Chapter II

Hope put to a test

They walked in silence, between the waves of raging ocean and ghostly light of the moon, occasionally, a short scream was heard when Harry encouraged another member of his foster family to advance by applying the butt of his gun to their skull.

They were ascending; the dark stone of the reef towered before them, its hold to the ocean floor weakened by merciless northern winds. Among miles of bare water, rising desperately from the frozen abyss, this broken giant looked like a product of a disturbed mind invading a child's dream.

Harry liked this place; it was his refuge from cruelty and misunderstanding of the outside world during his emo years and a good place to loose a cadaver or two. He would often come here to think, resting among dark rocks of the reef, his young, inquisitive mind wondering away, developing new, efficient torture techniques, or plans to take over the world.

His large sweaty lips curved in what was supposed to be a smile. They were standing in front of the shack.

It had two storeys and was definitively made out of wood, but the time removed any clues which could be used to determine what kind. The material was covered with a thick layer of dried salt accumulated from many years, or perhaps centuries of standing among the waves. All around it were remains of a fence covered in rusty barbed wire. A twisted iron cross was perking from the top.

The doors and windows were absent, torn away by the rage of storms. The only known inhabitant was the northern wind, howling in abandoned furnace pipes.

-"Welcome!" said Harry heartily.

-"Oh, and Dudley, dear brother… Happy birthday!" he said as he watched his step brother raising his eyes.

-"I have a gift for you, here you go boy." He continued, and with these words he handed his step-brother a plastic butter-knife.

"That is so when you get hungry, you can kill your parents and eat to your heart's content!"

Harry explained joyfully.

Deep inside himself, Harry knew that he was being too generous. But as he watched people around him, their daily problems, their wins and their losses, he just could not stop himself from helping them. Verily, his heart was too big for this world.

Senses…

Things that Harry could not understand, but could rely upon. Like all people who led a dangerous way of life, he had a good sense of hazard and now, this sense was pounding his scull, readying his body for the battle to come. For amidst the crushing of thunder and the endless charge of waves against the reef, his large, sensitive toes located different vibrations – steps. Those steps were too abrupt and slow to belong to any member of the Dursley family and way too heavy to be his. Amidst the blast of smells inhabiting the reef, he smelled another smell; an unnatural, unbearable aroma of decease and putrefaction. Finally, amidst the incredible cacophony produced by the troubled sea, his large, concave ears had distinguished an unusual sound – breathing. Large masses of fresh air were loudly drawn in a wide cavity and out came the gas bearing the thick stench of the sewer.

They were not alone on this rock, not anymore. When a fight was unavoidable, Harry knew that the only thing that mattered was to survive, and what did not matter were the means used. He usually relied on the "middle-man" technique, which meant using a weaker person as a meat-shield. With his right hand, Harry drew and cocked his gun. With his left hand, Harry grabbed uncle Vernon by the neck and pushed him in front of himself, ignoring horrified screams of Aunt Petunia and her son. Something was inside the shack before them. It was something which was never meant to walk, never meant to breathe and never meant to live. The steps were louder now, whatever it was, it was gaining speed, advancing relentlessly, crushing all in its way with a hungry, cadaverous determination. Harry awaited his enemy; his cold resolve had banished fear and anxiety, leaving place for determination. He stood alone on top of the reef, his tall black figure drawn in flashes of lighting on the canvas of the obliterating waves of icy rain; soaring like a black battle-banner amidst the chaos surrounding them, his over-coat was barely covering his steel muscles. Every inch of him was aching for action, to crash, to tear, to drown the enemy in their own blood.

He aimed right at the entrance, slightly higher than where a normal human head would appear, for he sensed that his opponent was more, or less than a mere man. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing his primal senses to lead his attack. Slowly, he exhaled and firmly squeezed the trigger.

A loud click awoke him from his combat meditation, as a bucket of cold water that kills our slumber and draws our senses in rage.

The gun was empty.

Without its deadly cargo, it was a silvery piece of metal, a wonderfully useless thing.

In such moments, Harry learned to rely on fate. He threw down the gun and took a defensive stand. Come what will be.