Hello one and all! Welcome to the Messed Up Circus of Shroom Trips, where all your nightmares come true! Yeah, so here is a tidbit to clear things up: most birds besides ducks and geese are missing the frank to the beans, if you catch my drift. Harry's lil' bro is not coming back, but he and his lover get to do just about everything else. This is anyway, so it's not like I can go into detail of them doin' the deed! Just…use your imagination! Ok, on with the story! Besides, I didn't say that Draco was missing equipment…
Rating: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness
Warning: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC
Declaimer: You wish I owned Harry Potter, but I don't. So HA!
CHAPTER THREE: Control
"Let it be washed away…"
Harry's reflection in the dishwater lake smiled back at him, emerald eyes glinting. He felt his cheeks stretch his dry lips across his face until the skin on them cracked, rubies falling from the splits. Darting his tongue out from between his fangs, he tasted the rust and salt of his own blood. The aftertaste was a tang of spice on the back of his throat and made him smile wider. His skin glowed in the dawning sunlight, a plane of white that ran down over his slim thighs, his hairless legs, and his bare feet buried in hoary sand. Ebony locks tickled his shoulders and flew in the freshwater breeze.
"Let it be washed away…"
His shoulders tensed at a sudden gasp and he jumped to his feet, not remembering when he sat down. Following the gasp came the coughing, the gagging, the cries, the pleas, the begging…he knew this symphony well. Inching his head over his shoulder, he spotted the familiar pair a ways down the sand bar. He saw the hulking mass with fat that rolled down to the man's toes, topped with a sprinkle of gray hair. The walrus was on his knees, overwhelming the toddler in his clutches into the man's favorite position: ass up. The screams grew louder with a rough thrust, the warbling voice crying for someone, anyone, to wake him up from this reoccurring nightmare. His tormentor laughed and kept the boy planted so he could finish his business before the wife came home.
"Let it be washed away…"
Must hurry this up. Will this brat ever shut his trap?
"Far away…"
No one cares if you of all people like it, freak.
"To the ocean…"
Your foul mother was just as much a whore as you!
"Where the water is cold…"
TAKE WHAT YOU DESERVE!
"Let it be washed away."
Feathers fell like snowflakes around him, around them, and floated on the water's mirror surface. The ripples distorted his features, bending his face, twisting his smile, sending waves down his pearl skin. His vision went colorless, the contact of the taut rope and his gloved hands setting his mind into dead focus. Harry's approach was hushed by the yield of his spanning wings and allowed him to stride with head held high. The man's supporting arms hid most of the toddler's face, but not the wide, dark-ringed eyes. Crystal tears dripped from a fan of dark lashes and were sucked into the sand grinding into his phantom knees. Harry couldn't help growling when he saw his own terror, and alerted his uncle to his presence, but he held back his fist from pummeling that face. That crinkled brow, with sweat pouring down his sideburns, heated with exertion and those perverted sensations that festered in his loins.
"Let it be washed away."
"Putrid."
What the deuce are you doing here, boy?! DIDN'T I TELL YOU NOT TO DISTURB ME UNLESS I CALL FOR YOU?!
"Disgusting."
Well, now that you're here, there's stress relief to be done. It's my doctor's order.
"Filthy."
Don't just stand there! Drop them!
"Just a moment, sir."
What do you think you're doing? W-AH! AHHHHH! NO! STOP!
"Just a moment; I promise."
ST-AHHHGHH! I C-CAN'T—AACK…
Harry tied the rope to the brass doorknob, and sat in the sand with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Above him was the scene that met his dearest Aunt Petunia at 3:45 p.m., August 29th. He had chosen a rope long enough to dangle his uncle an inch off the floor, the prospect of touching ground just out of reach. Vernon's neck was curved to the left, broken. His tongue lolled out from beneath his scraggly mustache with a string of drool slithering down his many chins. His eyes were open and his irises were drawn up into his skull, displaying burst blood vessels. The groan of protest from the rope holding him up coupled well with the thump of his swaying feet on the mahogany study desk. Sighing, Harry flexed his wings, fingering the bandage on his self-inflicted wound near the edge of the right one. In the past, the rest of the Dursleys clambered out of the family car in the driveway, slamming the doors and clucking about. Screaming out of window, he was sure his voice carried down Privey Drive, waking babies from afternoon naps for blocks. He could still hear the wails.
