Chapter 9 – A Gift in Blood
AN: warnings in this chapter (second scene) for explicit torture involving needles and (technically) attempted drowning.
A warmth that settles in Voldemort's chest indicates that his Intended has returned to the manor. He stills, then thoughtfully places the ring Horcrux he'd been working on down onto the desk. It's fascinating to note that even in a moment of utter concentration when he's absorbed in work, Harry's presence is all-encompassing. Not that the man's absence is uncomfortable per se – not for a few weeks at least, until Voldemort's core starts gnawing at itself in longing for its other half and the state of his mind grows frantic – but proximity is always preferable.
He selfishly wishes his soul mate would be similarly affected. If they'd suffer the same from being apart for prolonged periods, perhaps Harry wouldn't be so quick to leave...
By this point in time, there is no telling how their soul bond will develop; whether the other will ever be affected by the Deterioration. Harry's body stopped ageing under Death's influence. Who is to tell what this connection shall do to his magic? There has not been a precedented case to study in the history of mankind. Not on this planet, this dimension, as far as the Dark Lord is aware. Certainly not of a person who simultaneously happens to be a human Horcrux and a reincarnated soul. Harry's immense, raw force stems from a core at least double any regular size. Both its forming and development is unique. They've barely scratched the surface of the power the man now carries. Immortality cannot be all there is to mastering Death, not when Harry instinctively used a wandless Killing curse...
Leaving the ring behind as the protective spells aren't yet finished, Voldemort exits the study, itching to hear all details of the evening's events. He'd considered attending personally by impersonating one of the invited guests, but the involved effort and risks wouldn't have been justifiable. A Sunday Soiree is hardly a secret meeting at which to gather valuable information on enemy plans. Anything useful that could come out of it, Harry had been best-equipped to handle.
His pace turns brisk when loud voices are carried up the staircase at the end of the corridor.
"I do not want to talk about this right now, Siri!" Harry speaks, barely holding back enough for the tone to not be considered yelling.
"I'm not asking for details," Black snaps back. "But that was your invisibility cloak the referee removed. If you interfered in the fight, does that mean the man who died-"
Arriving at the landing, Voldemort gazes down on the two figures below – Granger nowhere to be seen, perhaps already having sneaked off to read the rest of the book he'd deposited on her bedside table. Neither man has taken note of being intruded upon, an irritable reminder of the prior musings, but useful in the moment to listen in without either participant in this quarrel holding back.
"I saved a woman's life, if you must know," Harry harshly defends. "The referee should have put a stop to that duel ages ago and called a draw. But no, just because the spectators were all such very important people craving entertainment, it went so far that two experienced duellers felt the need to push past their limits. Both of those spells would have had deadly consequences without interference and sadly, I can't be in two places at once. Unless you have a time-turner in your pocket and happened to pick up my cloak, we can't prevent this death!"
"That's... not how time-turners work. You can't prevent deaths."
"I travelled back thirty-four years with the sole purpose of ensuring my loved ones don't die, so don't tell me I can't.''
Not an entirely solid argument, Voldemort finds, for Harry having travelled across more dimensions than merely time means that any 'saved' lives may well mean that those people were doomed to die in a different manner in this world. Which once again raises interesting questions about how much of Harry's arrival here is fated... Not that Voldemort will deliberately start another discussion about that, aware of his soul mate's touchy feelings on the matter.
When Black's face falls, Harry heaves a deep sigh. "Sorry, that was... too sore a point today. I tried to save both and failed. Just like how I failed my parents, my ex, my godson... Can we please postpone this conversation? I promise you that I had good intentions."
"I'll return to work tomorrow, kiddo. Between that and you needing to search for tutors who won't ask too many questions, I don't think we'll be able to have a heart to heart for quite some time..."
Thank Merlin for that... Black's stay should really come to an end soon. Just like this conversation, as it has diverted Harry's attention for longer than is acceptable.
"I take it that means you were successful in convincing the right people about your future course of education?" Voldemort speaks up, fingers lightly gliding across the railing as he descends the stairs leading into the entrance hall. Only Black jumps at the interruption. From Harry's knowing smile, his darling might not have been as imperceptive as presumed.
