Chapter 3 Panic
"Hummm – where to begin?" Harry's voice was silky and reflected faint amusement. His relatives shuddered at the tone. Petunia had tried to hide in the corner under the stairs, but it was impossible – the glass front of the 'canvas' covered every inch – there was no where to hide. Weakly she climbed back on the stool. Vernon stood with a groan – the 12" seat was murder on his gigantic posterior. They stared at him dully, waiting to learn more of their condition and fate.
"As my school years progressed, I told my professors what you were doing to me. Dumbledore," he spat the name with venom, "just pooh poohed me every time." Mimicking the headmaster he droned "your Aunt and Uncle might not spoil you as much as you'd like, Harry my boy, but deep down they truly love you." He took a deep drink of his wine and narrowed his eyes. "You would think the broken legs would be a hint. Or the burns. Or the cuts. Or the many, many other broken bones."
"It's not our fault" Petunia cried in a voice racked with hysteria. "We didn't want you to begin with. He wouldn't take no for an answer!"
Harry jumped to his feet, glass crashing to the floor and shattering. "No – he doesn't take no for an answer. So that makes it alright to torture a child?" With a deep breath the wizard calmed himself and sat again, conjuring another glass.
"You healed so quickly, we figured it didn't hurt like a normal person" Vernon blustered, sweating profusely.
"My cries for mercy and help didn't clue you in?" Harry sneered.
"Anyway" he abruptly shielded his emotions and continued, "Summer after fifth year. Godfather is dead, Dumbledore refuses to help, nobody is allowed to talk to me. You come home drunk, dear Uncle, and decide to free me of my right arm, and dump me in a ditch outside of town. Thankfully Hedwig followed and got help. Sadly, more wizards saw the damage than Albus could obliviate. I was sent to my friends at The Burrow to recover."
"Well, see boy – we both got what we wanted!" Vernon babbled, hoping to lighten the dark mood of his nephew.
Harry just grinned, a dangerous, maniacal grin. "Not quite. The Burrow wasn't protected enough. The wards were not good. Voldemort attacked – my foster family, my friends, my fiancé' – all dead thanks to me. Everyone was home, celebrating my birthday. Everyone is gone." He broke instantly into dry sobbing – the keening of a man who had cried far too much in his young life.
"That's not our fault!" Petunia screeched in panic. "We didn't kill them!"
The tears instantly stopped, replaced by the cold, cruel grin. "Many people killed the Weasleys. Voldemort, Dumbledore, you two, me. We are all to blame. It was truly the start of the Second War. As the years passed you were dead, Hermione was dead, Dumbledore was dead, Remus, Tonks, Moody…dead. Every mixed blood student it seemed was dead. Dead dead dead. I couldn't take anymore." He emptied the glass and poured another.
"I ran. You always said I was a coward, dear Uncle. You always called me a wimp that couldn't defend him self." Vernon looked down, away from his nephews and wife's eyes. It was just beginning to dawn in the man's underused brain that some of this just might be his fault.
The snide, cruel voice continued. "I hid at headquarters. Why not? The whole Order of the Phoenix was dead. Even the phoenix was dead!" Harry broke into crazed giggles, abruptly stood and left the room.
Vernon and Petunia gaped at each other. "Quick! Help me kick down a wall while he's gone. He's totally nuts!"