Disclaimer: Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings.

Warning: This chapter – a bit sadistic, I'd agree – isn't for the faint of heart, nor the young audience.

Chapter 6 – Global Destruction

The train had been late, and the last bus hadn't waited for the connecting commuters. Harry and three other persons were left, grumbling, in the train station of Little Whinging. The other commuters, having their cars parked nearby, already left. The three other persons were a man in a grey raincoat, which Harry would kill to possess right now, and a plump woman with a young girl. The girl stared innocently at Harry and his heavy luggage, just before showing her tongue to him. Then they left, hurrying under the downpour.

Harry was alone, again. And it was raining, again. He wanted to wait for the rain to ease down, but it didn't, and it even intensified. The clock on the wall of the station was nearing 9pm, and the only employee, yawning, told him to go outside, because the station was closing. Disgruntled, Harry obeyed after a long look at the area map. It wouldn't be good to be lost at this hour, now would it?

So, with his trunk in tow, and his owl's cage in his other hand, Harry started to trudge back to Privet Drive.

After one hour, Harry was sweating and heaving, but he was nearing the backyard entrance of number 4, Privet Drive, which was the straightest path one could find between his relative's place and the station. He was also exhausted and on the verge of catching a cold. Weren't he so tired from hauling his heavy and now damp trunk through half the town, he would have been worried by the voices coming from the house. His bad luck, though, pushed him through the kitchen's door, right into the playfield. When he opened the door, the voices stopped, and his plastered hair prevented him from noticing the faces of his relatives looming in the room. He just noticed the smell of grease and bacon burning. 'How weird, they are taking dinner this late...' he reflected. Only when the door closed after him did the voices start again.

"YOU!"

Not surprised at the tone, but rather by the vehemence of the addressing voice, Harry narrowed his eyes to look up through his half-fogged glasses and his plastered locks, to the plum-coloured face of his uncle, and instantly knew he was in trouble. In very deep trouble.

"How dare you showing your freaky face here? We didn't get you for a reason!" his aunt screeched, while his uncle was hyperventilating.

"You! You're... freak... I... won't... keep... parents... make... regret... being... born..."

That's all his obviously inebriated uncle managed to utter, while taking a hesitant step towards him at each word. As soon as he was in range of the frightened Harry, the overly large frame of Vernon Dursley lunged itself towards him, and the punch wasn't restrained at all. It could have downed a well-trained boxer. It could have split the heavy wooden table. On Harry's wiry frame, the effect was devastating. Dropping the trunk and Hedwig's cage, he was sent flying backwards from the hit, and hit the stove, before dropping in a heap against the closed door. Once there, in a state of semi-consciousness, he panted miserably. His uncle, though, wasn't one to take pity of him, especially in his intoxicated state and, taking advantage of Harry's position on the floor, landed a vicious kick in his nephew's midsection, audibly cracking a rib or two in the process. Then he straightened back, looking suspicious.

"What's... this?" he uttered, reaching for some paper he saw emerging from the boy's pocket. When he extracted them, though, his eyes went wide, and he yelled. "Money! All this lodging... we did raise... for free... and you had... never paid! You little... cheater!" he then retreated towards the stove.

Knowing that his punishment wasn't over yet, Harry looked up apprehensively, and started to whimper when he caught his uncle's purpose.

Vernon Dursley had come back totally smashed one hour before, and his personal sobering method was to eat as much as he could, and as greasy as possible. Rather inefficient, in fact, but at least it would force him to stay at the table. Now, he was awkwardly holding the frying pan on top of Harry's head, enjoying the deer-caught-in-headlights look on his nephew's face. "It's your fault... Dudley was expelled... have been fired... All your fault! You'll rue... the day... you were born."

