It's simply fear of death, Harry rationalized, when he found himself think of Tom yet again. He'd been doing that a lot recently. Rationalizing, that's is. Well, and thinking of Tom if he wanted to be totally honest.
Fear of death. How many heroes out live their villain after all? Arthur died. Hector Died. Achilles died. Even Jesus died! Heroes don't out live their usefulness, Harry thought to himself desolately. Damn it all, was I supposed to be cheering myself up? Now I have a whole new set of problems! At least if I'm dead, I get to see Sirius.
Problems were one thing Harry had more than his share of. As soon as he arrived back at Privet drive, he found out Dumbledore had contacted his aunt and uncle. They were mad enough as it was, receiving a letter from 'his kind', so when they read it, they were furious.
Dudley's door, it turned out, had room for half a dozen locks and a cat flap. Who knew? For three weeks Harry hadn't left the smallest room in number four Privet Drive, save to go to the lavatory. He supposed it could be worse. They could be beating him like he deserved.
They're to afraid for that though, aren't they murderer? If you hadn't killed Cedric, none of this would have happened, If you hadn't killed Sirius, Harry thought bitterly. He knew he was being irrational. He knew he didn't kill Cedric. They took the cup together, and had both been port-keyed to that graveyard. Wormtail had killed Cedric. Tom had killed Cedric. Tom had killed Sirius.
No! Harry mentally screamed, Voldemort! Voldemort killed Sirius. Just like he killed my Cedric. I hate Voldemort, and I'm going to kill him!
His own voice in his head sounded callous when it answered. Voldemort? Boy, you don't know anyone by that name, it whispered. It sounded as wise as Dumbledore, but with all the vitriol of Snape. If his throat could affect that voice, he'd be the terror of Hogwarts.
Terror? Shut up, boy. All you know of terror is Tom, and you love him, His voice sneered.
No! He was mentally yelling again, I don't love Voldemort! And stop calling him Tom! I hate Voldemort! I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!
His inner terror-voice seemed to sigh. Yes boy, say it three times, that means it has to be true.
He killed my parents! Gryffindor bravado, Harry knew. There was no use arguing with himself. He knew what the voice would say before it said it, and his blood ran cold.
You killed Sirius. The terror-voice softly asserted, unfailingly. It always lived up to expectations, unlike a certain Boy-Who-Lived.
Harry had no response to that. It just wasn't fair for his taunting, evil side to tell the truth. He pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around himself, and began to rock back and forth, weeping softly. "I hate him," He muttered to himself, again and again. He fell asleep like that, sitting in the middle of his floor cold and invisible, rocking and swearing.
Somewhere far away, in an unplottable room inside an unplottable castle, Albus Dumbledore paces. The castle, Hogwarts; the room, his study; the man, disturbed. He is again remembering his own school days, and pacing, and wondering if it's too late to save the heir of House Potter. If his hero is mad from grief, who will save the world? He knows he won't live long enough to grow another one. It pains him to think in such terms, but this is war. It doesn't matter how much he likes the boy, he is the hero. He was born, as are all men, to die. Yet he was also born to kill.
"HARRY'S ESCAPED! HARRY'S ESCAPED!" Dudley's voice fills the house, and his jumping up and down rocks it.
What the hell? The very same Harry thinks, blearily. It's certainly not the most pleasant way he's ever woken up, but after a few seconds his head clears. He realizes what the problem is.
Dudley volunteered to bring Harry his food this morning, to have an excuse to taunt him. Unlike his parents, Dudley didn't know Harry was a murderer, so he had only on abnormality to be afraid of. Of course, in his ignorance, he had opened the door and come in, only to find the room conspicuously empty. He left his Smeltings stick, Harry noted with wry amusement.
Harry wasn't really gone of course, he was invisible and asleep. Now however, he was awake and alert. He threw his cloak over Hedwig's empty cage (She had disappeared a few days ago, and not yet returned. Probably couldn't stand his company), killing to birds with one stone.
Still killing things, boy? The terror-voice commented silently.
It's too early for internal conflict, Harry retorted, especially with external conflict coming up the stairs. He wondered briefly if he was mad, for arguing with himself. He dismissed it, and pulled on a shirt. At least now he was awake and alert. He sat down on his bed, and closed his eyes.
He knew his uncle was on the steps (or else Privet drive has come under siege), but he still can't find him with his new sense. Harry wonders why; no explanation seems to fit. At first he thought, perhaps I can only sense wizards. That fell through the first time he sensed aunt Petunia walking past. Maybe only wizards, and immediate family, he then reasoned. After all, Vernon wasn't his blood kin, and blood was important for this sort of thing, wasn't it?
Of course it was. Where else would the whole Pureblood hype have come from. Blood has to mean something. Unfortunately, he also sensed old Mrs. Figg one day, out 'walking her cats'. Honestly, Harry had thought, that woman is batty.
Maybe you should kill her, His terror-voice had said nastily. He had fallen asleep crying a lot this summer.
Harry was snapped from his reverie by the sound of his Uncle banging open his door. Vernon Dursley, Harry reflected, doesn't speak. He roars, bellows, scream, shout, and yells, but he doesn't speak. Later, much later, Harry Potter would look back on that moment, and realize it was when he snapped.
When he arrived, that's just what Vernon did: growl, yell and bluster. Harry just sat there on his bed, unable to bring himself to care, or even listen. He felt so empty. Vernon doesn't matter. Nor does his wrath. Privet Drive doesn't matter. Little Whinging, Surrey, and England, none of it matters. Scotland doesn't matter, Hogwarts doesn't matter, Albus-fucking- Dumbledore doesn't matter. Nothing in this whole bloody world matters.
And that's when Vernon hit him.