"Shh, baby, don't cry." The chorus of shrieks blended into one, ear-splitting howl.
"Hmm?"
"Now, now, be happy. The pain gonna stop soon, so soon you won't…even…feel it." Silence. "Ah, that's my little man."
"Where are you?"
"Shush it. You'll wake the baby." The woman's voice was rough yet soothing with an American accent, reprimanding him from behind. "I see why ya here. That's quite a work of art."
"Where am I?"
"Quiet, I said! Geez, ya must talk in ya sleep. That happens when ya first get here, but ya get used to it. I snooze like, well, a baby."
"Tell me where I am."
"Turn around."
"Harry! Rise and shine, mate!"
"Oh! Looks like it's time."
"What about you? What about the baby?"
"Harry, wake up! We have to be off!"
"Do you think something's wrong with him?"
"Ya gonna see me again befo' long. Take the time to know my face, though. Turn around." She was close to the point of breathing down his neck. He spun on his heel right as he was snatched off the shore and into the sky. All he caught was a flash of green eyes, just like his own. "Catch ya later, kid."
09:56 a.m., Number 12, Grimmauld Place
The first thing he saw when he woke up was a bed full of ginger, pink and fresh. Then he noticed the Weasleys observing him from the corner of his eye as if they expected a heart-felt acceptance speech for the aforementioned ginger. They waited…one blink…two blinks…
"Erm…good morning, all."
"Yes! That's right! A bloody good morning it is!" His gangly best friend burst forth from the sea of his siblings, laughing his freckles off like it was the best morning of his life. "Thank you, Harry, for saying that, since there is nothing to bring down this great day!"
"Ronald!" Mrs. Weasley rushed up to Harry with a basket of filled with assorted fruits, bags of herbs, and boxes upon boxes of breakfast tea. Putting on a duly concerned face, the plump woman rearranged his nest of pillow hair, muttering under her breath. After a few moments of messing around with his head, she gave up in a huff and took to sorting through the basket for the appropriate fruit. She turned back to him, handed him an apple with a gentle smile. Then, on a second thought, she gave him a peck on the forehead,her eyes brimming with tears. "Harry, dear, are you okay?"
"Uh…yes, ma'am. I'm fine?" This answer led to a smothering embrace amidst her paisley scarves and red curls. Once she pulled away, Hermione ran forward and threw him into another hug, her mane of brown frizz crashing into his nose. With a sob and a sneeze, they were separated by Ginny's wave of squeezes and condolences. Then, just when he thought he was free, the range of Weasley brother's bar Ron took to patting his back and rubbing his shoulders with grim countenances. "Are you all alright in the head?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with you guys? It was his Uncle Vernon for goodness' sake! We should be celebratin', now that Old No-Neck is out of the picture!"
"Ron!" Hermione pinched his ear before Mrs. Weasley could reach it and dragged him off to the corner in a hurry. The Weasleys crowded around them without fail, offering words of comfort and soft smiles.
"Ron, have you no sense of sensitivity?!"
"Why be sensitive? We all know that whole lot of Muggles is a bunch of—OUCH! What?!"
"Don't speak ill of the dead, Ronald Weasley, or so help me I'm leaving you!"
"Over Harry's late uncle?! That has nothing to do with us!"
"Well, would you like it if Harry said nasty things about your uncle?"
"I don't have an uncle."
