs of waking up. Birds began to take flight, searching for food; early morning joggers were warming up before starting off; the usual movements and noises of early morning.

Harry rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. Another sleepless night had come to pass; his fourteenth so far this summer. From his position on the bed, Harry could see the paint on his ceiling was starting to peel, just a little at the edges. Uncle Vernon would have no qualms about neglecting to repaint it, though. Making his way down to the kitchen, careful to avoid waking his aunt and uncle, Harry mentally checked the list of chores he had to complete by the end of the day: weed the garden, mow the lawn, clean out the garage, and cook dinner. Good. Only a short list today, he thought wryly. Aunt Petunia had been studiously writing out a list of chores at the start of each week, and allocating days for the completion of each. Unfortunately, Harry wasn't even able to lump various chores together to make things a little easier. Things had to be done on the day that was listed, and in the order dictated by his aunt. It was a new form of torture.

Soon, the smell of sizzling bacon and sausages permeated the kitchen. He had barely cracked the first egg when Aunt Petunia's voice struck him like a whip across his shoulders.

"And just what do you think you're doing, boy?"

"Starting breakfast, Aunt Petunia." He replied, whirling around. What does it look like? he thought with a well-disguised eye-roll back towards the stove. Harry gradually let his racing heartbeat slow itself. Nothing wakes you up better than Aunt Petunia's accusatory tone. Harry knew that she would have told him to cook breakfast if he hadn't started it anyway, yet he was given the inquisition for doing so without being instructed. His was not a fair life. Hoping she wouldn't add anything else to his list of chores, Harry turned back to the frying pan.

Aunt Petunia hrmf-ed. "Well, hurry it up. Little Duddles will be up and wanting his sausages soon."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry almost gagged. He had been hoping to be in and out of the kitchen before cousin Dudley came down to eat. Not a pretty sight, especially on an empty stomach. With a sigh, he forced the immediate tension from his body. It would not do to start the day off in such a state. Previous experience had told him it could only get worse.


Towards the end of the afternoon, Harry stretched his arms above his head in a vain attempt to alleviate his aching muscles. The only thing better would be a nice long hot shower; the beads of hot water pounding down on aching muscles would do wonders. Fat chance of that happening anytime soon. The only break Harry had had was the hour-and-a-half it took to prepare and cook dinner, and now he was back outside hauling boxes of rubbish and garden clippings around to the back of the house.

Number five he counted as he dumped the fifth box. How much rubbish can one family possibly collect? Granted, a lot of it was old broken toys of Dudley's that were no longer any use to anyone, and could not be pawned off to Harry as clothing or suchlike. But still. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia prided themselves on their pristine house and garden. I guess that's why they don't have the garage on the house-tour, Harry snickered.

Coming back around the front of the house for another load, Harry glanced around the darkening yard. Just as he turned to pick up the last box, (Number six), he noticed a movement in the shadowed shrubbery. Leaving the box, he moved closer, and saw two shiny black eyes.

"Snuffles? That you?" he whispered hoarsely. For all he knew, it could be a crazed alley cat with rabies or something. Or something that Voldemort has planted. Good one, Harry.

Emerging from the shadows, the big black shaggy dog cocked his head, as if to say Couldn't you tell? Harry sighed in relief, then looked back up to the house, to gauge where his gaolers were. He didn't want to get Sirius caught and taken away to Azkaban again. Or for him to be locked in his room all summer again. Either option was just as depressing as the other. Shuffling up to the hedge, Harry gripped the dog in a death-grip hug of affection. One would almost think the boy was starved for affection.

"It's so good to see you again," Harry said softly. "I've missed having someone to talk to all summer."

Sirius changed from his animagus form. "What about Ron and Hermione?"

"They haven't been writing that much, and I can't really talk to Uncle Vernon, now can I?" In a way Harry kind of understood his friends' lack of owls. It's not like he really ever had any news to share; all he did was chores. But they could at least tell him what they'd been up to.

"No, no. I guess not," Sirius said with a dark glare at the house. Sirius held about as much faith in the Dursley's as Dumbledore did in the Minishter of Magic. Not much at all.

As if Uncle Vernon had somehow sensed the glare Sirius had sent his way, he called out to Harry, "You, boy! Have you finished with the rubbish yet?"

"Quick, Sirius, change back. You can't get caught!" Harry whispered harshly, before answering in a normal tone, "No, Uncle Vernon, not yet."

"You'd better hurry up before I have to come out there!" Harry could just imagine Uncle Vernon shaking his fist at this point.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Harry walked over and picked up the last box. "I'll come back and say goodnight, Snuffles," he said. As quietly as he could, Harry unlatched the side gate and walked through, softly putting the box with the others. There we go. All done. Uncle will be pleased. Harry snorted. Not.

As he opened the gate, he looked for Sirius, who was waiting, if a tad impatiently, for Harry to come back.

"Goodbye Snuffles. Send me an owl, hey? I miss ruffling Uncle Vernon's feathers," he laughed gently. The boy sighed sadly as he petted the dog. "I just wish I was anywhere but here." Thinking of the events of the past few years, he added, "Somewhere I could be safe from all this stuff – the Dursleys, Voldemort… the lot."

"Done."


Far far away, so far, that in fact it was not even on this earth, a strange being slowly clapped his hand and chuckled softly. "Excellent work, Alche. I haven't seen one that good in months!"

The strange blue being, unknown to most, ruled the underworlds of vengeance ('justice' for those politically correct demons). For thousands of years, he had invited and conscripted beings full of vengeful thoughts and deeds, groomed them, then sent them out into the world, to reek vengeance on behalf of those who sought it. Each had his or her own method of applying the ways of vengeance. The blue creature did not interfere in his subordinates work, nor did he set out to contain the extent that each act of revenge could potentially reach. For every revengeful wish granted, however, the strange being had one stipulation, and only one: in no way was the wish to be manifested in its simplest interpretation.

Replaying the scene in his head once more, the being smiled with a serenity which belied his malevolent nature. "Our Lord and Master will be pleased. Oh yes, pleased indeed."