Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria ❯ Control ( Chapter 2 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria

Chapter 2

`Control'

Harry sighed as he took a sip of the glass of water from the tray of sandwiches Aunt Petunia had brought in a few hours before. He took a bite of liverwurst, before grimacing and swallowing it.

His hands rose up to knead his temples once more, trying to find somewhere, something, anything, any clue to how and where this had started.

The hospital was definitely something. It had been happening there, he noticed now; the nurses, or rather, the women, all crowding to be around him. Hermione had been affected back then too, he realized, recalling instances when she had requested numerous times for male Healers and doctors, and how many times she had been the one who sent the nurses back to their jobs.

Not, as it seemed, out of concern for him. She wanted to be alone with him. Have him all to herself.

He couldn't explain it as anything other than almost as if he had become a male Veela.

That, of course, was completely impossible. Harry had leafed through his meager collection of books before finding the answer in one of the Care of Magical Creatures Texts.

There was no such thing as male Veela. Not with powers, anyway.

Male Veela were the equivalent of breeding studs for the Veela nation. They had no fire controlling abilities, no avian form, and no enthralling aura. They were a bit better looking, true, but other than that, they were just very good looking Muggles, since, being a magical creature as they were, they had no magic other than their genes.

Since Harry could perform magic, and was not being passed around as a sex toy in France, he was obviously not a male Veela.

So, what the hell was happening? Men were terrified of him, and women wouldn't stay away from him!

I could write to Dumbledore. Harry mused.

But…Dumbledore was one of the most important wizards in the world. Harry was almost sure he was very busy a great deal of the time. Every time he wrote to him, he felt like he was just whining for no reason.

In this case, however, he really had no other choice. Something had changed, and he needed a way to stop it.

He grabbed a piece of parchment, and after a moment of rummaging, found an acceptable pen to write with.

He nibbled the end for a moment, before setting to writing.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm afraid I have a-

Harry searched for a good word.

-problem. Ever since I got out of the hospital, and a little of the time in it, people around me have been acting weird. The blokes act like I'm some wrathful god of vengeance, and pissing me off means instant destructions, and all the women won't leave me alone! I need help. Do you think this is related somehow to the graveyard thing? You know, more accidental magic on my part? I've been keeping my temper, I haven't got angry once, and I haven't been feeling any extreme emotion. Do you have anything to make people leave me alone?

There. That pretty well summed up all of his problems.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Harry signed it, and licked the edge of an envelope, before gently opening Hedwig's cage, letting the powerful bird of prey step onto her pole carefully, holding out her leg as Harry attached the letter. Distantly, he heard the shutting of a door and the revving of a car.

“Take that to Dumbledore; To Hogwarts. Okay, Hedwig?” He asked softly.

She hooted softly, before turning her head. Harry followed her gaze, before the door opened, and admitted Aunt Petunia.

“Sending a letter?” She asked innocently.

Harry nodded, and turned back to his owl. “Go.” He ordered softly.

Hedwig hooted, before flying out of the open window of Harry's room, soon becoming a white speck in the sky.

“To whom?” She asked; a bit insistent.

“A friend.” He replied shortly, not really feeling like putting up with her fawning behavior at the moment.

She seemed to take this with a bit of lemon, her mouth twisting up in a momentary frown, before returning to her normal eager smile. She closed the door gently.

“Harry,” That still sounded wrong, coming in such a sweet tone. “I know you're a growing boy, a growing man.”

Harry felt a definite feeling of weirdness from Petunia. He backed up slowly. “Sure…” He replied slowly.

“I know that you boys-men-aren't the best on talking about things.” She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down. “Things like love, feelings, school…” Her eyes darted upwards towards him. “…sex…”

Harry was against the wall now, staring at Petunia warily. “Aunt Petunia…” He phrased this as delicately as she could, yet she still shivered. “-where's Uncle Vernon and Dudley?” He asked.

“And I know that you must be undergoing a lot of changes right now, especially with strange…sensations you might be getting. I assure you; those changes are entirely normal, even in some cases…” She took a single step forward. “…encouraged…”

Harry looked around wildly for something to put between them, and found nothing. “Where are they, Aunt Petunia? Where's Vernon and Dudley?” He asked, in a harsh tone of voice, hoping it would ward her off.

It didn't, she took a few swift steps forward, and before he could stop her, she had her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them.

“I just want to let you know, Harry, I'm always open for a talk, for a question, even for, even for experimentation!” She smiled.

And in that smile, Harry saw madness.

“UNCLE VERNON! DUDLEY!” Harry bellowed, trying to break free of the hold his aunt had on his shoulder. It was no use. Ashamed as he was, even his bony aunt was stronger than his scrawny, under-fed body. “GET IN HERE!”

“Oh, don't be silly Harry.” She replied, in what she probably thought as a purr, but Harry only heard as a hoarse, insane whisper. “Vernon just took Dudley to boxing practice. They won't be back for hours.” She giggled, and Harry was sure he heard a bit of hysteria in it. “Hours, all to ourselves. What would you like to try first?”

“How about you getting OFF OF ME!” Harry yelled, frantically trying to push his aunt off of him.

She grabbed both of his hands by the wrists, before pushing them both onto his bed. “Now, now, Harry there's no reason to be frightened.” She whispered quickly, frantically, into his ear, as she tried to shrug off her dress. “I've heard people do this all the time.”

“That's a lie, Aunt Petunia! You're insane! I do not want to have sex with you! GET OFF'A ME!” He yelled. He tried to bring up his knees and kick her, but his legs were firmly twined around his.

