I own nothing. Least of all this.
16) GHOST RIDER
To one Harry James Potter, pain was a very old friend.
Tonight, it looked like he just might become a bit more acquainted with its counterpart: Death.
His body lay beaten, broken, and bleeding on the bedroom floor. Any attempted movement brought nothing more than another flash of pure agony, and with each flash Harry could feel his life slip further and further away. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this way, but before he had at least been at Hogwarts, where Madame Pomfrey could fix him up. Harry couldn't believe it, but he found he could say with no small degree of certainty that Uncle Vernon hurt worse than Voldemort had.
And wasn't that just terrific.
A laugh attempted to push its way out of his lungs, but all that emerged was a rattling cough. His vision went white for a moment from the pain, and then gradually faded back in. As it did so, he resumed the mental task he had been working on before; namely, a list. A list of everyone and everyone to blame for his current position.
Number one on his list was, surprisingly, not Uncle Vernon, but instead a certain white-bearded wanker who liked to sit back in his ivory tower and pretend that everything was going to work out fine. The one that had assured him that going back to his relatives' was necessary, and that things would work out for the best if he would merely "endeavor to persevere".
Endeavor to persevere. Harry had thought about that for quite a long time. And when he had thought about it enough, he would have gladly declared war on one Albus Dumbledore.
Not that he was in much shape to declare war on anyone, partially thanks to the second person on his list: one House-Elf by the name of Dobby. He had tried to be kind to the fellow; tried to be understanding and polite. And what had that gotten him? A warning on using under-age Magic around Muggles, and an irate Uncle Vernon that had been quite pleased to find out Harry wasn't allowed to use Magic outside of Hogwarts. Now Harry found that he could quite cheerfully strangle the little Elf and not feel a thing. Well, beyond the pain such an effort would inevitably bring.
At first, Harry had been tempted to not put the Dursleys on his list at all. After all, they really didn't count as people. More like mindless animals, creatures that understood only one thing: the food chain. One that Harry, for one shining moment, had been on top of. Their reaction when he lost his position as apex predator was a completely natural one; it was never a good idea to give your enemies a chance to rise once more. Yes, Harry could have found it within himself to forgive the Dursleys, if it weren't for one very specific thing they had done.
His eyes traveled up and over to his bed, where lay a battered bird-cage, blood splattered on the wires. Harry was reminded of a quote from one of the few Muggle books he'd ever been able to smuggle and read: "A dying dragon digs a witch's grave". Only this time, it should have been him doing the digging.
Two whispered words slipped from his lips. "Sorry Hedwig."
He couldn't hold her as her breaths got shallower and shallower; he couldn't bury her when they finally stopped altogether. And worst of all, there would be no vengeance. For her, or for him. Albus Dumbledore would go on living in his tower, Dobby would go on working for his family, and the Dursleys would go on with their normal lives, never admitting that there had ever been anything the least bit "freakish" about their lives.
Harry's eyes slipped closed for what he was sure would be the final time. He had never believed in Heaven; it was a place the Dursleys liked to say he would never be able to go. They had always insisted that he would end up in the same place his worthless parents had, the place meant for all freaks like him and them. And Harry knew that place was real; after all, hadn't he been living in it for the past eleven years? Oh yes, Harry Potter believed in Hell. He just wished he could have sent everyone on his list there instead.
"Do you?"
Harry would have jerked if there had been any strength left in his body. As it was, hearing another voice in one's head was usually a good indicator that you were well and truly on the way out. Maybe it was the Grim Reaper, come to execute judgement. Maybe not. It really didn't matter to Harry, beyond the fact that playing along with the voice might buy him just a little more time. So he thought back at it, as loudly as he could.
"Yes. Yes I do."
"You would wish to send all those who have done wrong, to both you and your friends, to Hell? To condemn them to eternal punishment, to burn for eternity for their sins?"
Well, when the voice put it that way…it didn't change a thing. "Absolutely."
"Hmm. Interesting. You would have let your relatives live; but they chose to attack something weaker than them, solely because it was associated with you. And thus, your desire for vengeance grew to include them."
"Yeah? Is that important, or something?"
"Just making conversation, young Potter. And wondering whether or not you would be worth it."
"Worth…what, exactly?"
"The Wizarding World is in shambles. Crumbling, as Gotham, Rome, and Leng before it. The time has come for judgement to be brought down upon it; but only someone very special is capable of doing what is necessary. Are you such a person, Mister Potter? Will you strike down evil wherever it may be found, with neither grace nor mercy in your soul? Can you?"
Harry would have thought that last bit through rather carefully if he hadn't been in the process of dying. Which was the point, he rather suspected. Still, he didn't think his final answer would have been any different than the one he gave now. "I can do it. I swear."
"You will learn soon, Mister Potter, that in this life, there is only one rule: make no promise, and swear no oath. But your dedication is to be admired. Very well; I will save you, and your friend. And in return, you will bring shake the Wizarding World itself to its core, leaving nothing of the rotting frame left standing. Do we have a deal?"
"…Deal."
With that, a burst of flame appeared in Harry's view, despite his eyes still being completely shut. The flame grew in size, and began to take on the semblance of a shape. When at last it stopped growing, it turned. And Harry found himself staring into the eyes of the Devil himself.
"Marvelous."
Vernon Dursley had not had a good day.
