AN: Lesssshhhhh go.
And stop bugging me about adding more people to the harem. Like, dude. And no, Rose Potter is really the Girl Who Lived, because, if you think, Voldemort was not killed by Harry.
Here, let me try to make sense of it. First, Violet tried to protect them, giving them a mild blood protection as she was not hurt greatly. Then, Harry took the killing curse meant for Rose, but survived thanks to Violet's protection, but he was as good as dead, giving Rose enough power to ice Voldemort when he cast the second killing curse.
Alright? Now, on with the chappie.
Time: 3 Years Later
Harry whimpered, curling in on himself as he tried to ignore the agony his body was in.
He swallowed the saliva in his mouth, gasping for breath as he scooted backwards on the small cot that passed for a bed at the Dursley household. His large emerald eyes, dulled with three years of neglect and abuse, tried to search for something, anything, to alleviate his pain, but came up empty.
He felt like his body was on fire, like he was getting digested from inside out. Despite already having eaten till his stomach felt like it was about to burst, he felt like he was still hungry, still craved food, his body feeling malnutritioned and starved, like he had no energy to do anything. His body burned with fever that made his skin almost too hot to the touch, his normally pale disposition tinged red in disease. His arms and legs were thin and bowed, the bones visible through his skin that stuck to his skeleton, like he was suffering from acute malnutrition.
He had tried to hide it, tried to suppress whatever was happening to him, but eventually, his luck was bound to run out.
When Uncle Vernon first caught whiff of his deteriorating health, he had been taken to a hospital, but to no avail. The doctors had shrugged and offered him some medicine to treat the symptoms, unable to pin down the cause of the disease without extensive testing, which, of course, was denied, the miserly brute of a man refusing to spend any money after the burden of a child.
Then, Aunt Petunia had whispered in his ear, something about a letter and the magical disease he was suffering from.
The distasteful looks they had thrown him hurt. A lot.
However, he had slowly grown used to the cruel comments and the occasional beatings whenever he failed to live up to their expectations, or when something weird happened.
He wanted to call out, to do anything.
He remembered his Mother's caresses whenever he had been sick, which was often, the cold feeling of wet cloth on his forehead being changed ever so often to give him comfort. His Dad coming home with some sweet candy that made his ears steam, making all of them laugh. The way Violet used to sit beside his bedridden self, telling him about what Mum had taught her that day.
He missed his family.
Harry rubbed his eyes, realising that he was crying, making him scowl at the show of weakness. Even at the young age of seven, he realised, it would not do to show weakness in front of others.
The alpha predator licked his wounds in solitude, he had read.
Looking around the dark cupboard that passed for his room, Harry's eyes strained to pick up anything, the horrendous, cracked round glasses he wore not helping with the endeavour.
Eventually, his eyes rested on what was probably his last remaining possession on the entire Earth.
A little, blue plastic inhaler. Like the ones Muggles used. It was not as effective as the potion he used to take back home, but it would suffice for now. Besides, it did not have the terrible taste of the medical potion.
Scrambling towards it, Harry held the inhaler to his mouth, trying to calm his rapid breathing and suppress the wild shaking of his weak hands.
There was a hiss as he pressed the button, a cool gas filling his mouth which he greedily gulped down, before slumping back against the wall of the cupboard once more.
This was his life now. The pain had not left him for even a single moment over the last month. All he could do, was to take the inhaler, and hope he did not die of suffocation.
The dust that rained down on him every time his Uncle banged on the cupboard door did not help.
"Boy, I'm going to sleep!" Uncle Vernon roared, and in his mind's eyes, Harry could picture his several chins waggling as he spoke. "You better not make any ruckus when we're asleep."
With a parting threat that promised pain if he was disobeyed, Uncle Vernon left, his heavy footsteps stomping over Harry's head and making more dust rain down on his head.
The Potter son could only close his eyes and try to rub his face clean with his oversized rag, generously called a shirt.
Taking his glasses off, he turned them, examining himself in the dim reflection, mentally thanking the bit of light that seeped through the cracks of the door, the same cracks that also allowed entrance to the cold winds of winter.