His breath cut, Harry can't really protect himself, apart from trying to scream, when Vernon emptied the content of the pan onto his head. As the Dursleys like their bacon greasy, the equivalent of a litre of burning oil fell on Harry's mop of hair, with scraps of sizzling bacon. If the first microseconds of contact felt good, because of his generally damp and cold state, it quickly turned into a pain so intense and overwhelming that he couldn't even scream, his whole being threatening to shut down. His face was smoking, devastated, and the scorching oil slipped inside his clothes, damaging some more skin there. If it wasn't such a frightening sight, you could have laughed at the random scraps of bacon littering the teen's head.

"I should... done that... long time ago!" bellowed the brute, before striking Harry with the pan. The already semi-conscious boy lost it completely and fell down on the floor, almost not breathing.

Awakened a long time ago from his dad's accident and ramblings, and understanding that his old man now found a substitute of sorts to his problems, Dudley finally showed his head through the kitchen door. In the time of one year, he had been expelled from Smeltings due to his shift of interest from academics to boxing. Well, as if he had the slightest inclination towards academics before. In any case, he so wanted to bring his style to perfection that he attacked everyone who displeased him. The rather permissive attitude of the staff, linked to the money his parents did put in, continued until he assaulted a teacher. Vernon Dursley had hollered against the staff, of course, but Dudley was too far gone for redeeming. Once back home, he had been enrolled in the local public school, where he had gone into his hobby even more than before, the living example of a bully. Furthering that streak, he had associated with dubious friends, and had been inserted into the local gangs, where his muscles were an asset. With difficulty, he had even learned to use guns and steal cars.

Once showing himself in the kitchen, though, seeing his father's appearance, he was close to lose every little nerve he ever had. The man was dishevelled, and his often brick-coloured face had now a deep purple hue. His eyes were bulging outwards, his clothes were in disarray, and smelt of alcohol, as his breath did. Recovering, Dudley saw the crumpled form of his cousin near the door, just when Vernon Dursleys noticed the large form of his son.

"Come on... sonny! Let's give... the freak... a last run-down." the underlying tone was clear, and frightened Petunia Dursley. Sure, she had never liked her sister, nor her nephew. Sure, she had abhorred being forced to lodge him. Sure, she generally agreed with her husband on all the issues relative to 'freaks'. But that was going too far. They were obviously going to kill him. And she couldn't stop them. In Vernon's state of mind, he would associate her to her nephew immediately. And their son has changed so much lately that she wasn't sure of his reactions towards her anymore. So, she went to the living room not to see the slaughter. She was quite sure that, before killing the boy, their machismo would push each of them to outdo the other in torturing him. The exchange of voices between her husband and her son confirmed her darkest intuitions, and the odd sounds coming from the kitchen made her shiver. She started to cry, imagining the reaction of the old wizard she met such a long time ago.

"...I bet you I break his arm with my hand..."

"...what does a burning freak smell? Let's try the stove..."

"...ouch, that stinks! Did you really have to put so much grease? He's all burnt now..."

"...yeah, after KFC, here comes DFF: Dursley's Fried Freak..."

"...here, here..."

"...what is a muscle, inside?" "I dunno, take that knife and let's find out..."

"...do you think I can touch the heart with a fork? Ah, missed, bad luck..."

"...you know, I always thought that the tiger paw's scars on the face were the worst done on the movies. I wonder if I can do better..."

"...that's funny, we don't see his stupid scar anymore." "Yeah, too many cuts..."

"...he doesn't react anyway, it removes all the fun." "Try spraying some salt on the cuts." "Doesn't work..."

"...what does a breaking bone sounds like?" a crack "Aaah... I like this sound." another crack.

"...hey! Watch your steps!" "Sorry, I slipped on the blood..."

It was a long time until both Dursley males turn back into the living room, a demented gleam in their eyes, and blood on their hands and clothes. They seemed calmer now, and talked amiably. The subject of their chat was not that pleasant, though.

"I wretched the car, but I think it could still run for a short while."

"No need dad, I'll 'take' Mr Slenger's pick-up."

A silence and two curious looks later, Dudley explained, to his mother's worry and his father's contentment. "I know how to 'take' a car, okay? Dad, make sure he's wrapped in the carpet we talked about, I'll park by the backyard."