First, there had been all those awkward noises from the freak's room he had been forced to cover up during the dinner. He was sure his guests both thought he had a cold at the very least. And then, on top of that, the blasted freak had utterly ruined the dinner with his…freakishness.
But everything had been alright after that. One of their bloody owls had shown up with a letter for the freak, warning him about doing anything freaky around normal people. And Vernon had realized that despite the boy's threats, there was nothing he could do to them without getting into even more trouble. That had been all Vernon had needed to hear.
First had been the boy's flying rodent. He had quite enjoyed watching his precious Dudders flatten it with the fire-iron while he held the freak down. The only reason he hadn't joined in was he had wanted to make sure the freak knew exactly what would be happening to him next; thus, the longer the boy's owl lasted, the longer the freak's punishment itself would be postponed.
That had been, in retrospect, a slightly bad idea.
The bloody ingrate had nearly bitten his thumb clean off in an effort to get to his precious bird, and Vernon had lost what little cool he had left. He had turned his full attention to the boy, any thought of dragging out the torture forgotten in his rage. He had even used what little furniture there was in the room for his own purposes. When at last it was over, Dudders had used the iron to toss what was left of the rodent into the cage and locked it shut, and then the pair of them had locked the boy's remains in his room, the blood from the pair of them covering practically every surface. They could clean it up in the morning, after properly disposing of the freak himself, as well as his effects.
At least, that had been the plan.
Vernon had been awoken by the absence of sound. Usually around this time of the night all sorts of freakish creatures began croaking and hooting and the like. And no matter how much he complained about it, the truth was that it was virtually impossible for Vernon to fall asleep to any other noises. So when it all shut off in an instant, he instantly knew something was wrong.
Making his way downstairs, armed with the fire-iron from earlier, he was terrified to find a figure, small and shrouded in darkness, standing in front of the freak's cupboard, where'd they'd locked the rest of his stuff. Only the fact that the freak was dead kept him from wondering whether he had somehow found his way past the locks and bars.
Stealthily (for him), he crept up behind the figure, and raised the iron, ready to strike.
A burning trail of light appeared in the figure's hand, and then lashed out, binding Vernon's arm to his neck quite tightly. Then, what Vernon now realized was a chain was yanked backwards, dragging him directly into the grasp of the figure.
Vernon couldn't help but stare into the burning orbs that now regarded him with barely concealed hatred. He began to shake in uncontrollable fear as the face those eyes belonged to took form in the fire-light.
"No…you're dead…"
"Yes. Yes I was. And now…I'm back. In black."
The freak began to laugh. A hellish sound by any comparison, but at approximately thirteen-o-clock at night, even more so. Vernon couldn't help but wet himself in terror at the sound.
The freak's laughter abruptly cut off mid-howl, and his grasp on the chain, and thus Vernon's throat, tightened significantly. He seemed to stare into the depths of Vernon's soul itself, as if judging it…and finding it wanting. Slowly, a grin spread across the boy's face. As it did so, the skin of the boy's face peeled back, and then burnt off all-together. What was left was a horrifically grinning skull, ever flaming, but seemingly never consumed. A single, deepened word, as if drug up from the depths of Hades itself, emanated from the skeletal mouth.
"…Guilty."
The chain tightened once again….and Vernon Dursley was no more.
Harry could only watch as Number Four, Privet Drive, went up in flames. Something deep within him, whether his desire for vengeance or his taste for the theatric, seemed to clap its hands at the spectacle. He found he was tempted to do it for real. But there was more yet to be done that night.
Turning his back on the conflagration, Harry strode over to where he had dropped the rest of his school supplies. Not that he'd be needing a wand for much from now on. But still, it was best to keep that knowledge to himself for the moment. He would tell those he trusted eventually, as short of a list as that was. But first, he had to choose. Choose exactly which of the people on said list to tell first, and hopefully, prevail upon them to put him up for the time being.
In the end, there was really only one name that came to mind: Hermione Granger, his best friend, and the smartest witch he knew. If anyone would know exactly what had happened to him, or at least be able to find out, it would be her.
He felt a reassuring weight settle on his shoulder. True to his word (and wasn't that a first), the Devil had indeed brought back Hedwig. But not, exactly, in the way she had been before. Harry tilted his head to look at the phoenix now sitting comfortably on his right arm. "What do you think, Hedwig? Hermione's?"
The former owl gave a trill of agreement, and rubbed her head against Harry's. He couldn't help but smile. "Okay, girl. Now, how best to get there…"
As if in response to his remark, his broom levitated from off the ground, and then burst into a trail of flames.
"…Huh. That's one way to do it. But if we're gonna do this the right way, we're doing as the Americans do. Surf's up, Hedwig."
The phoenix trilled again as Harry jumped atop the broom, perfectly balancing some four feet in the air. "Just like a skateboard."
The flames from the broom expanded to cover Harry himself, revealing his true nature once more for all the world to see.
"…Let's ride."
Fred and George Weasley could only look on in horror as Harry Potter's house burned to the ground. It had taken a mighty amount of convincing from their younger brother when his letters hadn't been answered, but now they were seriously regretting not listening sooner.
Harry Potter was, in all likelihood, dead. And it was, without a doubt, their fault.
As one, they looked to each other, and uttered four words that had never until that moment left their lips:
"…We gotta tell Mom."