“Stop struggling!” She grunted. “Having urges is perfectly normal, Harry, now come on, help me with this!” She ordered, trying to bite through her dress strap.

“Go…er…to…ugh…hell!” He grunted, squirming with all of his might.

“I am your aunt and I order you to take your bloody clothes off!” She screeched, sounding more like herself now, although in extremely wrong context.

“No! N-NO!” He groaned in exertion.

Petunia drew up her legs and straddled him, showing far more leg than he had ever wanted to see from her.

Then, she started to kiss him, or at least try to. He turned his head as much he could.

“Stop moving!” She grumbled, going in for another peck.

“No, no, get off, stop it, stop it, STOP IT!” He roared, head butting her as strongly as he could.

With a loud bang, a roaring filled his ears, and his head connected, sending Petunia flying across the room, to hit the wall rather hard, shaking the house, before she fell and connected with the ground with a sickening crunch.

Harry stared at her, wide eyed, a moment, before leaning over and retching.

After he had emptied the contents of his stomach, he drew a few, shaky breaths, and went over to check her horribly still body, and slightly smoking body.

Remembering a brief trick, he reached two trembling fingers to a spot under her neck.

Nothing.

He then grabbed one of her arms and tried her wrists. Nothing again.

A low moan escaped his lips. He scrambled back to against the wall, his eyes darting around quickly.

“Oh my god, oh my god, omigod, omiGOD!” He whispered, increasingly hysteric as he stared at the corpse sitting in his bedroom. “I just…I just…oh, sweet Merlin-“ He leaned over and coughed up a few spats of bile. “I just…killed Aunt Petunia. I just killed Aunt Petunia.”

The walls seemed to almost close in on him. He grabbed his head as a pulse of pain hit his head.

“I've got to…I've got to get out of here.” Harry announced quickly. He didn't know where he'd go, or what he'd do, but the only for sure thing was that he absolutely had to get out of this room with his dead aunt-who HE had KILLED!-and get as far away as possible.

He leapt to his feet, mentally going over his options. His trunk? He'd have to leave it behind. Hedwig? She'd left…he'd need her cage. She always returned to her cage.

He grabbed the handle of the cage. Where would he go? Money. He'd need money and his wand.

Harry grabbed his wand, sticking it in the back of his pants, before dashing out the door of his room, and down the stairs.

He rooted through his coat for his purse, and after a moment's pause, threw the coat around his shoulders, before opening the door and running to the curb, before hastily sticking the wand out.

With the familiar screech of rubber, the Knight Bus appeared. Harry, heedless of whoever might be watching from the window, piled in, just as Stan hurriedly stood up.

“MOVE!” Harry barked.

Stan cowered back, before shutting the door and sliding into his seat, slamming his foot on the pedal.

The familiar blur was shone in the windows, and Harry leaned against the wall, his mind racing as he pondered silently his options.

Eventually, Stan worked up the courage to speak.

“Err…Mr. Harry Potter, sir…with all due respect, well, where would you like to go?” He asked timidly.

This question raised a valid point. Harry bit his lip worriedly.

“Mr. Harry Potter-“

“I heard you!” Harry snapped angrily. Stan cringed and quieted. Harry took a few, calming breaths, before turning back to watch the windows. “How far in Britain can you go?”

“Oh, we can go just about anywhere in Britain, s'long as it has a road!” He assured the agitated Boy-Who-Lived quickly.

“Right.” Harry closed his eyes, and deliberated quickly his choices. One thought stood out among them.

He needed to get out of the country. He'd seen that, in a few of the Muggle movies Dudley had discarded. Normally, he wouldn't believe something just because it was in a movie, but at the moment, it sounded pretty damn sensible.

He couldn't Apparate yet, and International Floo Powder networks were only available at the Ministry, as far as he knew. And being that close to a source of law enforcement did not sound like a good idea.

He could always go to Dumbledore…no. He couldn't face Dumbledore right now. Not now, maybe later after he had worked out something to say to him, some way to explain. Right now, he needed to run.

A plane. He needed to use a plane. And for that, he needed a lot more money than just the measly twelve Galleons and three Sickles he was carrying in his small purse.

“Stan, is there a Gringotts outside of Diagon Alley? And can they convert wizard money into Muggle money?” Harry asked quickly.

Stan jumped in his seat, after such a length of silence from Harry, no ready for such a sudden question.

“Err…yeah, there's a few separate small branches. Only in the bigger wizarding towns, you know, one's with lots of wizards in them. And you want to turn some Galleons into pounds?” Stan scratched his head, under his cap, thoughtfully. “I…I think they do that.”

“Good.” Harry replied shortly. “Take me to the nearest Gringotts outside of Diagon Alley.”

“Rightawayyessir!” He blurted quickly, before turning the wheel and bit, and fiddling with the dashboard.

Harry sighed before walking to the back of the bus, and setting down the owl cage and laying down on one of the beds, trying to make sense of his jumbled thoughts.

I'm in some seriously deep shit.

That thought turned up quite often.

Dumbledore was just entering his office, after enjoying a nice cup of tea on the grounds with Hagrid, when he heard his carefully gathered artifacts start blaring, each one giving off a particular noise.

He let his teacup drop to the floor as he dashed into his office at full speed, not feeling a hint of remorse when it shattered into pieces.

“Fawkes! Contact Minerva, we need as many members of the Order as we can gather at Privet Drive, immediately!” He ordered quickly, seeing the modified Remembrawl he had tweaked to monitor the wards and blood wards set up around the house filled with black smoke, signifying the wards falling.