"That's right. Fudge thought it was a brilliant idea once pushed into the direction of that it'll be wise to keep Dumbledore away from me for a while. From the cogs I could see turning under that awful hat, the Minister already came up with a plan on how to use this to show the Ministry in a good light. The Boy-Who-Lived afraid to return to school until the Ministry steps in and rights all the wrongs in the castle and all that... I don't think he'll be too pleased when he invites me back next year and I refuse, but those are worries for later. The only trouble now is that I laid it on too thick. Fudge wants to personally check my list of tutors, so I'll actually need to employ people who won't get in my way, somehow." Harry's rant ends with a small sigh as he allows being pulled into a tight embrace. The warmth intensifies, curling up to Voldemort's neck as it settles in his soul mark.
"The only?" Black interjects, clearly still frustrated. "Between the dead body and Malfoy's forced memory wipe, I don't think the search for acceptable tutors should be your largest focus point."
Malfoy? Narrowing his eyes, Voldemort gazes down on the terribly small form of his Intended. "Which one?" he asks, though already suspecting to know the answer. Narcissa is hardly aggressive enough to make a fuss at public events, and the only one of Lucius' sisters who'd kept her maiden name hadn't been invited today as far as Voldemort could recall from the guest list he'd acquired. So, unless they'd taken their little brat along...
"Lucius gave me some trouble," Harry scowls. "Sirius, none of that is my concern. The duel was oversight from the event organisers and failing to save both when the fight went too far doesn't mean this death is on me. As for Lucius, it was handled for now. Anything further is Voldemort's decision, not mine. "
"Lest..." Voldemort says in a chilly tone when Harry's words are met with a grimace. "You will undermine our efforts by preventing me from gathering a following, Auror Black?"
The answering humourless, barking laugh is surprisingly reassuring. "I dishonoured my badge the moment I walked into this house, nay, when I opened the door of my own home to you and didn't send in a unit to make an arrest. That I have to return to the office means nothing, for I'm no longer an Auror in any way that counts. All I worked for..." he trails off, staring at Harry with pained eyes. "Will be undone, and I'll need to let it happen."
Black had come around to reality with pleasing speed. Neither his dislike for dark magic nor the condemnation of criminal acts are stronger than the wish for a harmonious family. For now, the Auror is still passive about it, hiding behind a veil of 'neutrality' to avoid clashing with his own morality by making his hands bloody, but this too will pass. Voldemort has made it happen often enough, the pull into corruption. It'll be easy now the first cracks have been laid bare, waiting to be filled with doubt, with darkness. Everyone Black is close to has picked a side – even Severus Snape is now one of Harry's spies due to a foolish move from Dumbledore – so it won't take long until he'll be forced to cave. Excellent, for Harry might be upset if he'd have put Black under the Imperius curse for the foreseeable future.
A subtle push of kindness will be more effective in this stage than force. "Sleep on your options, Black. You aren't stuck in your current position. It might be feasible to take an indefinite break by putting your own name forward as one of Harry's tutors, as I'm certain that Fudge will fold if your arguments include Ministry propaganda and taking care of your family. It would allow you to spend some time here while searching for a new job."
Grey eyes blink up at him in surprise. "That- yeah... that's a good idea." Black says it as if agreeing kills him inside. "So, what will happen to Malfoy? He spit on my daughter."
That snippet of information is so sudden and random that Voldemort isn't quite certain what to say. Pulling away from the prolonged hug, Harry tells his godfather: "How about I fill Voldemort in on the full story first? Besides, Malfoy is already going to be severely punished. It may not be retribution on a scale of a life sentence in Azkaban, but he won't get away unharmed."
After Black quietly agrees - with the typical reluctance of someone who is in denial of no longer being an upstanding citizen – and bids them goodnight, they're alone at last.
"'A far more turbulent evening than expected?"
Harry tiredly nods and accepts the offered hand as they ascend the stairs to head into the study. "You haven't heard the half of it," he warns, then launches into a detailed retelling of the evening. Lucius' interference indeed quickly pales in comparison to the other happenings, Death's appearance in particular.
''You gave it one of the Hallows?'' he hisses, staring at his Intended, who is not showing nearly enough concern over possibly losing godhood.
''I technically lent it one of the Hallows. Death was surprisingly forthcoming by telling me it can't reclaim the cloak in that way.''
''Was that information offered before or after your reckless plan?''