"Is he...?" Petunia started.

"No, the bastard... still lives." answered her husband, still panting from the effort, before finishing with a hardness in his voice "But not for long... We are going to... dump him... somewhere safe. You, take care of his... 'things'... and clean the place."

Getting in the corridor, Vernon Dursley reached into the cupboard under the stairs, then went back in the kitchen holding Harry's old linens and covers. He enveloped the body in these, and, noticing headlights flashing in the backyard, dragged it through the door. He and his son picked up the dreadful package and dropped it rudely in the pick-up, before covering it up with some items already there. Then Dudley took the wheel and they sped out of Little Whinging.

Taking the highways, Dudley followed his father's directions, and they turned around London, making use of Mr Slenger's previously filled tank. Unknown to both his wife and his son, before living in the mid-level suburb of Little Whinging, Vernon Dursley had been a thug in a shoddy part of northern London, and he was directing his son towards that precise area. Like father, like son, could reflect Dudley if he knew, and if a whale could reflect. Besides, he was driving already. He had been taught to drive while learning how to steal a car. After all, if you couldn't drive the car you stole, there was little use. Luck was on the Dursleys' side, again, because nobody intercepted the pick-up with the underage driver, his still-smashed father, and their hideous freight.

Upon arriving, Vernon directed Dudley through the poorly lit streets, until they arrived to a large pile of rubble and waste. The stench was almost unbearable, but the two males, high on adrenaline, took their shipment and, together, went on top of the rubble, and dropped it there. Then they returned to the still-running car, patting each other's back as if coming back from a job well done.

At home, Petunia was a whirl of cleaning activities. With reason, she thought that taking whatever action she could think of would direct her thoughts away from the recent events. Even cleaning the ugly mess in the kitchen was having that soothing effect. She had dropped the trunk and bird cage in the cupboard and locked it, forgetting about it for now. Still, on the rare still seconds she had, like while waiting for the bucket to fill, she couldn't suppress a feeling of approaching doom. She had knowingly allowed her charge to be killed and, unknown to her, the related nullification of the blood protection was tearing at her soul.

The clocks in the house chimed midnight.

Same time, somewhere else...

"My Lord! My Lord!"

The small and caped form of Peter Pettigrew entered the excuse for a throne room, visibly nervous. A portly human was sitting on a large armchair. Voldemort, still a roaming spirit, had taken another victim after Professor Quirrell, last year. Barty Crouch, Jr. was happy to serve his Lord, and had submitted entirely to his will. There was nobody to play the comedy to, and the spirit of the Dark Lord had taken over Crouch's whole body. That was Voldemort speaking directly through the mouth of the man.

"Peter! You wait before I command you to talk!"

"But my Lord, Potter's..." he couldn't finish, because the Lord in question spoke at the same time.

"Crucio!"

The man crumpled on the floor, screaming from the torture spell. Still, Voldemort had heard something of interest, and he released the spell quickly. But not before a dozen seconds had elapsed: even if few in numbers, his followers were to be obedient!

"Talk, Peter! And this has better be good news, or you'll taste more of this." he said in his usual high-pitched hiss, through Crouch's unnaturally constricted throat, while waving his wand in the air to accentuate the threat.

"My Lord, the shields protecting the summer house of Potter are down! And I know for a fact that he is inside! Potter is ours, my Lord!"

The excitement of his underling was infectious, and Voldemort, the current Dark Lord, smiled. However, due to his reduced state and the fact that Dumbledore troops were to show themselves there also, he wouldn't take the risk of being seen nor attacked there. "Peter, you are to round the current duty team, and you'll take charge of the situation. I don't think more that the four of you would be necessary to manage some muggles and to capture the elusive brat. Bring me Potter, alive! If anything happen, you'll be held for responsible! Kill any opposition, but not in the open."