He rounded his desk, and threw a large handful of Floo Powder into the fireplace, careless of the waste. “Grimmauld Place!” He snapped, before sticking his head into the fire.

Immediately, he projected his magic to nearly every stone in the house. “Sirius! Privet Drive may be under attack! I need you and Remus there on the double!”

Dumbledore immediately pulled his head out of the fire, and took a brief moment to survey his alarms, deducting what had happened.

The Dark Magic alarm was ringing, along with Petunia Dursley's life alarm, which meant she was dead. That was a terrible shame, but he had to concentrate on the matter at hand.

Vernon and Dudley Dursley were still alive, considering the fact their alarms remained peacefully sleeping on his shelves. The proximity alarm he had placed on Harry was ringing like no tomorrow, so he had to assume the boy had left the house. He knew Harry had been there, considering that the alarm he had linked to his office on the boy's magic was ringing as well, signifying that he had preformed magic, but the one on Harry's wand was not.

So, Harry had preformed either wandless or accidental magic. Dumbledore resolved to withhold judgment until he discovered what had actually set Harry off.

Strangely enough, the Dark Mark proximity wards hadn't gone off…so sadly, Dumbledore also had to assume that someone within the house had killed Petunia Dursley; which meant Vernon, Dudley, or Harry.

And most sadly, Harry was the most probable choice.

Dumbledore grabbed his cloak off of his rack, which was shielded with a dozen defensive enchantments, and with a brief moment of concentration, Apparated to Number 4, Privet Drive.

He was the first on the scene, as it seemed. He surveyed the empty driveway, open door and smoking but magically fading skid marks on the side of the pavement with eyes heavy with sorrow.

There were numerous pops behind him, signifying the arrival of other Order members.

“Come on, you Death Eater basta-!” Sirius cut off his battle-cry abruptly, not seeing any of Voldemort's followers in the immediate vicinity. He stuffed his wand away.

He could feel Minerva's presence as she joined his side, surveying the sight of Privet Drive.

“Albus, what has happened?” She asked, her stern eyes searching the scene for any clues of the Headmaster's distress.

“Petunia Dursley is dead.” The Transfigurations Mistress's mouth fell open, but no words came out. “And Harry has fled the scene of the crime.”

“But…Headmaster.” Remus Lupin had joined his side now, staring troubled at the last remnants of the Knight Bus disappearing on the pavement. “Surely you can't think that Harry could have done such a thing!” He protested.

“Harry's a good kid, Dumbledore.” Sirius denied vehemently. “He may be moody now and then, but he'd never kill his own aunt, never.” Sirius proclaimed firmly.

“If only all of our estimations of people could never be proven false.” Dumbledore sighed, drawing his wand, before sticking it out onto the street. Nothing happened. Dumbledore slumped and sheathed his wand. “It appears that Harry has hijacked the Knight Bus.”

“Surely you can't be serious!” Sirius exclaimed, scowling. “This is ridiculous.”

“No, that's your name, my dear fellow.” Dumbledore joked weakly. Sirius only scowled harder.

“This is not the time for fooling around, Professor.” Lupin reminded him sternly.

Dumbledore sighed and nodded. “Indeed, we must endeavor to find the reason for Harry's flight from Privet Drive, and the cause behind Petunia's death, so we may determine whether there is any connection between them.”

“There isn't.” Sirius hissed confidently. “I know there isn't.”

Two more pops sounded behind them, allowing Kingley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks onto the scene, wands drawn. Once determining there were no malign forces present, they both holstered their wands, and began making their way over.

Dumbledore frowned, as he heard the sound of sirens. He turned to Number 3, Privet Drive, and saw a curtain hurriedly flap close.

“I have as much faith as you in Harry, Sirius, but we must be absolutely sure.” Dumbledore ordered firmly. “I will need you to conduct a full memory wipe of this cul-de-sac, if you please. You were training to be an Obliviator, if I'm not mistaken, before you were admitted to Azkaban, correct?”

Sirius nodded. “It's been a while, but the material's still all there, most of it anyway. I'll get on it.” Sirius drew his wand, and strode off in the direction of the first house in the rotation.

The ancient wizard turned to Lupin, who waited attentively, just like he had in his classes. “You will inform any of our comrades who arrive of the situation, and entertain the Muggle authorities when they arrive. If Sirius is done by then, tell him to Obliviate them as well.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” Lupin nodded, before stalking off to meet Tonks and Kingsley midway.

“And me, Albus?” Minerva asked, as calm and composed as him; one of the reasons why he kept her at his right hand, besides her incredible aptitude with Transfiguration.

“We, my dear, shall try to discover how Harry Potter managed to produce a charge of accidental Dark magic, and the nature of Petunia Dursley's death.”

To her credit, the Gryffindor Head of House only lagged behind a second with her mouth open, before trotting quickly up to match Dumbledore's pace as he strode into the Dursley home.

And in the grass near a hedge, a tiny microphone fizzled out and broke.

Meanwhile, about a hundred feet in the air above Privet Drive, a Veela woman removed her headphones, and placed them in one of the pouches around her waist, used as a substitute for backpacks, considering the fact that their arms were the only things that kept them airborne, and hindering them in such a way would be very stupid.

Of course, this raised the question of how they would even stop moving their arms long enough to retrieve the headphones, without plummeting to the ground. The answer was sitting on each other's shoulders.

“You done yet, Alexa? My shoulders hurt.” whined Michelle, from between the listener's thighs.