His eyes were dull and sunken, his cheeks hollow. There were dark bags underneath his eyes, his lips pale and thin. His dark raven hair shadowed his face, long and unruly. Apart from the greasiness that came about with lack of proper care, it was probably the thing that had changed least about Harry's body during his stay with the Dursleys.
He remembered the day he was discharged clear as day, as if it had been only yesterday. His parents had explained the situation to him in words that would not traumatize his young, naive mind so much, and he had agreed easily. Partly eager to meet his other Uncle, partly eager because he would be protecting his family.
Tears slid down young Harry's cheeks, no matter how much he fought them.
He had to be strong. Like Dumbledore.
Harry ignored the bruise on his back, from where Uncle Vernon had struck him with his leather belt in a fit of anger, flaring in pain as he leaned against the wall of the cupboard, closing his eyes. He knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep with the pain his body was in, but he had grown used to it, and an entire month of insomnia had to have its effects. With any luck, he could catch maybe two hours of fitful sleep tonight.
The tap in the bathroom stopped running, the bedroom door slamming shut as Vernon finally went to bed.
Silence reigned in the house, dominating his thoughts and leaving Harry alone with the little voice in his head that had accompanied him since childhood.
He ran his fingers through his messy hair in what was a stressful tic, the fingers coming away with black grease stains. His hair had started turning grey as the mysterious disease progressed, and in a rare moment of worry, Aunt Petunia had considered writing a letter to his mother.
Then, there was the obvious obstacle of not having any idea where they lived.
So, it was all patched up with cheap black dye that was more suited for rags than hair, the Dursleys adopting an 'out of sight, out of mind' approach in dealing with the young Potter.
Harry was sure his mother had not had this in mind when he had been sent to live with the Dursleys. Even he had been eager, and they had been alright, for the first two weeks.
Then, with the realisation that nobody was coming to check up on him thanks to his disease, everything had gone to hell.
Whenever he went to school, he was bullied by the youngest Dursley, a little oversized whale by himself, and his little gang of goons.
Harry hunting had been a game that had tortured him for many months.
Before, of course, Harry remembered the little voice in his head that kept whispering stuff to him.
Like he had done so many times before, back when he was still a happy child at Potter cottage and not this jaded husk disillusioned with life, Harry listened to the voice, and like magic, most of his terrors fled away. He could weave his way out of situations with words, steal to feed himself and get things he wanted... and that was it.
The trick, was to not let himself be cornered.
In other words, avoid Number 4 Privet Drive like the plague. Because inside the four walls of the Dursley residence, lay his own personal hell.
The voice, his ultimate weapon, was useless. Danger seemed to be at every corner. The smells of human emotions dulled by the overwhelming despair he felt everytime he was faced with the cupboard under the stairs.
Not that Harry minded the cupboard, of course. Whenever he was in the cupboard, he was left alone, allowed time and space to lick his wounds and prepare for another day. In a way, he sympathised with the cupboard, forgotten as he was, in the Dursley household with no escape.
The darkness that reigned in the silent cupboard was as comforting as his mother's caresses, helping him hone his other senses in the absence of sight, until the screaming of his instinct was with him all the time, overpowering his human reason and making him more beast than man. The spiders that inhabited the shadowy corners of the cupboard fled away from him, afraid of this apex predator.
It made Harry's heart flutter in excitement, to think that he was powerful enough to be considered an apex predator, even if it was to spiders tinier than his fingernails.
Eventually, they came to an unspoken agreement, man and insect, like a silent pact between two fellow beasts of darkness. He left the spiders and their webs alone, and in exchange, they avoided his cot and kept the cupboard free of annoying flies and mosquitoes.
Harry had no better way of describing their pact than an unspoken, instinctive agreement between two beasts, both hiding in the darkness.
Harry had gone ahead and done some digging, teaching himself from books how to read and write, until he could read middle school level books with complete comprehension. According to the Muggle authors, the little voice that let him smell emotions was called 'instinct', something predominant in animals, both predator and prey.
Harry wondered, why did he have such a sharp sense of instinct? When, according to the authors, humans had very rudimentary natural instincts?