Peter Pettigrew was ecstatic. That was his first real mission after his Lord's return to the world. He apparated directly into the place where Crabbe, Goyle, and Avery were stationed, waiting for missions like this. In the previous year, Voldemort had first found his current puppet in the person of Barty Crouch Jr, and he had contacted his favourite rodent. Pettigrew had then, using the cover of his animagus form, contacted most of the remaining Death Eaters to rebuild Voldemort's forces. Severus Snape hadn't been contacted, though, as Voldemort wasn't sure of his allegiance anymore. After all, the Potion Master had been on Dumbledore's side two years before.

Upon arriving in the apartment, Peter Pettigrew yelled immediately, to the surprised faces of the three people present. "Hurry people! Our target is 4, Privet Drive! Apparate now!"

The Death Eaters had been the quickest to react, because Pettigrew was already near Privet Drive, in his rat form, when Petunia decided to let her husband kill her nephew, thus causing the blood protection wards to collapse. He had felt it immediately and had apparated to his lord. Another factor speeding their response time was that, some time ago, every loyal Death Eater follower had been updated with the reason behind their lord's first demise, and now they all knew the location to apparate to. In a concert of pops, they all left the premises.

The clock on the chimney's mantel beeped, like it did every half hour. The time was thirty minutes after midnight.

Back at Privet Drive...

The man was unconscious and lying on a public bench in the opposite side of number 4, Privet Drive, holding an empty bottle of spirits. Too much drink, evidently. Guard duty, you say! Four pops were heard besides his bench, just as a pick-up was pulling over in the street. A man and a boy were seen getting out of it and heading towards the wretched entryway of number 4. The Death Eaters were quick on their feet, and followed their preys into the house. All this didn't wake the drunken man.

"What?" stuttered Vernon Dursley, as he was rudely pushed forward in his living room, where his wife was waiting, and his son already was. The entry door clicked closed behind him.

The approaching doom that Petunia Dursley had sensed had taken the form of four dark-robed, white-masked wizards. She screamed, just as three "Crucio!" resounded in the area, quickly followed by the screams emitted by Vernon Dursley and his son.

Under the curse, Vernon's mind replayed the toughest bits of his life, and decided on the spot that the pain he was feeling right now surpassed everything he went through before. He screamed louder now, to the satisfaction of the Death Eaters. Peter Pettigrew knew a bit of the house, having spied on Harry's friend Ron for a long time, as a pet rat. He had also decided, before calling for his three fellow Death Eaters, that he was to fetch the brat alone, and take all the credit of Potter's abduction. He let his colleagues take pleasure of the muggles' screams, and went out of the room and up the stairs, in search of the boy.

When he didn't find Harry, he started to frown, remembering the shushed rumours about Potter being kept in the cupboard under the stairs. Throughout his visit, Peter couldn't stop being annoyed by the lingering smell of cleaning products. He hated these products with a passion, and it was in a state of real annoyance that he opened the cupboard door, only to find Harry's trunk, still damp from the trip.

Potter not found, Peter decided to plunder the trunk before killing the muggles. Unfortunately, Harry had put some protection spells on the trunk, so it didn't open immediately. Furious, for not finding the boy, smelling the scent of cleanness, and having a mere trunk resisting his will, Peter hit the trunk repeatedly, only succeeding in banging its interior. There was some noise like glass breaking, and the lock finally latched open. Wary, he waited for a few seconds before opening the lid.

Flashback...

"So, for this summer's homework, you will have to brew the Peppering potion and the Cicatrisation ointment. The recipes are in this year's textbooks, and your potions, if successful, will be added to the hospital wing's stocks. They could even be used on yourself one day or another, so be careful to prepare them correctly."

Professor Snape paused, looking directly at Harry, before continuing his directions.

"Take care with the Peppering potion ingredients as they are very volatile. The Essence of Pimento is also very flammable. On the contrary, most of the elements of the ointment are very stable, but you'll add the appropriate dose of Sulphur to make it react to the natural atmosphere. Be sure to never mix those liquids, as the results are unpredictable and can be very explosive, especially in the open air. Understood, Longbottom?"