“Ah, you might hurt my feelings. Are you saying I'm fat?” giggled the woman. Alexa patted her on the cheek, before lifting off of her companion's shoulders with a few quick flaps of her arms, bringing them into a semi-circle just a short distance below the clouds.

“You got it?” queried Colette, their squad leader, all business.

“Of course I got it, darling. I'm the best, after all.” Alexa drawled, as best as she could with her tight, puckered lips, almost beaklike.

“Then stop being an arrogant trollop and tell us!” insisted the fourth Veela angrily.

“Fine, fine, you're really a bitch sometimes, you know, Claire?” replied Alexa lazily. “You won't believe it, though. Our target is Harry James Potter, le Survivant.” Murmurings and exclamations of shock and disbelief spread through their little meeting in the sky. Alexa smirked. “Apparently he may or may not have killed his own aunt, and is now fleeing via the English Knight Bus.”

“So that's why the arrow went dead!” Michelle deducted, a sound of amazement in her voice, as she looked down to the black iron arrow, which was on a necklace around her neck. There were three copies of such an arrow, one for each search and capture squadron, and each pointed in the direction of a aura it had locked on to.

For this reason Michelle was the fastest and strongest flyer among the four, having to fly a great deal ahead of the rest so as not confuse the signal with her three companions, despite being the freshest member of their squad.

“Very well.” Colette announced. “First, we must report this information to the Mistress.”

“What!?”

“Huh?”

“You can't be serious, Colette! If we go back now, the Doves may pull ahead, and we can't lose to those whores!” protested Claire vehemently. “And if the Swans win, you know we won't hear the end of it for months!”

“Yeah, Colette, I don't want to lose to the other squads!” Michelle wailed piteously.

“That'll break our streak! We've been undefeated for almost a whole year, two more months and it'll beat the old record! We can't lose to those rookies!” Alexa seemed especially against it. “It'll totally ruin our image! Come on!”

“That's enough!” Colette snapped, like a whip crack. The bickering Veela were silent instantly. “I am the captain of this squad, and what I say, goes! The Mistress told us to report any anomalies and that is what we will do! We're heading back to the Nursery.” She informed them coldly, before turning and beginning the flight.

A few moments later, she could hear the identical flap of wings behind her, along with mutinous mutterings of `asskisser' and `lapdog'.

She ignored this. If the le Survivant was truly the one they had been waiting for, then it could put a definite kink in the plans of the Mistress.

And nothing could be allowed to impede her Mistress, the Fourth Matriarch of the 13 Matriarchs of the Veela Nation, Lucienne Delacour.

Harry was not able to sleep very well, only being able to lightly doze on one of the beds. He was almost immediately awake when the bus jerked to a halt, rolling out of bed to his feet, his hand trailing towards his wand.

He relaxed, ever so slightly, when Stan's head leaned around the corner, peering anxiously at Harry.

“We're here, uh, Mr. Potter. Wiltshire County; lots and lots of pureblooded families here, because of Stonehenge and Avebury and all that, you know.” Stan announced blearily.

This got Harry's immediate attention. “Like who?” He asked warily.

“Oh, the Notts, the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, the Malfoys-“ Stan listed quickly.

“The Malfoys!?” Harry repeated quickly. Stan nodded quickly, fearfully, and Harry narrowed his eyes and looked down, deliberating his choices of actions. “Stan.” Harry spoke up suddenly.

“Y-Yes, Mr. Potter?” He responded quickly.

“Can you access my account for me?” Harry queried, after a brief pause due to the prying of his account key from his purse. “I have the key and everything.” Harry lifted the small golden key as proof.

Stan looked hesitant. “Mr. Potter, I don't think that…I don't think I'm allowed to leave the bus. I'm sorry, but I just couldn't. It's my job.”

“Stan!” Harry growled in annoyance, and stopped as the bus driver cringed back in fear. Harry let go of his frustration with a sigh. It would do no good to take out his animosity on the man, considering the way he and every male seemed to be terrified of him.

Hell, by the looks of things, Stan looked ready to soil himself. And taking advantage of his unnatural fear sounded like something Voldemort would do, which put Harry firmly against it.

“How much is your salary?” Harry asked abruptly. Stan blinked in surprise.

“Huh? Err…twenty five Galleons a month, Mr. Potter, sir.”

“Stan, if you do this for me, if you just do this simple thing, run to the Gringotts and withdraw for me…” Harry mentally estimated, before chucking the notion. “My whole trust account, and convert enough of it into nine hundred pounds, then you could have…have…a hundred Galleons.” Harry watched in satisfaction as Stan's mouth dropped open.

Stan's face scrunched up, as he undoubtedly agonized over the choice. Harry could smell the blood in the water, and went in for the kill.

“No one will know. I'm not going to tell anyone, you're not going to tell anyone, and all you have to do is a simple withdrawal and transfer. Then, you're a hundred Galleons richer.” Harry dug in his pocket, and pulled out his purse, jingling the coins inside with a brief shake. “This is my down payment. There's half your month's salary in here. What's it going to be, Stan? I need an answer.” Silence. “Stan!” Harry spoke sharply.

“Okay, okay! I'll…I'll do it. No one will know, right? Just you and me?” He reaffirmed quickly, nervously.

“Not a single soul.” Harry replied soothingly.

Stan rose from his seat, and after taking a shaky breath, opened the door, before piling down the steps. The crunching sound of his loafers on the gritty path soon faded into the night.

Harry let out a shaky breath, and slid down against the wall. His frayed nerves were visible to anyone who might have been looking on.