His darling halts, green eyes narrowing as he stares Voldemort down. ''Risks are necessary in war. Until some weeks ago, we did not know of the existence of an entity of Death. Until today, I could not confirm whether these powers actually bring me something useful. I'm not interested in talking to the dead or bringing spirits back. I want mages to survive, Voldemort. Today's gamble showed me that I can, as well as that Death is willing to listen to reasonable requests instead of defying my wishes by default. Reckless? Maybe, but had I not used this opportunity, one more witch would be dead right now. You said it yourself: we're one against over seven thousand muggles. This one life was worth seven thousand deaths.''
Voldemort hums noncommittedly. These calculations are not so simple when taking the rate of reproduction of both populations into account, but he realises that nitpicking number games is less important than giving credit where it is due. Whether by sheer luck or calculated risk, Harry did indeed gather valuable insight in how to utilise the Hallows. ''Do continue, then,'' he stiffly speaks, picking up the golden ring from the desk to complete the enchantments while listening, so it can soon go back on Harry's finger, where it belongs.
The other describes the chaos that followed, confusion over who picked up the cloak, and above all Death's message at the end. "It didn't specify what kind of creature should be killed to fulfill this 'request', so I'm thinking that I may as well contribute to the cause..." his darling suggests. "As it has to be someone that isn't fated to die this soon, going after a new Muggle seems a safer bet than murdering one of the victims we've kidnapped to experiment on. The Death Stick is supposedly stronger than fate... I better use it to be safe."
"You wish to do this today, still?"
"I don't see why not. I prefer to pay my debts sooner rather than later. If Death does have my cloak, asking to have it back before honouring its request is bound to piss it off."
"It is your servant," Voldemort points out.
"In name, yes. In reality, I've found it to be more complicated than that. Some of my orders have already been explicitly ignored, it has threatened me and withheld information... Today was the first time it showed a semblance of real cooperation. I prefer being in good standing with the deity I supposedly command, for Death is not exactly eager to obey. If this becomes a mutual bond rather than one-sided, maybe I'll get somewhere without feeling ill at ease after every conversation I have with it. Well then, are you staying or coming along?"
It's being asked as if both options are equally probable. How laughable. Although the third perfectly viable alternative hasn't been put onto the table... "I can send Barty to fetch another Muggle while we enjoy ourselves in bed..." he suggests. "We have a last dosage of ageing potion left..."
"As tempting as that is, not today." The denial admittedly comes as quite the shock, for Harry had never declined the offer of intimacy so far, eagerly delving into exploring each other's bodies. "I'm already exhausted, love," Harry explains, the endearment mollifying Voldemort enough not to push. "I'll need any remaining energy for this kill. As for asking Barty... since Death expects this of me, I don't want to involve third parties. I don't know enough on how fate works yet."
That he was asked to come along is a clear statement of how Voldemort is not seen in the same light as anyone else. Since it's much nicer to hear it from Harry's own lips, he lightly inquires. "No qualms about my presence interfering?"
"As you remind me often enough, you're the other half of my soul. I really doubt you count as a third party."
He'd been correct: it really does feel good to hear that music to his ears being sung aloud.
XxX
The night is quiet, rustling leaves and the distant rhythmic rumbling of a passing train its only companions. In cheerier parts of the country, families might still be holding late night parties, enjoying the summer air after sunset for a good barbecue or to chat with neighbours. This barbaric behaviour is unheard of in Little Whinging.
It makes the uncharacteristic pop practically ring out between the neat rows of houses, ricocheting off polished cars and metal birth baths that lack any artistic flair. The echoes of this disturbance haven't ebbed away yet when a heated voice speaks up:
"You're kidding me. Privet Drive?"
"Your only requirement was an area which Barty hasn't visited yet for our - ah - invited guests. This is one such area. "
"As you well know, I set that requirement to remain inconspicuous and have no questions raised in our world. This is strategically one of the worst moves of the century. Dumbledore-"
"-will feel taunted and possibly push the matter a little too hard whereas the Ministry will burrow itself deeper in denial. Whyever would they be targeted when you have no connections to them other than-"
Harry shushes his fiancé, letting his eyes wander through the street he's not set foot in for so long. The peacefulness is deceptive, every Muggle here nosier than the next. Any sliver of out-of-place conversation picked up from an opened window could become fodder for gossip magazines. It isn't wise to be here. Nor is it too late to leave. Why then, can Harry not bring himself to spin on his heel and apparate to the other side of the country? Any different remote location will do... Why are the feverishly burning eyes beneath the hood of Voldemort's dark robes so convincing?