He had given up pursuing the reason thereof, long ago, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He had tried sometimes to use magic, hoping for any instance of accidental magic, ignorant of the powerful binds placed by the Unspeakables on his shattered core. Like the few times he had seen his twin use accidental magic, hoping that he could get out of there.
But to no avail. Nothing happened, despite his best efforts and hours of hard work and concentration. Until he had given up on it altogether.
Harry's stomach gave another audible growl, this one stronger than anything he had ever felt, making him arch his back and clamp his hand over his mouth to muffle the scream threatening to tear from his throat. His body was out of control, his lungs and chest burning, his stomach twisting in his thin belly, desperate for food, despite all the food he had shovelled down merely an hour ago.
Food, food.
His body convulsed, as if caught in the throes of a violent fit. He tried not to let his hands scratch and rake against the walls, to bang the door like he wanted, instead biting down hard on his hand until he felt his blood fill his mouth.
No matter how much Harry ate, his body still craved food. Hungry, hungry, until the ache of starvation and hunger was all he knew. His mouth began salivating of its own accord, his body going out of control.
If he had had even an ounce of magic still available, accidental magic would have undoubtedly demolished the entire neighbourhood.
All the food that Harry ate, the bread and butter and even the entire chicken that Uncle Vernon had been keeping for later, felt like it had never reached his stomach.
No, no, not food. He was hungry... hungry for something else. Food would not satisfy him. It was like drinking water to keep the starvation at bay.
No, he was hungry for magic.
Desperately searching for any tiny trace of magic, even though unknowingly, had Harry reaching inside himself for his own magical core, locked behind powerful binds.
It was like a fridge, full of the rich food that Harry craved, but under lock and key.
But he did not care.
He was an alpha predator.
His body moved of its own accord, a flash of something in his mind that Harry could not ever hope to recall, and all the chains that were keeping the delicious food away from him, fell away. The doors of the refrigerator slowly swung open, allowing him access to the rich, glowing energy, swirling with potent power, which Harry's instinct told him was magic. His magic.
And then, like some twisted, sick demon, Harry hungrily devoured his own magical core, like some monster from ancient horror tales that ate its own body.
He sighed, slumping back, enjoying the rush of magic in his veins once more, returning some colour to his skin and helping his eyes regain some of their old shine.
Magic was the food, and his magical core was the refrigerator, he thought, unknowingly correct to a certain extent. Whenever he needed energy, needed to use magic, go to the refrigerator, and get food.
The only problem? The refrigerator was now empty.
But Harry decided that it was a problem for tomorrow's Harry. For now, the pain was no longer there, he felt full, like he was back at home, scrambling into bed and facing the wall.
"Goodnight, Violet." He whispered, ignoring the tears that slid down his cheeks, staining the thin sheets that covered the cot, falling asleep in the cupboard beneath the stairs, but his mind was no longer there.
"Goodnight, Harry." His twin whispered from the other side of the wall, in his mind.
"Huh?" Harry mumbled, slowly cracking his eyes open to protect himself against the sudden onslaught of the light filtering into his room, with no idea how long he had slept for.
"Get up, boy!"
Oh right, he wasn't in his room. He was in his cupboard. With Aunt Petunia screeching at him.
Harry grumbled beneath his breath, not even trying to argue. He was feeling much better today, with no pain nor any leftover ache or stiffness in his bones and muscles.
Harry yawned, stretching until he heard his back pop satisfyingly, blinking blearily as he stared at his horse like aunt, mentally requesting her to stop her ungodly screeching.
"Get up, you lazy- oh god!"
What? What did he do now?
He stared up at her reaction questioningly, before he realised that she had been long gone, the frantic pounding on the bedroom door upstairs telling him that she was trying to wake up Uncle Vernon.
Oh well, whatever he had done this time, he was sure that the beating wouldn't hurt so much with his better, healthier body.
He lay back down on the small cot, sighing at the small comforts of life, namely the absence of the almost constant pain in his body.
His idle thoughts soon changed for the worse as he heard Vernon scrambling down the stairs, shouting at the top of his voice about freakishness so early in the morning.