This was because he had no bloody fucking idea what he was doing.

He was on the run, had killed his aunt, had a Dark Lord trailing his footsteps, everyone around him was acting weird, and he had absolutely, positively no idea what to fucking do!

Harry felt his pulse rapidly quickening, as a myriad of emotions shot through him, finally free from the tight control he had been keeping over them for the last few hours, through will or perhaps some sort of shock factor. Shame, guilt, fear, nausea, finally settled on a strange, interesting mix of inconsolable rage, resentment and frustration.

“God damn IT!” Harry growled in himself, before gripping his wand so tight for a moment, he thought it might snap. “God damn, god damn, god da-a-amn…!”

A sharp wave of pain burst through his scalp, and his hands automatically flew to his scalp. He remembered the Headmaster's words, and began to hyperventilate. Oh, shit, not again, not again, not again!

Harry tried as best he could to remember any tricks he could for controlling temper. He took deep breaths, but the clarity the oxygen brought him only brought clearer thoughts, which only added fuel to the fire.

Why the hell does all this shit happen to me!? Harry screamed mentally. He knew he was whining; He knew that complaining did nothing to solve problems, but damn it all to fucking hell, he was pretty damn sure he had earned to right to some! I have to be the one who's aunt tried to rape him, I have to be the one who had to have a Dark Lord and all of his minions after my blood since before I could walk, I had to be the one who couldn't do a god-damned thing while people died around me, with only the equivalent of a `Don't worry, you'll do it somehow' from the one man who's supposed to be protecting me, instead of the other way around! Me, Me, ME! Why is it always me!?

Harry's angry mental bitching quickly turned to shock and horror, as his fingers grew black for a brief second, before bursting into dark reddish flame.

A howl of agony escaped his lips, as his wand fell from nerveless finger, just as the walls began to close in on him, and his vision started to flicker violent red.

No, no, NO! Not! Again!

Harry stumbled over to a bed, and began slapping his fingers as quickly as possible against the rough fabric, screaming in nearly incoherent pain. This only served to set the blankets on fire, and worsen the pain. His knees buckled under him as his legs kicked and flailed as he rolled on the floor.

Got to put out the fire, got to put it out, put it out, put it FUCKING OUT NOW! WATER, DAMN IT!

Harry's vision caught a long, dark object at the corner of his vision. He frantically squirmed over to it, and placing his fingers in front of his immobile wand, screamed, “AQUAMENTI!”

Harry half groaned, half sobbed in relief as a thick stream of water coursed out of the end of his wand, meeting the crimson flames engulfing his fingers with a hiss, before fizzling out completely. He let the water run over his fingers for a few more minutes, before pulling them away, to inspect them.

He winced, and shuddered at the damage. The skin was all patchwork, like a quilt, and where the flame had burned through, black shiny, scorched muscle shone. Harry was no doctor, but even he could tell it looked bad. There was already pus and some shiny fluid he couldn't recognize welling up at some of the corners.

He experimentally tried twitching one of the fingers.

Bad move.

Harry let out a loud, hoarse gasp as his spine arched reflexively, as a vicious lance of lightning seemed to shoot through every nerve cluster in his body.

He stared down at his wand, which had stopped shooting water a while ago. Through labored breaths, he tried a hopeful uttering of, “Aquamenti.”

Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The wand was non-responsive.

Harry craned his head to look down at his hands. He wasn't keen to try holding a wand in those.

Harry reached down, and picked up the end of his wand in his mouth, pushing off with his feet until he had his back against the wall. He held up his fingers in front of the tip of the wand clenched between his front teeth. “Akhokukenti.” Harry spat out through the wood clenched in his teeth.

Nothing. The fingers were starting to throb, now, a pulse of ache that seemed completely synchronized with his heartbeat.

So, Harry tried a different approach. He laid himself prone, before spitting out his wand onto his chest. He arched his back, and made a few, odd bumping gestures using his torso and hips, keeping his burned hands firmly in the air, before managing to get the wand to his side, before clamping down on it with his armpit.

He then maneuvered himself back into his previous position against the wall, placing his hands in front of the tip of the wand, before clearly enunciating the spell.

“Aquamenti.”

A firm, yet gentle stream of water pushed out, and Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't known he was holding. The water was completely soaking his right pant-leg, but he couldn't honestly give a damn at the moment.

The sound of voices drew his attention, however, as he froze in recognition of one of them.

“I certainly hope you aren't lying to me, Stanley. I shall be greatly displeased if this is all a hoax.”

Lucius Malfoy. Although it had been a while, Harry would recognize that familiar arrogant aristocratic drawl anywhere, even with the edge of excitement it held. He frantically scrambled over to the edge of the corner to look around.

“I-I-I would never, Lord Malfoy!” Stan's anxious, terrified voice was heard clearly as the crunch of gravel grew louder.

Harry heard the clang of feet meeting the steps up to the bus, and stared at the wand firmly stuck in his armpit, and saw the only course of action become apparent. He curled up his legs and made himself as small as possible, and waited.

Just as black boots appeared next to Harry, he grabbed his wand out of his armpit with his scorched fingers, and pointed his wand at the blonde head that appeared before screaming with all the might his pain granted him.

“STUPEFY!”

The spell was nearly point blank. Luicus never had a chance. He crumpled to the ground, limp and unconscious, snake-headed cane falling from nerveless fingers.

Not stopping to take a breather, Harry threw himself around the corner, and was greeted with the sight of Stan Shunpike, seemingly frozen in place with fear. The Gryffindor boy didn't hesitate a second. “Pertrificus Totalus!”

