"Chapter 4"
A/N: So, I've started college, it's my third day of orientation, and I love it. The college is amazing, but I come home so tired—I was outside all day today, and yesterday I helped primer the outside of a house for "Into the Streets". (The house had to be dry-scrubbed before we did that, and it was originally painted with lead paint and it had asbestos in it, so we had to wear masks and goggles. Fun.) I've typed up this chapter because it was already written down and I didn't have to think about anything while I did it. Enjoy!
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Darkness had settled upon the manor's walls by the time Harry left the dungeons behind him for the night. Perhaps he noticed this, but he had grown so accustomed to the dimly-lit halls and dark-colored rooms. Cobwebs stirred in his wake as he passed, his robes billowing behind him as he walked briskly to his quarters. No one else was in the halls, which he rather preferred—he had always liked the silence, even as a young boy living in his cupboard at the Dursleys.
He hadn't thought of the Dursleys in years, ever since he'd killed them. They weren't worth remembering. Two years into Voldemort's training, shortly after Harry had killed Peter Pettigrew, the Dark lord had called him to the audience chamber and had proposed a trip to Privet Drive.
"After all, Harry," Voldemort had smiled thinly, "they must be frankly terrified that you've been missing for this long."
It had been a load of dragon dung saying that, and Voldemort knew it. He knew of Harry's hatred of his relatives, had seen the memories of abuse and disrespect and slave-like work. With those words, he had given Harry the perfect opportunity to deal out a punishment for his relatives—and he had not hesitated. That very night he had left for the house he detested, careful to cover his tracks and his identity.
The Dursleys had not been expecting to see their hated nephew walk smoothly into the living room at eleven at night; nor did they ever expect to face a cold-eyed young man clearly bent on revenge who had taken their nephew's place. Of course, Vernon Dursley had tried muscling Harry out the door.
He had been the first to die. It didn't take long for the fat Muggle man to break down screaming and sobbing from the different curses Harry had used on him, begging first for Harry to spare his life, then later pleading with him to end it. Harry had not paid attention to any of it, drawing out Vernon's death as long as he was interested in looking at his uncle's agony. When finally he was bored with him, and Vernon Dursley's smoking husk lay burning in front of the television, Harry had turned to his aunt Petunia, who had been forced to sit through her husband's torture and death.
"G-get out o-of here, freak!" He had been surprised that she was even able to still speak, as petrified as she was. "I-I'll c-call the police!"
"Now really, Aunt Petunia, do you honestly think that I'm not prepared for anything? You won't be able to call anyone; I've put silencing Charms around the house—otherwise everyone would be able to hear you screaming."
It had taken much longer to tire of torturing Petunia than it had his uncle. When at last he had become unimpressed with her screams, he'd simply killed her with the Avada Kedavra curse, the floor and walls stained and squelchy with blood. The scent of Vernon's burnt carcass and Petunia's coppery blood still stayed with Harry after all these years. He had calmly left the house, seeing that his cousin Dudley was out with friends. Let poor Dudders find his parents—he had considered killing his cousin as well, but then had decided that finding his parents dead, mangled bodies would be the perfect punishment—it would probably drive him to insanity.
Ignoring the sounds of screaming from the floors below, Harry entered his quarters, shrugging off the bloody robes he wore and Vanishing them away. Keeping only a few candles burning in the corners of the immense rooms, he stripped himself of everything to rid himself of blood, then washed himself thoroughly, feeling like he was, in some way, Pontius Pilate as he did so, washing himself of guilt.
When at last he was considerably clean, his hair still wet from the water, he changed into some comfortable pants—
And caught a sight of his back in the mirror. It still caused him to wince at the horrid crisscrossing scars that shone white—all inflicted by knives, spells, even whips. The Death Eaters had become quite creative in their methods of torture when he had been in the dungeons for those long months. Were they something to be ashamed of? They showed he was made of stronger stuff than one would think—Voldemort himself had said so.
He had been truthful with Snape before; he was the Dark Lord's most determined follower—if only to show himself that he could accomplish something, that he could handle a task, even if it was murder. He had not told Snape the other reason—that without taking upon responsibility for himself, he was not responsible for the deaths of others. He had escaped the guilt of being the reason why people died.
Sliding a loose tunic over his head, he pulled new robes on and left his quarters, heading for the audience chamber.
He had news about the Order he thought the Dark Lord would find most interesting.
A/N: Up next, we'll get a peek into Voldemort's pov as the author leaves Snape in the dungeons. Fifth chapter will be up whenever I get it typed up, it'll probably be up by Sunday night if I don't get distracted by anything.