He scrambled up, scooting backwards until he was almost merging with the dark, shadowy corner of the cupboard.
"Boy!" Vernon shouted, the whale's face resembling a blueberry, a disgusting, stubbly blueberry, standing at the cupboard's door, his wide frame blocking the light from entering. "Come out right now! Or I will drag you out myself, and it won't be pleasant, mark my words."
Already knowing from prior experience how much it hurt whenever Vernon got involved, Harry quietly slinked out of his dark sanctuary, standing meekly in front of the brutish whale of a man, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Look up at me," Vernon ordered, his fat, greasy fingers wrapping around Harry's chin, digging into his cheeks and jerking his head up so that he could look at him. The Potter son bit his cheek, trying not to whimper at his aggressive actions.
Vernon peered down at him, his eyes beady behind his spectacles, making Harry gulp in slight fear. It did not last long, however, as the man gasped, almost dropping him.
"What have you done this time, freak?!" Vernon shouted, not giving Harry any opportunity to respond as he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, half dragging and half-carrying him to the kitchen, before almost shoving his face into the mirror.
Petunia hovered in the background, not trusting her weak heart to handle such freakishness, deciding it better to leave it to her brave husband.
It took Harry only one look in the mirror to realise what all the fuss was about, making him gasp out, his hands immediately coming up to touch the right side of his face, specifically his cheek, right underneath his eye.
Gone were the familiar white and emerald, the white replaced by a pure black sclera, as dark as the night sky, like it was darkness itself manifested in Harry's right eye. And the emerald was replaced by a dark red, the colour of blood, too eerily similar to Voldemort's own red eyes for comfort, making Harry's little heart give an uncomfortable jolt as he stared at her heterochromatic eyes.
"I-I don't know-" He was not given any chance to finish his sentence, however, as Vernon shouted at him, spit flying into his face and making him grimace.
"Well, you bloody well know how to turn it back!" The kitchen mirror was aggressively taken off the hook it hung from, before the furious man marched back up the corridor to the miserable cupboard that was Harry's bedroom.
Harry gave a little gasp as he was unceremoniously flung into the cupboard like a sack of potatoes, resisting the urge to scream as his back hit the wall, making him land in a twisted heap on the cot. The mirror was flung in after him, hitting him harshly on the arm before clattering to the floor, thankfully intact.
"You will cure it, and that's an order. You won't be coming out until you do, I don't care if you suffocate or starve to death, or have to do your business in that cupboard, you got me boy?!"
And without waiting for a response, the door was slammed shut in his face, making dust fall from the ceiling, forcing Harry to cover his nose lest he should sneeze and anger Uncle Vernon any further.
The lock clicked into place, trapping him in the cupboard without escape unless he changed his eye colour back.
Harry listened to the sounds of their footsteps fading away, Uncle Vernon's shouting taking longer to completely leave his field of hearing. For once, Dudley did not annoy him.
He shifted into a more comfortable position, lying on the cot as he stared up at the spider webs, their inhabitants working diligently to expand their territory.
Well, he thought in a fit of childish rebellion, at least he got to sleep the whole day away.
And then, urged by the lack of pain and the late night yesterday, Harry went off to sleep without a worry in the world, the darkness cool and comforting, carrying with it a sense of safety. He could almost feel its gentle caresses on his arm, cool and smooth.
He had no idea how long he slept, but when he woke up next, the house was as silent as it was during the nights, when everyone was asleep. No light filtered through the cracks of the door, reinforcing his hypothesis that it was, indeed, night.
True to his words, there were no morsels of food waiting for him in the cupboard.
His stomach growled, this time in hunger for food, tinged with the hunger for magic, again. The feeling of magic in his veins was slowly receding again, most of it having already been used up to repair his body at a pace not possible without magic.
Harry felt panic gripping his being at the thought of the ungodly, hellish pain returning, as he turned on the bulb in the cupboard, wincing at the light that flooded the room.
"Sorry." He whispered to the spiders, sympathizing with their aversion to the light as they scurried away from the light, being a fellow beast of the darkness.