"Oh don't be childish! You know very well that you have an uncle—"
"Don't bring that guy into this. If he were to die, the world would have one less f—"
"Don't! Listen, this is about Harry, not your family. Just get over your own prejudices for once and understand that your best friend is grieving right now. His uncle goes and hangs himself right after his godfather died, and he has to live in this horrid place because you're family didn't want to house him."
Harry pulled out of their conversation then, cringing at what he'd gathered. He was supposed to track his target's communications through any means necessary, but that was too much information for so early in the morning. He knew that Dumbledore had spoken with the Weasleys in a private meeting the day before he moved into Grimmauld Place, but not the subject of the discussion. He had hoped that it would reveal the whereabouts of the headmaster—a few clues, at least—but not that it had concerned him and Vernon's "suicide".
And what's all this about the Weasleys not wanting me to live in the Burrow?
"…bledore's absence will mess with his head once he finds out."
"Then we won't tell him."
"That much is obvious! We don't want him any more emotional, with You-Know-Who still looking for him. Just don't mention anything troubling around him. I don't think he could take it right now."
"I'm 'emotional', not deaf. I can hear every word you two are saying over there." The couple's whispered conversation stopped, as well as the post-funeral eulogies the Weasleys were spewing. A room full of brown eyes gawked at his casual grin and raised eyebrow. Brushing the frozen gingers out of his way, he strode to Ron and Hermione's corner wearing naught but the gray dress shirt and tube socks. He was a great deal shorter than both of them but towered over the entire room in his confidence. "I don't mind if I have to live here; I like having my own house. I do whatever I want to it and in it. Isn't that right, Mistress Black?"
The company twitched, but no screeching could be heard through the paper-thin walls of the Black home. The lack of noise, however, was filled with the beating hearts, the shallow breathing, and the tiny rumble of muscles in wrists and necks. Harry could hear them.
"Have any of you ever wondered why I have such an…unpredictable temper? Hmm? Anyone at all?" Ginny made to speak but clamped her mouth shut at his sharp glare. "It's because I feel you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. I hear you talk about me when you think I'm not listening. Does that disturb anyone in this room? Huh? 'Cause I know it drives me up a fucking wall." The tempo of beats and breaths hitched than sky-rocketed, the two pairs of eyes before him focusing on anything except their grinning friend. "I'm glad you all are okay with that. Oh, and you know what, thanks for bringing up Sirius, 'Mione; that'll make my day much better." Three… two...one…
"H-harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I-I…we…"
"Hey, don't bring me into this!"
"Ron, are you serious?! You whisper about your so called 'best friend' just as much as anyone, if not more!"
"That's pure bollocks! Harry, mate, don't take in a word of what she says! She's completely off her rocker!"
"WHAT?!"
"YOU FILTHY BLOOD TRAITORS!"
"It seems the lady of the house heard you," Harry smirked.
"COMING TO STEAL MY FORTUNE! HOW DARE YOU DESECRATE MY HOME WITH YOUR BARBARIC HOOVES! YOU BRING IN THE MUD OF YOUR RAT HOLES TO INFEST MY DOMAIN WITH YOUR STENCH! OUT! OUT! IT WAS YOU WHO HAVE BESMIRCHED MY FAMILY NAME WITH YOUR ENDLESS BETRAYAL! MAY YOUR CHILDREN ROT IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS—"
Her words her muffled by the wisp of her curtains closing, and a gentle humming calmed her spiteful rant. The melody was hummed in a man's deep voice, one who took his dear time climbing the stairs from the ground floor to the third. Stairs rasping with his footsteps, the man then knocked on the door, courteous. Harry strolled through the shocked redheads and opened the door for a certain, silver-haired acquaintance. Marlonne beamed down at him from under the brim of his fedora, nodding at the apple in the younger man's hand.
"That looks delicious, love. I am positive you do not want it, though."
"Positivity's for fools, and enough with the pet names, you arse."
"You cease your name calling, and I shall cease mine, Mr. Potter."