Stan's arms and legs locked up straight, and he went stiff as a board, before slowly tipping over backwards and falling.

Harry shuddered, before the pain became just too great and he dropped the wand, whose end was covered in dead black skin and small amounts of blood and pus that had leaked from squeezing too hard.

He scrambled to his feet, keeping his hands cradled to his chest, before picking his way over to the door of the bus, staring cautiously yet suspiciously out into the cold, dark night.

There were only crickets and peepers. It seems Malfoy had thought to handle the Boy-Who-Lived all by himself. Maybe it was arrogance. Maybe it was greed for whatever reward Harry was sure Voldemort would've granted him had the capture been successful. Whatever it was, Harry was grateful for it. He wasn't sure he could handle anyone else, considering he could barely hold his wand at the moment.

Harry quickly hooked an elbow around the handle for the door, and pulled the doors shut. He then picked his way back over Stan's immobile body, ignoring the eyes which so wildly rolled in their sockets with fear.

He stopped at his wand, and after firmly gritting his teeth, picked it up.

He shuddered with the pain, and made sure to hold it loosely, before pointing the wand at the bus driver and muttering the counter curse.

Stan instantly scrambled to his knees, before Harry snarled. “Move and you die!” He froze. Harry kept his wand trained on him. He swallowed, and gestured with his wand. “Wand, give me your wand. Slowly.” Harry ordered thickly, the pain clogging his throat with heat and making his eyes water.

Stan bobbed his head and moved his hand very slowly towards the inside of his coat. A simple brown wand soon appeared, before he slowly put it on the floor, and pushed it towards Harry. His face glistened with sweat.

Stan's hand twitched and grabbed the wand, and Harry stomped it flat without a hint of remorse. A pained yelp escaped his lips, before Harry grinded his sneaker a little more before sliding the wand out of reach when it dropped from the fingers.

Then, Harry delivered a vicious toe to the bus driver's chin, sending him sprawling back with a surprised gasp.

“You betrayed me!” Harry hissed.

“No!” Stan whimpered.

“It was fucking simple! Just get the money, and you get rich! And then you fucking betray me!” It was possible that Harry's pain was fueling his rage at this point, but he couldn't care less. Harry breathed deeply. “Give me one…one good reason…why I shouldn't…kill you, RIGHT NOW YOU MOTHER FUCKER!”

Harry could do it. This single self-realization chilled his very own blood, to the point where there was no more rage left in him, just cold certainty.

He was on the run, he was desperate, he was alone, and he could kill this man to save his own skin.

He could kill this man. He would kill this man.

“I didn't! I didn't! He made me do it!” Stan screamed pitifully, his hands rose as some sort of pathetic defense against the Unforgivable Curse on Harry's lips.

Harry swallowed, his eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Imperius Curse!” Stan breathed quickly, seemingly seizing the opportunity Harry gave him like a lifeline.

Harry slowly thought this through. It was possible, no, probable, that the elder Malfoy could have used the Imperius Curse on Stan Shunpike, if he saw the man without his bus, wandering a mostly wealthy pureblood town.

However, it was also just as likely that this was an excuse, seeing as the Imperius Curse was used a lot as an excuse for doing things you weren't supposed to, seeing as Luicus had gotten off mostly scot-free for all of his days as a Death Eater just by claiming this. And Harry wouldn't be terribly surprised if the first thing Stan did once he was out of sight was run straight for the Malfoy Manor.

“You've got one chance.” Harry informed Stan. He nodded quickly. “Where's my money?” Harry asked.

Stan's face broke into relief. He pointed to the black silk form splayed behind Harry. “He took it. He-He asked me why I was there, and I told him I coming back from Gringotts to pick up your money, and he took it. After he-…After he did the Imperius curse on me.” Stan explained quickly. “It's in a Bottomless Bag.”

Harry felt a twinge of uneasiness. He pointed his wand at Stan again, who cowered back. “What's a Bottomless Bag?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“It's-It's a bag! Gringotts gives it out for large withdrawals! You just say the amount, and it appears in the bag!” Stan blurted out quickly. “A bag without a bottom! A Bottomless Bag!”

Harry's eyes flickered to the prone form of Luicus Malfoy. “Accio Bottomless Bag.”

The form shivered and moved slightly, before a portion of the black cloak bulged, before a red leather bag burst through, flying to Harry's outstretched hand. He stifled a groan as his fingers sent burning pain down his body as he was forced to close his fingers around the bag.

Harry peeled the mouth open and muttered. “Twelve Galleons.”

When he looked, there were a dozen fat golden coins shining in the bottom of the bag. Harry closed the bag and stuffed it in one of his pockets. Stan was shifting nervously on the ground, not having dared move an inch to get up or unbend his knees from their painful position.

“I-err-I didn't get all of it…” Stan murmured quietly, looking anywhere but in Harry's direction.

“What? What!?” Harry asked sharply. Stan twitched and held up his hands.

“I couldn't take it all out! They said the only person who could withdraw the whole account was you! I swear! I swear on my mother's grave!”

Harry blinked the hot tears of pain out of his eyes. “How much could you get?”

“Only-Only a third. I got nine hundred pounds worth of the Galleons converted, too, just like you said.” The terrified bus driver emphasized this, as if it would soothe Harry's ire.

That made sense. That sounded like the kind of thing a bank like Gringotts would do, as much as Harry was annoyed and frustrated by it. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the next. “How much Galleons do I have?”