Picking up the mirror, he looked at his reflection, his heart noting with growing dread that the strange eye colouration was still there, with no sign of fading anytime soon.
His stomach growled again, louder than before and almost as loudly as it had the previous night, making Harry's little heart tremble in fear. Will he have to be hurt again?
After experiencing a lack of pain after so long, Harry did not know if he wanted to be hurt again.
However, his stomach was not making it easy. Where will he get magic to eat?
He stopped, taking a deep breath.
What should I do now? He asked his instinct, the only thing he could trust now.
No response.
Oh.
He reached out, turning the light off, letting darkness return to the room. Cool, quiet darkness that let him empty his mind, to think in solitude.
He breathed deeply, allowing himself to take another puff of his inhaler to help with the ordeal of breathing normally.
He let his natural instinct take over, suppressing his human reason and emotions. Humans, despite being apex predators, could barely survive against adversity. No, he needed his bestial side right now, at least long enough for him to hunt and eat.
Hunt? Where had that come from? Where would he get magical prey?
He ignored the questions, for now, needing to put conscious effort to suppress his reason. Right now, he just needed to survive.
Following everything his body told him to do, found Harry opening his eyes to see a low, dim light filling the room, making him gasp as he looked at the bright colours, crimson, viridian and teal, all bright and beautiful.
But what was more shocking, was their source, iridescent tentacles that seemed to emerge from his back, their source hidden underneath his rags, glowing softly as they wriggled around, twisting like the tentacles of a live octopus, each just as thick as a large constrictor.
The energy they seemed to emit told Harry, at some innate level where he knew as a wizard, what they were, raw, primitive magic at its purest, making him gasp at the primitive usage of magic, something he had never seen anyone do, nor read about in books. This was something... unprecedented, out of this world, something that even his hide clad cavemen ancestors could not use.
Unknown to the seven-year-old, it was only because of his unique, fractured yet seemingly endless magical reserves, that allowed him to leak magic so much that it took a physical manifestation in this world.
He followed his body's instructions, listening to his heart instead of his brain for once, watching as the tentacles curled and writhed at his mental commands, just like how he moved his arms or legs, like he was exercising control of skeletal muscles he never even knew existed. Colours of various bright shades filled his vision, almost like a neon party was going on in the normally dark cupboard, making him gasp at the beauty, his face filled with childish wonder at the sight, so similar to the patterns light made on the seabed, something he had seen in a documentary about sharks on the telly.
Harry followed his instinct, deciding to let it do all the work, manipulating his muscles just as it told him to.
He watched as a tentacle writhed against the door, stroking against the lock for a brief moment before there was an audible click, and the door swung open. It reminded him of the way an octopus could unscrew a jar from the inside, making him suppress a gasp at how... bestial he was becoming by the moment, straying farther and farther from humanity.
He glanced at the kitchen, his stomach growling in hunger as he imagined the refrigerator, imagining the food it was stocked with, almost taking a step in that direction.
But his instinct had other plans, pulling him without rhyme or reason towards the Dursleys' bedrooms, his tentacles acting like extra appendages as he pulled himself up, the tentacles curling around the railings of the staircase to pull Harry up, making barely any sound, so that he did not have to climb up.
The iridescent glow the tentacles, made of pure magic, gave off, illuminated the otherwise dark house. Through the window, he saw that the neighbours were still up, judging from the lights.
He stood in front of the master bedroom, repeating the unlocking trick with his tentacles, the door swinging open. Harry stepped in, whatever remained of his human part wondering why he was here. The tentacles trailed in after him, closing the door as if what he was going to do was something secret, that should leave no witnesses, something forbidden. Harry's mind complied, not seeking answers just yet, not when the maddening hunger in his stomach was growing with every moment that passed, even as he complied with his body's wishes, pulling and manipulating imaginary muscles to make the magical tentacles move.
Then, the smell hit him, drawing his feet to the bed until he looked over the sleeping forms of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. It was similar to the way Dudley was attracted to the smell of frying chicken or barbecue, but Harry's mind was not working just then, too hungry to care, too overloaded.
Food.