Returning to the present...

Harry had done his Potion homework early. He had stowed it in his trunk. But he had never considered a mad Death Eater kicking his trunk around, so he hadn't taken extra precaution in wrapping his bottles. And that were rather large bottles. The result was akin to dropping a napalm bomb. As soon as the lid opened, the liquid fire engulfed the corridor, setting fire to everything. Poor Peter's face was directly in the way of the wave, and his head was literally fried on the spot, making him stumble backwards, dead even before hitting the floor.

The fire expanded, consuming everything. The potion ingredients left in the trunk exploded in a cascade of colours and the Death Eaters in the next room, seeing the fire and the display of ominous colours, apparated away. Their victims, though, were not that lucky. Just recovering from the pain of the Cruciatus, they couldn't get up and it was with open eyes that they saw their beloved living room burst into flames, the numerous photos of Dudley exploding under the heat, and their clothes, hair, and skin setting ablaze. They didn't have enough energy to scream, and the last conscious thought they had, strangely shared by the three of them, was that is definitely hadn't been a good idea to kill Harry Potter.

The clocks were burning, their hands briefly poised at one in the morning, before crumbling into ashes.

At the same time, somewhere else...

Stuart Lengley was fed up, his half-blood stamina be damned. It has been the longest 24-hours of his life, and it wasn't finished yet. He had followed the elder vampire outside, but, seeing nobody in the street, had tried the spell to detect Apparation traces and had found some. Apparation hop after apparation hop, he still wasn't close to his target. He even got lost at some point, and had spent many hours tracking the apparation jumps back until he found a loophole. The elder had apparated back and forth a few time, to lose him. Following the vampire, he had even found himself apparating 30 feet in the air on top of a spiked wall and, another time, he had fallen in the ocean. He had visited some places in northern France and the Scottish Highlands. Thankfully, the elder had to rest for the sunniest part of the day, and Stuart had almost found him again, but that was a moment ago, and he was losing him now. Hopefully, the vampire would be tired of all this jumping back and forth. The last jump he made, though, after a large loop around London, brought him back in the shoddy quarter where his partners found their end. Or so he thought. But that was his drive and he pushed himself to go after the vampire again.

He chased his target, on foot this time. Evidently, the elder had to be either exhausted or oblivious that Stuart succeeded in tracking him. After a few turns and close calls, he found the vampire in an open space, and decided that it would be the best place to surprise him. No statue to fall on your head, and all this sort of things. He started by a few well-aimed Cutting curses, hoping to weaken the elder even more.

The elder turned around. They gauged each other for a mere second, each one appreciating the stubbornness of the other, but forced by their nature to kill each other. That was the law of the jungle, and it was to be applied here and now.

Curses flew. Both were good duellers, and both were tired before beginning. They both used swords and magic, and the point-blank curses maimed and deformed parts of each other's body. The blades sliced and pierced through clothing, skin, and muscle. They jumped around, avoiding large debris and small litter. They duelled for what seemed like hours for them, and only seconds from the outside world, when, in a sudden fluke of fate, they both impaled their swords through each other's heart. The fight had been so equal, that they had to die together, from the same wound. Still, the vampire wasn't exactly dead. After all, him being an elder meant that he wasn't to die from a mere stab wound. But the target has been his heart and he was now unable to move. If nobody was to save him, in his weakened state, the sun would kill him rapidly, in one hour at the most. He was that powerful, because newly-induced full vampires were subject to instant combustion instead. Only part-vampires were able not to burst into flames when in the sun. All these thoughts and facts didn't prevent him from bleeding heavily, though.

Stuart Lengley and the metamorphmagus vampire, whose fake identity was Gabriel Swift at that time, fell down together on a heap of rubble, before separating and rolling some feet in separate directions, the swords still embedded in their heart.

It was one hour and thirty minutes in the morning, and the flickering street lights revealed no witness to this scene whatsoever.