"Why is this so important to you?" Harry mutters, trying to understand his partner's reasoning as they step away from the open street and hide behind a large myrtle bush, where he casts a privacy ward for good measure. "They mean nothing to me. I've told you this. They hold no more significance than any other Muggle."
"The body you have bared tells a different tale," Voldemort hisses against Harry's ear as he draws his Intended closer. "Not all your scars are from the wars, are they? I promised: every single Muggle who hurt you shall be broken... The lack of your family's hostility in this world is irrelevant, for they remained docile only for a lack of opportunity. Had you not convinced Black to take you in..."
Voldemort doesn't need to elaborate. As Dumbledore had seen it necessary to lie about McGonagall's observations and subsequent advice about Harry's placement, he'd long ago deduced that the Dursleys were just as bad as they'd always been.
Cold hands cradle his face as the Dark Lord almost pleads: "Darling... I do not know the names of those who tormented you during the war. I'll burn Mugglekind to cinders in hopes of catching them all, yet I can never know if those who most deserve it are felled by my wand. Whereas these... they are the only ones that I can be certain of."
Harry gently takes the gaunt hands in his own, keeping them close enough to kiss the fingertips that have shown him so much love. "I still believe this endeavour isn't worth the trouble and would rather never see their faces again... So, I'll agree on one condition only," he seriously says. "That my cooperation and approval for this are accepted as my second courting gift to you."
Crimson eyes flash with obvious delight. "What a sly lion you are. Very well. I shall do my utmost to treasure this gift. To enjoy the experience while it lasts..."
Harry possibly just condemned the Dursleys to a much more painful death. He can't really find it within himself to regret it. "Do you have any preferred tactic? Enter the house from the backyard or simply ring the doorbell? You're far more experienced in personal murder than I."
"Neither. It is a Muggle house without anti-apparition wards to stop us from entering directly. I merely brought us outside first to have a conversation about it, as I anticipated your reaction. What room would be least used during this hour?"
"The smallest bedroom, the one with a view on the front garden," Harry replies without having to think twice about it. "Dudley used it to store the toys that were broken or not often played with. As a glorified storage room for all they couldn't bother getting rid of, it shouldn't be occupied. Voldemort... speaking of Dudley, my cousin is the only one of them that I don't hold a grudge against. Any hurt he caused me was by imitation and encouragement from his parents. Despite that initial brainwashing, he tried to make it up to me later in life. As I need to kill one of them myself... I wish to give Dudley a painless death."
"I will never understand the depths of your mercy," his Intended whispers, staring incomprehensibly. Harry doesn't agree that murdering a twelve-year-old child who's never met them is merciful in any shape or form regardless of the method, but knows protesting about semantics is useless. "I will take care of your former guardians, then. Thoroughly."
"You have my blessing."
"Thank you, angel. That means more to me than you know. Now, hold on so we do not interfere with each other's apparition spot."
The room they land in is dark, the only light coming from the small window looking out onto the street. Even so, Harry can see enough vague, large shapes to feel confused. For as long as can remember, all furniture apart from a single wardrobe, a bed and a couple of shelves had been moved out to make space for Dudley's toys. When the room had been passed onto Harry, he hadn't received new furnishings either. Right now, he can make out a desk with chair, a table, two armchairs, large potted plants... and no bed.
Feeling uneasy, Harry draws the Elder wand and silently opens the door. He can't imagine what change in their lives could make them want to turn this bedroom into an office... Duddykins had always screamed bloody murder when the suggestion to repurpose 'his' room was put on the table. The tantrum when it became Harry's had only been shut down out of fear for mages finding out about the abhorrent living conditions in the cupboard...
Have they perhaps moved homes in this life? Is a different family waiting downstairs?
As soon as Harry entertains that thought, the booming voice of Uncle Vernon - yelling something unintelligible about scores, likely at the telly - reaches his ears all the way from the living room. Nope, definitely still living here. While Harry lingers on the landing, trying to will himself to head down to face them, Voldemort swiftly checks the other rooms upstairs. Returning silently, he whispers: "None of the bedrooms remotely look personalised to a child's tastes. It appears they do not have a child."
