Pain. For days—perhaps weeks, it was hard to tell—that was all Harry knew. Whether it was his own or the Dursleys was the only variation, but it was always there. At first there had been screams—so much screaming, so much noise why won't they just STOP THE SCREAMING!—but eventually even they died out. Though it hadn't been just the screams that had died…
There had been laughter. They had laughed as Harry and the Dursleys had originally been taken from their beds in Privet Drive… they had laughed as they had used what Harry had come to learn were wands to inflict invisible pain upon Harry and his relatives (and not so invisible pain after they had gotten bored with that)… they had laughed when they used their magic to force Harry to commit heinous acts against his relatives—weak, pathetic, disgusting fools that they were—
They hadn't laughed when he'd learned to throw the spell off.
Neither had they laughed when they finally finished off his poor relations. No, in fact they looked quite disturbed… Perhaps it was because he had beaten them to the first cackle. They had begun to look at him a little strangely since then…
Harry couldn't bring himself to feel the least bit saddened by the Dursleys' deaths. Even before their capture and the release of all the skeletons the bastards had kept locked up in their closet—or rather a cupboard under the stairs?—they had never treated Harry with a shred of decency. And it was so much quieter now… no more of that dreadful screaming…
It was so quiet in fact that Harry could hear the footsteps of some of his captors as they now approached his cell… and eventually their words…
"…have to say, I'm relieved. Personally I think we should have killed off the boy when we disposed of the muggles. He's a liability and been kept too long. Don't get me wrong, he was fun at first, but here lately there's just been something… off about him."
"Well, we've had our fun and the lords have sent word—the Boy-Who-Lived dies tonight."
In an instant, Harry's world froze.
Now, Harry still did not quite understand the whys and what-for of everything that had been done to him, but he considered himself reasonably intelligent (despite the Dursleys' claims to the contrary), and he had gathered a few facts during his imprisonment and torture—
The people who had captured him were wizards.
Wizards used wands to cast magic (though he'd found himself able to do small bits of magic himself without one, and if he hadn't had other things to bother with—such as survival—he may have considered it worth looking into).
Harry was in fact a wizard as well.
Whatever or whoever had really killed Harry's parents had tried to kill him and failed. This had apparently angered several people and was the reason for his capture and subsequent torture, and therefore…
Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived.
'…the Boy-Who-Lived dies tonight.
…dies tonight.'
No.
Harry had not lived thru nine years of hate and neglect to be tossed into the trash like a used and broken toy. Who were these people who dared to cause him such pain for no apparent reason? Who the fuck did they think they were?
He would not—could not—simply roll over and accept that fate. No, he would not die tonight. Not here, not now…
Not until he had seen them all burn.
"My what wickedly vengeful thoughts you have… such a tarnished soul."
Harry's eyes shot open and he stared around him in shock. His cell had disappeared and instead he found himself lying in an endless space of shadows amongst a field of white feathers.
"Who are you? Where am I?" asked Harry.
"You are where you were a moment ago—lying broken in your cell awaiting a painful death," said the bodiless voice. "As for who I am… that depends on you."
"How?"
"I could be merely a hallucination. The figment of a tortured mind… Or I could be your salvation—and damnation."
"You mean you could save me?"
"For a price."
"I have nothing… what could you possibly want?"
"Your soul."
Harry's eyes widened. Salvation and damnation… the Dursleys had not been church attending and God fearing people, but they had been quick enough to explain to him at an early age just where bad children like him went after death and what kind of things dwelled there. As he got older he had begun to put such things off as the ignorant mutterings of his hateful relatives. But if wizards existed, then it was quite possible…
"Demon," whispered Harry.
"Very good," said the demon, and Harry could hear the smile in the voice. "Now that you have a better grasp of the situation, I am here to off you a deal… a contract.
Within this contract you set your terms. In return for my servitude until such time as the terms are complete, at the end of the contract I will receive your soul for my consumption. Once the contract is made there is no backing out—no second chances. You will spend eternity in hell. Your body will bear a physical mark of the contract through which I will always be able to find you. There is no running.
This contract will save your life for a time, an you will see your revenge complete… But in the end you will die.
Do you accept?"
"Why… why are you offering me this? Why my soul?"
"In my experience, pure souls tarnished by righteous anger and vengeance are the most delicious delicacy," said the demon, followed by a dark and quiet laugh.
All Harry could do was lie there as he contemplated his options, few though they were. This demon was his lifeline—bound as he was in his current state, the likelihood of his escaping his immanent death on his own was slim to none. But accepting a contract would be signing over his life and death to the demon. Could he accept such a fate—his ultimate death?
'We've had our fun… the Boy-Who-Lived dies tonight.'
The fire of his anger grew, his will and intent compacted and hardened into a precious gem of hate and vengeance.
Yes, he could accept such a death… but only after he had made those responsible pay for their abuse in pain and blood.
"You said I set the terms?"
"Indeed."
"Then my terms of the contract is this—we will find ever last person responsible for the pain and torture I've suffered. We will find them, and then we will kill them in the most painful way possible at the time. I want all of them to suffer and beg at my feet!"
Silence met Harry's passionate declaration of terms. If it weren't for his own continued presence in the strange nothingness he would have thought the demon had already left…
"It's a deal."
At first Harry thought the darkness had begun to encroach upon his field of white, but he soon realized that was not the case—the feathers of luminous white were all turning to black by the second. They began to rise and swirl where he lay watching the changes take place. Then somehow amongst the darkness he was able to see a silhouette.
"What is your command, my master?"
"What is your name?" Harry asked.
"I've had many names… you may choose to give me another if you wish."
"Well… what name was your favorite?"
"…Sebastian."
"Sebastian… I order you to destroy them all. Destroy them and get me out of this hell!"
A wicked smile grew over the demon's shadowed features.
"As you wish, my young master."
Then just as suddenly as everything had stopped, so it was when the world around Harry started moving again. He could once again hear the footsteps, the quiet chatter, and the sound of his cell door opening…
And he smiled before he began to laugh.
His would be murderers could only stop and stare as the boy they were sent to kill seemed to lose what little was left of his mind.
"I told you, Greer—there's something wrong with that brat."
"Let's just get this over with. The quicker the better I reckon. We got here a little early—"
"Unfortunately gentlemen, you're already a little too late," said a dark and amused voice from the shadows.
And Harry continued to laugh, even as the screams began reverberating across the walls. He laughed until he could stay conscious no longer. His final sight was of their blood painting the walls of his horrible cell, his last thought before the darkness claimed him was of how absolutely lovely that particular shade of red had become…