Around the same time...

The fire had been fed by itself, the potion ingredients making sure of that. Even with their built-in resistance to fire, the wands of both Peter and Harry also exploded at some point, adding more fuel to the already raging inferno. The firemen sent to the place couldn't work the fire down, and they weren't even able to figure if that was an electrical fire or the result of a gas explosion. The remains of the car wreckage even suggested that oil could have been the origin. Whatever the source, the house burned to the ground, and the policemen sent afterwards only found the unidentifiable charred remains of the four occupants of the house. They would be identified as the Dursleys and their nephew.

Albus Dumbledore had been warned by the shrilling sound, but at midnight, any normal person was asleep, especially a person aged of more than 150 summers. And that is with a little bit of lateness that he found himself, much to his chagrin, in front of the smouldering remains of number 4, Privet Drive, between muggle firemen and policemen running around. His eerie feeling was amplified by the permanent notice-me-not charm on his robes, making the muggles running around him not even aware of him. In a streak of unrelated understanding, he perceived that that was how ghosts were feeling, when only confronted to muggles. These muggles were speaking about the poor people there, four people that died in an inferno due to an unknown source. They spoke about the 'deceased' persons. The Dursleys. Harry.

He dropped to his aged knees, but didn't feel the physical pain. He was beyond pain now. He felt like rubbish. His charge was dead. He hadn't shared anything with Harry, like remembrance of his parents, or damned prophecies, and now he wouldn't be able to share anything with him anymore. Feeling a pat on his shoulder, he turned and took in the red-rimmed eyes of Mundungus Fletcher, the 'old friend from the old group' that he had asked to watch the house. Mundungus' breath smelt like a mix between good vodka and bad gin, but the man appeared sober in front of the charred remains of number 4, Privet Drive.

Swallowing his tears, something he hadn't thought he'd do again, the old Headmaster croaked, coughed, and finally asked "What... what happened?"

The silence from Mundungus was foreboding. Then his answer, uneasy, elicited more tears from Dumbledore. "I don't know." and he started to explain more.

"I was on post at midday, but the woman was alone at that moment. She went out often, looking around, as if waiting. Thus was spent most of the afternoon. My cover... well, I was to be seen as the drunk-on-the-bench, so I drank from time to time, and lost consciousness after eight. I remember looking at my watch at some point." he looked really shameful for this, but continued at the nod from his old friend. "But I'm sure that Harry never arrived home before eight."

Dumbledore's head shot up, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"Dursley never showed his fat ass... well... for a long time, and Harry never showed himself either, I mean... at least not until I passed out." Dumbledore's frown deepened.

"Around nine, I got awakened by a loud crash. That was Dursley's car embedding itself in their house. The bloke was more smashed than me, and he was ranting so loudly that he raised most of the neighbourhood. Turns out he has been fired by his company, among some other stuff. I was dead tired, so I assumed Harry had arrived during my nap, and I fell asleep again. Next think I know, there are screams coming from the house, and fire erupting everywhere. Poor people. Poor Harry."

They sat in silence for a moment. Albus Dumbledore was thinking. Hard. Something was tugging at the edge of his mind. He closed his eyes and started to meditate, hoping to catch the drifting thought, when he was interrupted by Fletcher.

"How comes you're here, Albus?"

And that did it. The fleeting thought came back full force, making him stagger. Poor people, indeed! The device that had awakened him up was related to Harry's blood protection ward. And there were only a few reasons for it to shrill that way, one of which being the blood-related person killing or allowing to kill the protected. That meant only one thing, and his eyes watered again as he was crushed under the responsibility of having forced Harry in the house of murderers.

Mundungus' wristwatch quietly beeped two in the morning, but the mourning friends sitting on the bench didn't notice it.

To be continued in next chapter: Mourning, and the Afterlife...

Tock, tick, tock, the death clock knocks,
Doors open, even with locks.
The part that follows, readers,
Will be best for reviewers.