"Impossible," Harry mutters back with a frown. "I remember that one of Dumbledore's arguments for putting me here was that I'd have a playmate. Dudley was born, no question about it. He can't be at school either, Smeltings closes for the summer holidays, same as Hogwarts."
When they finally descend the stairs and look around the hallway, however, only stiff portraits of Vernon and Petunia line the walls. The single one that shows other figures is a family photo featuring Marge and her favourite bulldog. No Dudley in sight. As if they have hidden their son's presence just the same as how they'd tried to erase the fact that Harry had lived there.
Apart from the disturbing lack of his cousin in every speck of the house, all looks the same. Overly normal to the point it's almost a parody of the upper-middle class life stuck in their ways. Stealthily moving, Harry spots his aunt flitting about the kitchen even at this late hour, whereas his uncle sits on the sofa in the living room with a beer in hand. They couldn't fit the stereotype better if they tried and are surely mighty proud of that fact.
The sight of them does not trigger as many bad memories as Harry had feared. It's been so very long since he's lived in this house, and their parting couldn't be called traumatic. When waving them off for their own protection, Harry had seen the Dursleys for the people they truly were: pathetic and small-minded, to be pitied more than hated. The abuse he'd suffered at their hands had left marks for certain, but in ways he'd never processed in full, often discovering the abnormality of certain treatments long after those were no longer relevant. In the grand scheme, their neglect paled in comparison to damage done by the wars Harry had lived through. The monsters and ghosts he'd tried to escape.
The reason he wants them dead isn't for the sake of healing old wounds. It is a simple matter of damage control, as is the case with all Muggles who need to die in order for mages to flourish.
Voldemort clearly doesn't agree, hatred prominent in sanguine eyes as he fixates them on the thin woman busying herself with the dishes. If Harry were to wager a guess as to the feelings of his fiancé, he would suspect that Voldemort is projecting the guilt for any version of himself hurting Harry onto their enemies. Seeking forgiveness by blaming others more. Quite the unhealthy way to cope... Not that Harry is an expert, certainly not enough to speak any of these thoughts out loud, for he can offer no better alternative. On the contrary: the bloody retribution his soul mate brings is welcomed. It's a twisted demonstration of how far Voldemort is willing to go to show he means safety , one Harry can understand perfectly well.
He loves the man all the more for it.
Will these feelings fade or strengthen when all that fury has been released on the as of yet unsuspecting Dursleys? Once his soul mate places the corpses at Harry's feet like an offering to the divine?
"Imperio," Voldemort whispers, the spell shooting through the door opening to hit Petunia in the back. Her husband doesn't notice a thing, too busy loudly cussing at the cricket match for a foul. It allows the two wizards to enter the kitchen without a fuss, and Harry curiously observes as his Intended commands Petunia to sit down on a chair so she's not towering over Harry, before asking: "Where is your son?"
The horse-like mouth mechanically opens and closes, finally rasping: "I have no son."
"Of course you do," Harry frustratingly says. "Dudley! You didn't allow my parents to visit him, but they knew he'd been born!"
"Dudley was no family of mine," Petunia speaks, almost sounding offended despite the Imperius curse. "He's dead. Good riddance, for we must never-" The rants cuts off abruptly when Voldemort raises his wand, presumably having silently uttered another command to get her to shut up.
"If your cousin is dead, you will need to find another victim, darling," he merely comments on these outlandish ramblings from Harry's aunt.
"Hold on a sec," Harry says, stomach twisting. "I don't understand. They doted on Dudley, so much so that they didn't care about any of his bad habits. They glossed over the bullying, stealing, disrespect... For Petunia to sound happy about his passing, something huge must have changed. I need to know. Before they die, I need to know what happened to my cousin."
"Why? He was just another Muggle. One less to worry about." Being met with Harry's glare, the Dark Lord lets out an irritated little sigh and turns to his victim, impatiently snapping: "Tell us how you son died."
"A lucky accident," she answers without emotion. "Vernon was giving him a well-deserved smacking after Dudley had had an outburst of freakishness."
At the word, a cold chill runs down Harry's spine. The horror he feels is reflected in Voldemort's eyes, whose annoyance has been wiped away in one fell swoop.
