*A/N - major character death. You've read a bazillion fics like this; you know who I'm going to kill. Don't act all surprised now*

CHAPTER 2 : THE BOY AND THE MADMAN

Harry awoke to the smell of old sweat and older vomit. He should know, having been closely acquainted with the fragrance when he had been sick at the tender age of seven. Aunt Petunia had been surprisingly nice to him, even going so far as to feed him his chicken broth, and Dudders and Uncle Vernon had avoided him like the plague which was an absolute win in Harry's book. He'd really regretted it when his fever had gone away quite abruptly in a couple of days. In a moment of childish fantasy, he hoped it was his long lost fever come back at last and life would be good.

However his hopes were dashed when he pushed himself up to his knees and the room did not swim around him. Sighing, he squinted at his surroundings, them being ever so blurry without his glasses. A hand tapped his shoulder and handed them to him. Murmuring a quick "Thank you" (manners had gone a long way to improving his standing with his aunt, relatively speaking), he slipped them on and was shocked out of his wits when he came face to face with a dirty, grimy stranger murmuring "You're welcome."


Schizophrenix had pondered long and hard on what to do with the Potter boy. Here was the reason why most of his chums were dead, in prison or turned traitor. Things had not been going well for good ol' Schizophrenix once the Dark Lord got himself vanquished by a toddler. He hadn't been very enamoured with the crazy old snake's propaganda, but he'd had loads of fun. Being a lonely child, well, voices that spoke out of nowhere didn't count, he'd jumped at the chance to join a club, well cult, and from then on it had been the absolute time of his life. His very own gang, secret little meetings with lots of passwords and such, little group outings with some mildly extreme law infringements and heaven, the after parties! The rich kids kept the firewhiskey flowing and more than once he'd woken up absolutely stark naked in some ditch with nothing but his wooden wand. Then he'd meet up with the lads and they'd all have a hearty laugh about it.

Even later, when he'd grown older and the Dark Lord had begun a full scale slaughter fest of all the wizard-folk who refused to fall in line, he'd not minded much. It was a steady job (he'd never managed to last more than seven days at most of his summer stints), good pay and the best colleagues. All that had come to a grinding halt when the Potter brat had gone and outright murdered their leader. For sometime he'd hoped that someone else would take the reins against that bloody Dumbledore and they could keep going at it, his friends and he, but the movement had petered out and now here they were, him hiding out like a rat and the Potter boy in his claws like a lump of cheese. Wizard flavoured.

And what would he do now? "Eat him?" suggested one of his many invisible friends. "I'm a death eater, not a ruddy cannibal!" he replied, somewhat offended. "Torture?" said another, sounding all too much like Bellatrix Lestrange for his own comfort. He mulled it over, but didn't quite relish the thought of an eleven year old soiling his pants under the cruciatus. Seemed like overkill.

Overkill. Kill. "Kill him?" he asked into the emptiness of his hidey hole. A cacophony of voices surrounded him, all agreeing with him to one degree or another. "Well, that's that then." he said, settling down on his haunches. He leaned forward, a mildly manic gleam in his eyes, waiting for Potter to wake up.

And sure enough, a few minutes later the brat got up. He staggered to his knees and looked around like a blind bat. Remembering that muggles sometimes used them to see better (God knows what wizards used them for. Maybe looking through underwear. Dumbledore, you sly old bastard), he reached out and handed them to the boy. Murmuring a quick thanks, the boy put them on. "You're welcome" he replied. Just because you were committing murder, it didn't give you an excuse to put aside your pureblood manners. That was just being lazy.

The kid went pasty white, much like how Malfoy usually was (the traitorous, slimy git)and fell onto his bottom. Putting on his best Murder Mcmurder face, he gave the runt a toothy grin. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"


Harry huddled in his corner of the room, as the mad man with the constipated looking face paced back and forth in his corner, muttering to himself. After his initial question, which he'd proceeded to answer himself in some depth (It was a valuable lesson in Wizarding history), the man had clammed up and since then, he'd been pacing like it was going out of style. Just when Harry had begun thinking that while his circumstances were sketchy, they were definitely better than his usual with the Dursleys, said man suddenly wheeled around and leaping across the room, grabbed Harry by his shoulders and proceeded to shake him.

"Imma kill you!" he screamed, spittle flying to splatter on Harry's face. The boy would have screamed if he wasn't busy being paralyzed in fear. He was shaken about wildly like some kind of rag doll. "You killed my friends! You killed my family! In a roundabout way of reasoning! And now," he smiled grimly, drawing a wooden stick out and sticking it in his face, "Imma kill you"

Okay, this was not better than the Dursleys. While initially he'd thought he had been kidnapped, things were taking a far darker turn. Harry didn't know what the mad man was going on about and he didn't want to find out. He panicked and thrashed about, trying to free himself from that vice like grip, and succeeded in getting poked in the mouth with the stick. Snarling, he bit down hard and felt soft wood give way to hard incisors and the tip came away with a crunch. The man roared and threw Harry all the way across the room. He hit the wall with an audible thwack and fell in a groaning heap.

"You... You... You! Youuuu!" the man screamed, his towering rage distorting all attempts at articulation. The little boy could only cower and whimper in the manner of all children from time immemorial. As his impending mortality waved a broken wand in his face, he did something quite uncharacteristic for him. For never in all the time he had spent at the Dursley's, enduring their mocking and beatings, had he ever did what he did then. He called out for his father. The mad man lifted his mangled wand and screamed the words of hatred distilled, "Avada Kedavra!" And the wand shattered and an unholy green light enveloped the room


A/N : Sorry I had to that, but*dun dun dun* neither could uh...live...while the other...something, something. Anyhow, you get what I'm trying to say.