Saliva escaped his lips, leaving a glistening trail of drool down his chin, his salivary glands working overtime like a starved man looking at a royal buffet, making him gasp and growl quietly as he watched their chests move slightly with every breath they took.
He raised a tentacle, sharpening it until it represented an enormous, writhing blade, his mind already having shut down, leaving behind only the bestial urges ruling him to eat. Eat.
After all, he had to use cutlery, right? His Mom had taught him his manners.
Nobody heard a thing.
Harry stepped out in the corridor an hour later, still in a daze, like a food coma brought about by delicious delicacies. But his hunger was still not satisfied, it wouldn't be as long as he had space to cram in his stomach. He could feel the refrigerator that was his magical core getting restocked, almost revitalising the tentacles and giving them an added sheen, increasing their strength and speed.
If he wondered how Muggles could provide him with magic, Harry did not give any indication. That was a problem for future Harry to figure out.
Right now, his only thought was food. More food. He had to eat.
As he ate, Harry could feel his body repair, until he was the healthiest he had ever been. He could feel his muscle mass increasing along with his magical reserves, until he felt like he was strong, like an apex predator. The tentacles were growing better with every bite he took, feeding directly off his magical core. He felt like he could add more if he wanted to.
He would have to look into it later.
Harry stepped into the corridor, ignoring the growing puddle of blood on the floor, or the blood dripping off his fingers or the sharpened tentacles, poised to strike, rising above his head like a viper's fangs, like the sharp, pointy legs of a spider.
He was becoming too excited, and no matter how healthy he got, his breath was still becoming short, his birth condition persisting, the sound raspy, like he was wheezing.
Raising the little blue inhaler to his lips, he took another puff, not caring that it became bloody, coming away from his bloody lips with a coat of red. He did not care.
His head swivelled, his eyes rolling inhumanly in his sockets until they rested on another door in the corridor. His heterochromatic eyes gleamed with predatory malice, and glee that he would be able to continue his buffet after being starved for so long.
Dudley was sleeping soundly in his room, barely a few feet from where Harry was.
He grinned, his bloody lips twisting into a Cheshire cat grin that put all of his sharp, gleaming bloody teeth on display, his pale face streaked with glistening blood illuminated by the magical light of his tentacles. Tentacles, that were part of him, almost like another organ in and of itself, like his arms or feet.
And Harry's little feet carried him to the bedroom of his bully.
"Mr. Dursley? Mrs. Dursley? Are you there?" Harry was awoken by a loud banging on the door, accompanied by the shouts of their neighbour, and the impatient ringing of the doorbell.
He groaned, sitting up. His hands felt sticky, his entire body felt sticky. The soft mattress of the bed sank under his weight. What... what had happened last night? Why was he on a bed, and not his stiff cot?
"I will wait for another half an hour, then I will call the cops!"
Harry shifted, his hand coming against... something.
He looked down at his hand, almost screaming out in terror as he saw he had been sleeping in the same bed with a bloody skeleton. With little lumps of white lard still hanging to the bones.
He scrambled off the bed, thudding to the floor, his hand pressed against his mouth, three years of stifling screams coming to his aid as last night's memories came rushing back to haunt the seven-year-old Potter, like some distant fever dreams.
Oh god. Oh, Merlin. What had he done?
He... he was a monster, wasn't he?
Harry scrambled to the attached bathroom in Dudley's bedroom, only managing to lift the toilet seat before he hurled the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
He did not know how long he had been puking for, but when he stopped, making the stupid decision to look down, he almost threw up for a second time.
Red, whole lumps of raw meat, indistinguishable from any other form of meat, lay in the water at the bottom of the toilet, slowly colouring it red with blood. Looking at the pieces, he hazarded a guess that he had swallowed it whole, without chewing whatsoever, as he ripped the flesh from their bones with his hands and bare teeth.
Stop. Stop thinking. This was getting him nowhere.
His mouth burned, a disgusting acidic aftertaste lingering. His breath smelled horrible, only reminding him of what he had done, how unclean his body was.
Oh god. He had eaten not only one, but three people. His blood relatives, no less. He was really messed up, wasn't he?