“A hundred twenty three Galleons. I didn't take a single one, I-!” Stan answered instantly.

“-swear on your mother's grave, yeah, I know.” Harry muttered darkly. He had enough money for a plane ticket now, but any dreams he might have had of plenty of money to spend were dashed. “Alright. Get up.”

Stan bobbed his head quickly, and scrambled to his feet, shifting and clasping his hands nervously.

Harry jerked his head towards Luicus. “Open the door and throw him out.” He ordered, moving out of the way so the bus driver could get through.

Stan shuffled forward, and picked the Stunned Malfoy Lord up, placing his arm over his neck, and began dragging him towards the front of the bus.

A sudden idea hit Harry's mind. “Wait.” Stan stopped dead, twisting his neck to see Harry's face. “Accio Malfoy's Wand.” Harry intoned.

Instead of being pulled from Lucius' body, Harry was nearly blindsided when the snake-headed cane flew at him. Harry barely moved his hand in time catch it awkwardly, gasping as the wood slapped against his delicate and scorched flesh. He bit his lip hard. “Go ahead.” He wheezed, and Stan nodded before continuing with his disposal of the aristocrat.

I should've remembered from second year. Harry thought ruefully, as he pulled the head of the cane by trapping the end between his elbows, and holding it steadily between his legs. Pretty sneaky, hiding it in a cane…

The head pulled free, and Harry let the rest of the cane drop, maneuvering the wand into the same position as the cane had been in, and extricating the silver snake's head from the end of the wand.

The head dropped with a clunk, and Harry, after a bit of awkwardness, placed the wand into his pants pocket. It seemed like a good idea to have a backup. In fact, two backups is even better…Harry thought, as he pocketed Stan's wand in a similar manner. It's a good thing it's only my fingers that were burned, and not my palms, or I'd be totally fucked…

That brought up another issue Harry had been gnawing on a while. Accidental magic his ass! He very sincerely doubted other kids had parts of them lighting on fire when they got angry. He didn't know what it was or how it happened, but Harry resolved to try to put a tighter lid on his temper from then on, since it seemed to be the only reliable factor that linked the mysterious symptoms to parts of him spontaneously catching flame.

After that, he watered down his fingers again. I'm going to need to find a Healer, and soon. These don't look too good. Harry mused.

Indeed, the wounds were already filling over with a sort of cream colored pus, not the dark red scabs Harry normally associated with healing.

There was thumping up the steps, and Stan appeared in the front of the bus. Harry dragged himself to his feet.

“Alright, good. Now close the door, and take me to the nearest airport. You do know what those are, right?” Harry asked, a bit doubtfully. He was relieved when the portly bus driver bobbed his head jerkily, before closing the door and taking a seat again.

The windows soon resumed their flashing colors as the bus sped back into motion.

Harry sat back on one of the beds, letting his own phoenix-core wand drop from his fingers to the floor. He stared at his mangled digits, now almost completely numb, which even he knew was a very bad sign, rather than good.

What the hell am I doing? What the hell am I going to do?

In Little Hangleton, England laid a gloomy, shrouded mansion. All of its inhabitants had mysteriously disappeared, including its devoted caretaker. Now, none of the townspeople would dare even approach it, for fear of meeting the same fate.

Even the thrill seeking teenage boys on dares shied away from the foreboding structure, some primal instinct telling them that trespass on its grounds would result in nearly instant termination. They quickly found bravado-filled excuses and left.

They were very smart to do so, even if they didn't have a choice in the matter. The Muggle-Repelling ward around the Riddle Mansion did its duty quite well.

In the trophy room of the mansion, the Dark Lord Voldemort, reborn in all of his power, lounged almost lazily on the red armchair, staring into the flickering flames of the fire.

The `almost lazily' came from the fact that something about his pose, his mood, the tense muscles, made any who looked upon him reminded of a coiled spring; ready to explode into violence and death at a moment's notice.

There were more interesting things to look at the fire, to be sure. The Riddle family, before it's demise, had been rather wealthy, and having several generations of hunters, on both the male and female side, along with the money to fund long safaris, resulted in the many animal heads mounted on the walls, and stuffed predators standing on artificial patches of turf.

Very intriguing.

But not to Tom.

They were already dead; remnants of a hunt long past, of old glories the foolish owners held onto for the day they could hunt no longer, and could only reminisce; foolish, stale and utterly boring.

The fire, the fire was alive, in ways none of his imbecile minions could possibly understand. A force of chaos, unquenchable thirst that could not be sated, only destroyed, or snuffed. No matter how much he tried to explain to them, to Pettigrew, to Nott, to Bella, they only nodded in terror or caution or rapture, in a way that made him know that the complexity had flown right over their head.

Weak, blind and nearly useless they were. He kept them around for the sole reason of performing the duties that would have kept him from his time alone; from his quiet contemplation.

Was he insane? Maybe. Tearing your soul into sevenths couldn't possibly be very healthy on the psyche. Did it matter? No. For he was powerful. He had power. In a world where strength was the only thing respected, he was strong. And for that, he was feared.

The door behind him creaked open, and Voldemort didn't have to look around to know it was Pettigrew. His slit nostrils scrunched slightly in distaste at the oily, watery feel of the traitor's pathetic aura, as insignificant as it was compared to his. He could barely feel the shining speck in it that was the silver hand he had granted to the worm.

“What is it, Wormtail?” Tom snapped, a coil of fury burning up in his abdomen at this disrespect, at this invasion.