Marlonne glided into the room reminiscent of an alley cat, having replaced robes for a black, leather trench coat and black slacks. The layers of dark colors contrasted with the faint flush on his cheekbones and the cutting, ice blue irises that Harry hadn't noticed in their previous encounters. His hands were gloved in dark leather as well, though the scarf clinging to his shoulders was a rose red. More than the day before, Marlonne blended in as a startling sight of a man, instead of a war-inciting angel of death. Someone in the room cleared a throat, snapping Harry out of his trance and drawing his attention to a nervous father. Arthur Weasley stumbled forward by a swift shove from his wife and straightened his hunched back.
"Harry, my boy, I—"
"Yes, Mr. Weasley, what is it?"
"Eh? Oh, yes, well. I believe we should postpone your friend's visit for another time while we have a little talk."
"Oh," smiled Marlonne, looking from Harry to Mr. Weasley. "Did I interrupt something? I apologize for being so rude as to break up an important family discussion, what with the death of his uncle on our minds."
"H-how did you know about Vernon Dursley's death, sir?"
"Me?" Marlonne removed his hat and combed through his bangs with a contemplative hand. "Nowhere else than from Mr. Potter, if I memory serves me right. Is that not correct, dear heart?"
"NO nicknames, Marlonne. Yes, I called you right after it happened."
"Ah! Now I remember. You had wanted some consolation and happened to have my number in your pocket. My heart broke and I had no other thought than to comfort my dearest little Harry." Marlonne took advantage of Harry's silence and lifted him into his arms, gentle enough not to bruise, but tight enough to keep him still. One arm supporting his thighs, and another around his waist, he cradled Harry in his embrace like he was holding a precious child. Once Marlonne pressed his wild raven-head into the crook of his neck, the Boy-Who-Lived appeared before his company as the helpless orphan boy they thought he was. "That night comes to me in the most vivid of images, the clearest of sounds. I can still feel your warm tears on my cheek, your fists on my chest. The thought murders me from the inside! Leave, red-headed visitors and friend! Can you not see the poor boy is in pain?"
The argument held well that Harry was in agony, as he was curled into a ball in Marlonne's long arms. His face was buried in his clothed shoulder and his own physique shook with racking sobs. The savior hissed "Why me? Why me?!" multiple times, and by the time the non-angel placed him on top of his mussed bedspread, he was covering his own ears hard enough to pop an eardrum. The Weasleys and Hermione left without another word and eased the door shut behind them. When they crept out of the front door, careful not to wake the mistress, Harry had launched himself at his single guest's chest. Pounding into it with blind intent to destroy, he failed to notice the second person slip through the bedroom window. The next moment, he was flying into the opposite wall, wings splayed behind him in a sudden reappearance. He landed in a pyramid of gift baskets, and then hopped back up, swearing and seething, his eyes on the coughing man on his floor.
"THAT WASN'T THE STORY WE AGREED ON! I NEVER CRIED FOR THAT BASTARD!"
"-cough-We had to make my appearance less-cough, cough-conspicuous. I used the tactic of 'close family' friend instead of-hack- the vague 'relative' cover you offered. My apologies if it appeared more intimate than I had thought."
"I'M GOING TO RIP YOUR WINGS OFF!"
"Oh, yes, because you are so adept at ripping wings. Do tell me how that plays out for you."
"Shut it up, both of ya."
For the first time, Harry noticed the second new comer to the room, lounging on his bed. She dropped her weight on her elbows, leaning back with her legs crossed on over the other. A few strands of auburn hairs hung down from her military fatigue cap that matched her baggy shorts with a beige, sleeveless undershirt that fit complimented her curves. Her bare, brown shoulders were tattooed with thin stripes, down her arms, to disappear under rough, worker's gloves. Her calves had the same stripes, which stopped on the sides in a ribbed pattern on each shin, ending off in a pair of heavy-soled construction boots. The most captivating feature was her gemstone green eyes, bright with amusement where his own were with rage. She was—
"My Lady."