Chapter 2 – Vengeance

Green eyes squinted slightly and smiled. It was not a comforting or welcoming smile. Insanity and cruelty flickered behind the gaze.

"As I said, welcome to my art gallery." The-Boy-Who-Lived paced a bit, and Vernon Dursley noticed he still had a slight limp. Probably the lingering effect of the time Vernon had ran his car over the boy's leg. Several times. At the time it seemed like a proper punishment for not washing the car to his liking. It's not his fault his freak friends couldn't heal it any better than that – they usually patched up most of the boy's 'accidents' quickly and return him good as new each time.

Petunia started to tremble. "What are we doing here? What are you going to do with us?" A tear escaped and crept down her cheek. Vernon held her, but was too terrified to comfort his wife more than that.

Harry gave a casual gesture with his left arm and a comfortable chair appeared, accompanied by a small table with a sparse meal and bottle of wine. "Where's your stick thingy?" Vernon blustered, thinking he sounded threatening and in-control.

With a smirk accompanied by a shrug, Harry said "I don't need a wand anymore. Just as well, since you robbed me of my wand arm." He gestured to his right side to point out the obviously missing appendage.

Vernon licked his lips looking at the glass of wine on the table. His meaty hands pressed against the glass separating them as he recalled that evening, when Harry turned 17, that he had bound and gagged the starving and weakened teen and hacked his arm off in a drunken rage. Somehow his alcohol addled brain convinced him that if his freak nephew couldn't use a wand, he might become normal, and less of a threat. "Couldn't your kind grow it back?" he croaked.

"No." Harry lifted the glass and took a sip, swirling the red liquid in appreciation. "Ummm – I think you liked this cabernet, Uncle. It was one of your favorites, if I recall." Vernon nodded, mesmerized by the blood red wine in his nephew's glass.

"It's a shame you can't eat or drink anymore." Harry slowly consumed his meal, watching with perverse satisfaction the agony reflected on his Aunt and Uncles' faces. Food finished, he banished the plate and studied his relatives. Vernon nervously glanced around – Petunia and He were in a small cramped room – a cupboard by the look of it, with stairs for a ceiling. It was dark and full of spiders and smelled stuffy. There was barely room for the both of them – especially considering his personal girth. They sat very uncomfortably on small wooden stools that did not allow their feet to touch the ground while sitting.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Vernon screamed as Petunia sobbed with fear. Harry smiled.

"Vengeance, dear Aunt, dear Uncle. You are dead – Voldemort tortured and slaughtered you after you kicked me out. The blood protection you gave me by having me under your roof had kept you safe too. Once Four Privet Drive was not my home anymore, you were open game. I couldn't help you, seeing how I was half dead myself." The green eyes grew even colder, if possible. "I survived. I returned to Privet Drive and gathered hair, nail clippings, and used bandaids so I could commission this portrait when the war was over. I needed your DNA so you would be cognizant."

"W-w-we're a painting?" his Aunt squeaked. She flung herself off of the stool and started banging on the walls and glass, frantic to find a way out. "Where's my Duddums!"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. The torchlight flickered and magnified every scar on his cheeks and neck, casting shadowsthat emphasizedthe damage. Damage caused by Vernon's creative use of a knife and boiling water. "Ickle Duddleykins is dead."

"When I get out of here, you will see just how funny this joke is" Vernon growled at Harry, punching his hand for emphasis. That gesture always had his freak nephew quaking. But it didn't seem to affect him now.

"You are a painting. A very aware painting thanks to a very skilled artist and very dark magic. You cannot leave, you cannot eat. You cannot die. You will, however, sit and let me rant and rave and catch you up on the events of the past few years." He poured another glass and took an appreciative sniff. "Very good year, Uncle. The artist promised that you would hunger and thirst – was he correct?"

Despite himself, Vernon nodded. He was very thirsty.