"He'd been warned never to show it after the first incident, but even a week of isolation in the cupboard over summer and withholding food didn't work. He kept defying us: the television exploding, sweets disappearing after he'd been denied them... the last straw was when a plush animal came alive, a day after the last punishment. We had to do something. Would have been brilliant if we could have dropped him off at my sister's, but she just had to get blown up a couple years earlier. It got a little out of hand and Dudley didn't get back up after a spanking. We went on a trip that same day, drove all the way to some Scottish seaside hovel and later told the neighbours he'd befriended some good-for-nothing local kids who dared him to go cliff-diving."
Harry feels like throwing up, staring in the face of evil that speaks so calmly of having dumped her son's body onto the rocks. He knows that his and Voldemort's actions are already reprehensible to most. They've killed children too and plan for many more to die. But this? Her own child?
"How old was he?" Harry forces himself to ask as he clenches both hands into fists to not strangle her right here and now. How long had it taken for his parents to shift their view from their 'little angel' to a monster that deserved being put down?
"Seven."
While a balled fist may prevent strangling, Harry hadn't taken into consideration how perfect it is for bashing Petunia's face in until knuckles hit her cheekbone hard enough to hear bones crack. She knocks against the kitchen table and crumples like a rag doll, the imperius curse not allowing her to retaliate. The commotion is loud enough for Vernon to finally pull his attention away from the match, for the background noise abruptly stops, and he booms: "Tunia, something the matter?"
Neither of them reply, but when Harry casts the strongest silencing wards he knows, Vernon can be heard abruptly getting up, alarmed by the strange voice chanting Latin in his perfect little home. "Who's there?" he yells, stomping to the corridor. "I'm warning you, any trespassers will be dealt with!" His form fills the door opening, face already purple in anger when he spots Harry, who's walked out of the kitchen with a raised wand.
"Hello, uncle. I thought I'd stop by to get to know my cousin, but Aunt Petunia just told me a funny little story about Dudley..."
"What- who- wizard?" Instead of deflating, Vernon's self-defence reflexes kick in, as they once had when he'd threatened Hagrid with an old shotgun. Harry sees the strike coming before it can connect, jumping away so the large fist hits empty air and throws Vernon off balance.
"Petrificus Corpus," Voldemort casts, the jet of white light neatly hitting Harry's uncle in the side, who stiffens as a board and falls to the floor. It's not quite the same spell as the full body-bind curse, for while Vernon can't move his limbs, he loudly demonstrates the remaining ability to speak by shouting profanities at them. "As much as I enjoy seeing them struggle, it won't do if they break the house down. I can most easily cover our tracks with a well-placed kitchen grease fire. Dents in the walls or a splintered staircase railing do not fit into that picture." The Dark Lord is entirely in control of himself and the situation, as opposed to his furious, shaken soul mate. "Harry, do you wish to find another Muggle for your task?"
"No," he denies. "I was indifferent when this was about my life. Dudley changes everything. I will gladly watch every single second of the torment you will inflict upon them." Despite everything, he's still on the fence on participating. With the first spell coming to mind being 'Sectumsempra' besides, they'd die far too quickly under his wand. Better leave them in the care of a sadist with decades of experience.
"It would be an honour to give you a demonstration of my repertoire," Voldemort smiles, lowering his hood to get a better look at Vernon, who finally shuts up for a second as he stares at the skull-like face of his doom. Thin nostrils flare as they pick up on something unpleasant. "Urine... what a waste of flesh. Evanesco."
"You- what are you going to do to me? What's wrong with my wife?" Vernon fearfully blabbers as the pinch he's in finally reaches his tiny brain. "Tunia, snap out of it!"
"Oh, she will, Dursley. Don't you worry about that. I need your wife just as conscious as you are right now when it's her turn to suffer. Perhaps I'll even let her regain her senses before you die, so she can bear witness to the fate that awaits those who mistreat magical children. Now, show me what frightens you at night: Legilimens!" Red eyes bore intently into muddy brown for a full minute before Voldemort retreats and starts laughing softly. "Needles? Such a classic. Then again, I hadn't expected much in regard to imagination from you."
With a wave of his wand, a hundred metal needles of different sizes shimmer in the air above Harry's uncle. "Let's call this warm-up," Voldemort grins as the metal rains down on Vernon with enough force to pierce straight through the button-up shirt and shorts. The blood that quickly turns the summer yellow of the shirt crimson when the needles rise up and descend on new spots is not the most gruesome part of it, for the face isn't spared in the slightest. As soon as Vernon opens his mouth to scream, his tongue and the back of his throat are punctured, whereas eyes that roll wildly in fear are stabbed into blindness until Voldemort casts a healing spell – only for the same to happen seconds later.