He was already in big trouble, and he did not fancy jail. What would happen if they found out that he had eaten his relatives?
Oh god, even saying it left a bitter taste in his mouth. Or perhaps that was just from throwing up.
He scrambled to the basin, dragging a tool so he could stand on it and look into the mirror.
Blood caked his face and hands, making him feel dirty and queasy. The feeling of magic surging through his veins, raw and powerful and untamed, only added to the disgust eating away at him.
His right eye was still black and red in colour.
Harry washed his hands and face, scrubbing hard until his skin was red and raw, but still, he felt dirty. Feeling like his body had been stained forever, dirty, like nothing could clean him completely. It disgusted him to no end.
He took a deep breath, again shutting down his brain, something he was becoming quite good at, lately, as he handed over absolute control to his body. His instinct had caused this mess, his instinct would see him through it.
He tore away his rags, flushing them down the toilet. What was done was done.
He could feel sick about it later, when the adrenaline wore off, when his thoughts could catch up. For now, he had to run, to leave no trace behind.
Turning on the tap, Harry gasped at the cold water that hit him, washing away every trace of blood on his being. No time for luxury.
He deserved the cold sting anyway. This was a much greater mercy than what he deserved.
He rushed for the towel that hung from a metal ring in the wall, again scrubbing hard until he was as dry as firewood, his skin red and angry and sensitive to the touch, barely a few scrubs away from bleeding, before exiting the bathroom.
He tried not to look at the remains of Dudley on the bed, trying to ignore the fact that the rest of Dudley Dursley was either still in his tummy, or flushed down the toilet.
He jumped into Dudley's wardrobe, quickly picking the smallest clothes, which, while still a few sizes too large for him, would do for now.
He tore a piece of white cloth from another shirt, before wrapping it around his right eye like an eyepatch. His strange eye was too distinctive, he couldn't give his identity away.
Harry briefly marvelled at how calm he was being in this situation. Although, he guessed, he had his animalistic side and magic inhibiting his emotions, to thank for that.
He was brought back down to earth by the sudden realisation that the shower had probably washed away the black hair dye, making him rush to the mirror in Dudley's room, pointedly ignoring the splatter of blood across the glass.
He sighed in audible relief as he saw his black raven hair, naturally black. It would seem that the magic had returned his hair to its original colour while it was repairing his body.
The white eyepatch was also too distinctive, but it had to do for now.
Weapon. He needed a weapon to use if he had to live and survive on the streets.
Remembering back to the events of last night no matter how much it disgusted him to do so, he swallowed the rising bile in his throat in favour of concentrating on the feeling of the new muscle he had discovered last night.
He opened his eyes, sighing in relief as he watched the iridescent tentacles writhe around, not glowing in otherworldly colours this time.
Concentrating on relaxing his muscle, he saw as the tentacles shrunk, eventually disappearing into its back, from where they originated. He felt the magic he had used to create them return to his core.
Great.
Now, to escape. Somehow.
Now, what was he going to do? If he tried to escape through any of the doors or windows, he would be spotted. No, no, no, this can't be happening.
Please, anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. He wanted to go. Not 4 Privet Drive, anywhere was better than here.
Please, please, please. Accidental magic, where was it during his time of need?
Harry could feel himself begin to hyperventilate as he tried to concentrate on escaping, trying to ignore the panic bubbling up his throat, or the cool tears streaming down his cheeks.
Please.
Just somewhere he would not be noticed. Anywhere but here.
There was an audible crack as his magic reacted to his desperate pleading.
And 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was completely empty and devoid of life when the police entered twenty minutes later, trying to hold in their breakfasts as the gruesome sights.
Three bodies, of the parents and one child, completely missing, while only the skeleton and a bit of flesh of the second child remained.
On the same day, a monster clothed in the skin of a scared child, was released into the rainy, cold streets of England.
AN: Soo... how was the chapter? Feel the gore? I sincerely hope you knew what you signed up for and didn't just skip the disclaimer, for your own sake.
Cannibalism scenes will be in greater detail in future chapters. See you next time, right here, in A Darker Shade of Magic.
Keep calm and headbang!