Yeah, so I have no reason to right this except that it seemed fun. We all need a little Dark Harry now and then! Yay! (:3)
Rating: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness
Warning: SLASH Harry x Draco, Evil/Slytherin Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC
Disclaimer: Me no own HP characters, 'cuz me no called "J.K. Rowling". It's prob'ly for the best, as I'd have killed half the characters before my editor could stop me! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
CHAPTER ONE: Unexpected Cremation
"No love is lost with the death of Vernon Dursley, as he had no love to offer as compensation. To love a Muggle like him could test the patience of the Mona Lisa in her frame and Petunia Dursley has earned my respect for trying. Sure, what they had was not 'love' as much as it was mutual obligation, having to keep up appearances and what not, but that duty held strong to the end. Needless to say, the turn out of this funeral has both surprised and repulsed me, with the attendee count hardly reaching double digits. You all gawk at me now, lips curled and eyebrows raised, perhaps wondering who I am and why I dare to speak ill of the dead. Well, all I can say to that is a mere speculation: Vernon's own blood son, the bane of his legacy, has failed to attend, while his despised nephew by marriage sits before his coffin, draped in black. Perhaps that will make clear the emotional perspective Mr. Dursley has left behind for us to examine."
The slender man, cloaked in shadows, stroked the glossy lid of Vernon's mahogany coffin before setting it aflame. "May his stay in Hell torment his gray soul beyond recognition." Mourners, priest included, gasped with their eyes blown wide, stretching their jaws in a silent scream before the dams to chaos broke. Harry lost sight of the drifting visitor in the sea of black hems and drooping dress socks that rushed away from the white fire, people pouring through the exits without shame. He was almost kicked senseless twice, still in his kneeling position before the crucifix in the rear of the church where he spent the visitation ignored. Dudley's elephant-grade tuxedo hung on his shoulders and pooled around his ankles, his aunt's feeble attempt to hide his deteriorating physique from the public. The feared fire dried the summer sweat on his brow from the other end of the building, having born a heat equaling that of his uncle's new abode. With his back to the savior of the Christian Muggle world, the edges of his mouth tipped upwards, pointing at the lenses of his spectacles, where the reflected flames licked the abundant fat from Vernon Dursley's skeleton.
"Mr. Potter, you seem, dare I say, amused," observed the airy voice beside him. He whipped around to lock eyes with an angel, six wings spanning out from beneath his gentle robes. Their obsidian feathers drank in the hysteria around them, pulsing with a mischievous light with each screech and cry of pain, quieting the air around them. The owner of those wings grinned, his full lips curling to kiss his pointed ears, before he ripped the glasses from Harry's face. Harry jerked backwards to avoid the reach of the angel's knife-like claws as he shot the spectacles into the flames, which ate them with relish. "What ridiculous specs, complete rubbish no matter how you look at them. We shall have to buy you a more fitting pair. Now, now, Mr. Potter, laughing at the dead is a horrid habit to have. Does the Order know of this dark deed, hmm?"
Harry wiped the tears from his eyes, but couldn't cease the maniacal giggles from bursting out of his mouth. He tinged the burning air with laughter that rose into the arches of the church ceiling to contaminate Muggle prayers residing there. At last, Vernon Dursley died by his own hand, a wish he had made from the first beating of his childhood to the moment he wrapped the rope around the walrus' quivering throat. He deceived the authorities with his seemingly harmless frame, fooled them with his large, tear-filled eyes, both brought on by years of malnutrition from the man whose remains now crisped under his visage. Not even his aunt could register the wolfish grin that graced his face whenever she shed a tear for her lost husband. Murder was oh so unlike the Harry Potter, despite the punches to the gut, the cracks of leather on his back, and those grubby sausages Dursley called fingers that befouled his body late at night. The rumors passed from mouth to ear about him were but half-believed; those who knew him couldn't see the capacity to kill in his eyes. The soft features given to him by his mother grew to a cruel beauty to sustain the sadistic stare he had inherited from his father. Harry Potter had committed a flawless crime, with society at large giving him an alibi as the Boy-Who-Could-Do-No-Wrong. The sole beings who knew of his deed was himself and the dark angel before him.
"No. They don't know, and I know you're not planning on telling them," he chuckled.
The seraph raised his delicate, silver eyebrow. "Oh? How are you so sure I will not show the world the killer you are?"
"You wouldn't waste your time getting rid of evidence for me if you wanted me in Muggle jail."
"And what of Azkaban?" The air chilled twice over when the smile fell from Harry's lips, leaving the ice of a heart well hardened to sap the warmth from the angel's wings.
"Don't even joke, idiot. You said yourself that you're goddess has yet to take his life, and we both know you'll pay if I'm locked away and can't open his doors for her."
"Hmph," the angel bent his head down to whisper into Harry's ear, nestled deep in his wild hair. "I see I have told you too much as it is; perhaps I could go back and take some of those kind memories away. I am sure you'd enjoy playing with Vernon again, without me here to help, ne?" Harry took a fistful of feathers with him as he yanked himself from the angel's spell, shaking his noxious voice from his mind.
"Shut up! You don't hold the power here, Marlonne, and you should do well to remember that!" Storming out of the funeral parlor, he snarled at the blurred reflection of the angel in the waxed wood of the door. Opening his fist, he let the withered feathers flutter out to litter the carpet the hue of spilled wine behind him. The church had cleared out by now, leaving the crackles of the fire in the throes of death and the stomach-turning stench of scorched flesh to accompany him into the sticky, late August morning. Harry had no time for foolishness, as he had to begin packing for his move to Number 12, Grimmauld Place with no Uncle Vernon to pay the rent of Number 4, Privey Drive. A change of address was but a shift of mind set for him, though, as he was sure the creeping shadows of Black home now under his name worked well for the schemes of the wicked. He had now to plan for the death of one miserly wizard who had long outlived his right to lead the wizarding world against the dark.