It doesn't seem like a warm-up until Voldemort gets bored and moves on to snapping bones, injecting acid and boiling blood. As much as Harry internally chants that the Dursleys deserve every second of it, he can't stomach the sight when the Dark Lord starts shaving off skin bit by bit as if he's digging into raw ham. Harry rather diverts his gaze to the trail of blood that runs down the corridor than looking straight at the source.
Had Dudley ever scrubbed this floor like Harry had been forced to at the same age instead of learning how to ride a bike or play on swings? Merlin, he'd never checked up on his cousin after avoiding the fate of spending his new childhood in this house, having assumed nothing to be different. How could he have known? Why does Magic play such games?
This whole situation feels so surreal and once more confirms what Harry has known all along about Muggles. For the treatment of the Dursleys towards himself had in some way been understandable. He'd been the child of Petunia's hated sister, dumped on their doorstep under threat of violence should they refuse to take him in. But their beloved son? The non-magical Dudley had been raised to consider the world a personal playground, his parents refusing to see any flaw. He could have openly murdered the neighbour's dog and Petunia would have defended Dudley's behaviour. It was only magic that they could not live with, could not excuse. The one thing that made them turn on their own flesh and blood out of irrational fear. That which made them treat a child as if he were less than human, to be locked away in the dark.
"Vernon!" Petunia suddenly cries out as the Imperius curse is lifted. As she'd been present all the time, unable to act, she is acutely aware of all that has happened – and will happen to her. "You filthy animal! I knew it all along, nothing good comes of these immoral powers! I did Dudley a favour when-"
Any lingering hesitation about torture flies out the window as red clouds Harry's vision. "Crucio!" he roars, making his aunt drop to her knees screaming. Uncaring whether she can hear him, he yells: "You see magic as evil because you threw away any chance to be shown its beauty!"
The rage build and builds. Taking inspiration from a particularly cruel punishment he'd suffered at Petunia's own hands when she'd pushed his head down the toilet and flushed when she'd not deemed it spotless enough, Harry spells water directly into her throat to make her choke on it. Each time she swallows it down, he adds more, an unending stream leaving her unable to breathe. The distressed noises are far more satisfying than Harry could have ever dreamt of.
"An excellent start," his Intended praises, sliding closer to Harry to wrap an arm around his shoulders. "She is afraid of snakes, by the way. A shame our pets aren't present, but you surely know how to summon a serpent?"
"Sorry, I... did not wish to intrude on your present," Harry sheepishly replies, cancelling the spells. His hands are shaking. "Acted on instinct."
"And your instinct is beautiful, darling. Don't repress it. This has already been exceedingly satisfying, so how about I'll execute your uncle, and you your aunt? Seeing you all furiously murderous is better than I'd ever hoped for." The wand hand that had caused such pain a moment ago comes to gently rest on Harry's cheek, caressing the skin. "You understand me, and I you, to a level no other can hope to achieve. Ah, how I wish we already had a solution to your body's age, for I would paint your nude body with this blood..." he groans, settling for a tight embrace and inhaling the scent of Harry's hair.
Petunia, who had partially recovered, disturbs the heated moment by scrambling away and muttering about perversions before Harry can consider whether he wants to indulge in this fantasy enough to apparate back and forth to get that last ageing potion. Hearing her hated voice that had screamed at him so often ruins the idea. "I don't want their blood anywhere on me," he denies. "Better spill it over their prized possessions instead."
Voldemort only looks disappointed for a moment before he yanks Petunia back from the front door with invisible chains and sets to work again.
An hour later, the quiet evening is disturbed once again, this time by a large explosion originating from Privet Drive Number 4 that consumes the house in a ball of fire. Petunia never did quite know how to cook properly, some of the neighbours would gossip days later. Always far too frantic to care about safety measures. Attempting to extinguish a grease fire with water is a fatal beginner mistake. By the time the firefighters arrive, little is to be done about the wreckage apart from dragging out the charred corpses of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, as well as three heavily wounded direct neighbours, one of whom who dies before he can be loaded into the ambulance.
Death got more than its fill tonight.