He heard the small creak that was the worthless maggot flinching. No doubt he was wondering how he had known he was there. The corners of the Dark Lord's mouth curled upwards in amusement, the anger vanishing like a summer rain.

Insane? Maybe. Probably.

But strong, stronger than most, he was the Dark Lord Voldemort, strongest of them all!

“The-The boy…H-Harry Potter, Milord. T-There is news.” Wormtail stuttered out pitifully.

Voldemort felt the burning rage return. “What…about…Harry…Potter!?” He bit out each word through clenched teeth. The fire roared and shifted with a sharp snap, and its light seemed to dim slightly.

“He's-He's gone, Milord! Gone from Privet Drive! The wards have fallen, and he is gone!” Pettigrew blurted.

Anger vanished in place of surprise. Voldemort rubbed his chin with one pale, thin hand.

He had long known of Harry Potter's location, true, before Wormtail had broke cover from the Weasley filth, he spent nearly every waking moment with the youngest son, Harry Potter's little schoolboy friend. It was impossible for even an incompetent like him to forget how many times Potter had mentioned his dislike for his relatives and going home each summer from Hoggy Woggy Hogwarts to Number 4, Privet Drive.

He had particularly infuriated when he found the wards stronger than steel, not letting himself or any bearing a Dark Mark into the nothing little town of Little Whinging, nor any Inferi or anyone under the Imperius, for that matter. Only Dumbledore could have erected such wards.

He had never feared Dumbledore. Never! But he retained a spark of respect for the old man, even if he was only a shadow of the power he once held in his youth.

Dumbledore had been damned thorough, too. Tracking charms to list who went in and out, Notice-Me-Not charms on the entire neighborhood, so no one would ever be compelled to visit Privet Drive for any other reason than the fact they lived there, and impenetrable Floo and Apparation wards, to prevent the Dark Lord from just standing up this minute, throwing a pinch of Floo Powder into the fire he stared at, and popping in to Number Four for a little visit.

No, that place was a magical fortress. Voldemort suspected that he had linked most of the wards up to that damnable blood ward Lily Potter had placed on her son, to make them even stronger. It was the only explanation Tom could find that would make the wards so powerful.

But the wards falling, that could mean only one thing. Lily Potter's relative was dead. Harry Potter was not protected any more.

Harry Potter was vulnerable, like a turtle without his shell. And Hogwarts was unavailable to him, considering the fact that it repelled students during the summer, as a matter of magic placed by the Founders, magic even Dumbledore could not circumvent, lest he risk bringing down every major ward placed on the school.

“Really…” Voldemort murmured. “That is interesting…hmm…”

Pettigrew waited patiently and fearfully, not daring a step closer while the Dark Lord deliberated his course of action.

It didn't take long.

“Wormtail.”

“Y-Yes, Milord?”

“Call up the Inner Circle. Tell them to muster up every minor spy and snitch in Britain we have, and put them on the look out for Harry Potter. One whiff of curse-scar, and they send every underling they have, including themselves, after him like bloodhounds on a fox.” Voldemort ordered dispassionately.

“Yes, Milord.” The traitor replied nervously.

“I mean it, Wormtail. Every one. And tell them to take him alive.”

“Milord?” Pettigrew replied, in anxious confusion.

Voldemort said nothing for a moment, choosing to examine in silence his arm, where there was a black, blotchy scar, in the vague shape of a hand. For a moment, a memory popped into his head, of a boy, crouched in a graveyard, his eyes glowing red, redder than even his, before crimson fire exploded from his chest in a wave of fire that took out three of his Inner Circle, and wounded many more.

Indeed, he had been thanks to his quick reflexes that he was able to grab Goyle and place him in front of himself. The idiot hadn't even had time to scream. Such a shame, he had had some impressive power, even if he had been too stupid to utilize it correctly.

“Did I stutter? Or are you…questioning me?” There was a sort of vague malice in the last statement that made Wormtail shiver.

“N-No, of course not! Every one, Milord. Take him alive. I'll tell them immediately.” Pettigrew assured the annoyed Dark Lord immediately.

“Do that. Tell them that they know the price of failure. Now go. Go!” Voldemort snapped.

Wormtail flinched, before stumbling out of the room quickly; to the room down the hall the Dark Lord had previously filled with owls. Voldemort waited until he could hear his servant's heavy footfalls no more, before sighing dismally.

Voldemort turned his arm over once more, examining the hand-print. Even with the best medical attention available, he somehow doubted he would be able to rid of this scar completely.

Instead of rage, or anger, an intrigued smile lit up the pale, angular face, as he examined the print.

“What exactly are you…Harry Potter?” He asked no one in particular.

Then, abruptly realizing he was reminiscing, something he had just shunned a short few minutes ago, and he rolled the sleeve of his robe back up, scowling.

“No matter. I shall find out soon enough.”

Red eyes narrowed in determination.

“One way or another.”

Still looking for beta. Just thought I'd mention.

On another note, some people might be saying that Harry's reaction to his first kill was sort kind of pussy. Well, I don't know about you, but I DON'T think that the Dursleys beat him or anything, so I think he's only somewhat malnourished and a bit starved for affection. NOT some sort of bad ass that can shrug off ending a life like a crappy coat. Yet.

As for his little inner monologues and slight breakdown in the bus, well, sort of same reason. He's a fourteen year old who just got his foundation pulled out from under him. He's a murderer, he's only got enough money for about four months, if he's smart with it, and he feels like he just betrayed the only person who ever cared about him.

If I were him, I'd be freaking out, too.

Well, that's it for this one, Chapter three next, stay tuned.