Chapter Text
Harry hadn’t exactly known what to expect when he came back to the Dursleys for the summer holiday after how the Weasleys had fantastically saved him from his relatives last summer. At the time, it had been absolutely brilliant. The looks on their faces? Spectacular. Dudders with a tongue fatter than he was? Fantastic. Being able to leave and not face the wrath of Vernon? Amazing. The thing about his relatives is that they aren’t ones to forgive and forget or to live and let live. No. They can hold onto grudges until they die.
Harry was quickly reminded of this as soon as he stepped off the train. It ran over him like a glass of cold water down his neck. God! He never should have come back to Number Four Privet Drive. He knew he should have jumped onto a random muggle train and gallivanted off to Spain or something. The Dursleys had sat at home, festering all school year. Remembering and picking apart everything the freaks did to their home. And to their poor sweet little Dudders. The mess in Aunt Petunia’s immaculate home! It will never be the same again. It was cleaned up as though the Weasleys were never even in Little Whinging, but don’t try telling Petunia that. Not now that her home has been infected with even more freakishness than from her freak of a nephew.
Harry REALLY should have train-hopped his way to some small village of seventy-three people in the countryside of Spain somewhere. The weather was probably more manageable there. They were in the middle of a heat-wave. Harry was certain he had only stopped sweating because he’s too dehydrated to have any water to spare. His only consolation was that Petunia didn’t have him in the garden today, after spending the entirety of yesterday out weeding, pruning, getting sunburnt to hell, and miraculously, somehow, getting heat-stroke.
He wasn’t outside slowly dying, but he was inside his own personal sauna. A beautiful dark little hole in the wall. He was sure even the spiders had moved on to the cooler parts of the cupboard. Not like Harry could, though. No, he was much too big to shift around much anymore. Although, he never thought he would be thankful for his smaller than average frame until now. He had no idea how much he would come to appreciate his stunted growth until now. If he had been Ron’s size, hell, even Hermione’s, he was sure he would have given himself a truly fantastic concussion by now on the bottoms of the stairs above his head.
He was slowly getting used to it again. When he was younger, he never even had to think about where he was. His body just remembered. But since he is a bit bigger than the last time, granted, not by much, he had to readjust. There was no need to make himself any worse. His first night back in his room, he had managed to give himself quite the bruise on his elbow from flailing in his sleep. It was a quick and sudden reminder of why he shouldn’t move much in his sleep. He just didn’t have the wiggle room for it.
Harry had been home for less than a fortnight and was sorely regretting his existence. Was he being slightly melodramatic? Yes. But Harry felt he was entitled to a little melodramatics. After the fiasco that was last year's grand departure, Harry had been re-gifted his old room. He hadn’t quite been expecting that. Maybe a return of the bars to his window? But he hadn’t been expecting to be relocated to the cupboard under the stairs. He had been hoping, in the deepest parts of his heart, that the Weasleys may have managed to terrify his relatives into leaving him alone, but alas, when does something Harry wants ever turn out like he thinks it should? The cosmos just hadn’t been aligned right when he was conceived, he supposed. No. His relatives had taken how the Weasleys acted as a sign that what they had started with Harry had worked to some degree or another. So, they continued to the next phase of getting the freakishness out of their nephew.
Vernon had managed to get a hold of Harry’s wand and snapped it into little itty-bitty pieces. They dumped Harry’s trunk up in the attic and left Hedwig in the great-wide-world. Harry had been returned to his cupboard and his chores, and his separate meals, or lack thereof. The lock that kept Dudley out of the cupboards and fridge now kept Harry out as well. He couldn’t even sneak into the kitchen during the night like he did when he was younger. With Dudley’s diet, the scraps Harry managed to get were small slices of grapefruit or bits of salad. Or sometimes, if he was lucky, he might manage to get a dinner roll. Harry might even manage a chunk of butter in the bun if Petunia’s not looking. Not that a piece of fat is particularly appetizing, but Harry will take what he can get.
Harry shifted the shoulder he was laying on and stifled a groan, wincing. He wasn’t entirely sure what was wrong with it, but it certainly did not feel great. It could have been from any number of things. It's not like Harry could do anything about it if he managed to figure out what it was. The best he could do is try not to use it too much.
One thing about being locked in his cupboard was that it gave him plenty of thinking time. Heaps and heaps of time to agonise over Cedric’s death and the return of Voldemort. And Moody. And the Triwizard cup. And Sirius. And his friends. Who hasn’t even tried to write or find out why Harry isn’t writing. At this point, Harry was really hoping that Hedwig was at the Burrow or in Barcelona somewhere. But considering his track record of things going how he wants them, he just hopes Hedwig is at least safe.
He should never have let Cedric take the cup with him. He should have been a selfish asshole and taken it for himself. That was what the rules wanted him to do. That’s what Cedric had wanted him to do. But Harry insisted! May as well play the incorruptible young hero. Share the win! Harry never should have let Cedric come close to the centre of the maze. He should have left him the first time he saved Cedric. At least he would be alive now. A bit sore perhaps. But alive.
Harry was sure he’d never let himself forgive and forget that. He supposed he wasn’t as different from his relatives as he thought. Maybe that’s why he felt so blasé about his return to the top hits of his childhood. On some level, it felt as though Harry was getting his just desserts for his part in Cedric's death. If he hadn’t wanted to be the bigger person, Cedric would still be alive and snogging Cho. The decisions Harry had made had killed Cedric. He needed to be punished for that. It wasn’t like anyone else was going to. Why not let his relatives? They have no problems giving Harry a slap up the side of the head. As long as they don’t find out he deserves it for something other than being a freak.
The days passed slowly. At first, Harry was only doing the usual chores and cooking, then he started getting locked up in his cupboard again without food or water, only being let out to use the bathroom once a day. For his “cheek” or for his “lazy” work ethic, of course. As the days turned into weeks, Vernon started to dip into the liquor to deal with Petunia and Dudley during the heat-wave and to deal with the increasing amount of problems arising at Grunnings. Harry, unfortunately, became very versed in where Dudley inherited his boxing abilities, and it wasn’t from his horsey mother.
It didn’t happen all that often at first. But when it did, Harry felt it until the next time. Then It started to happen more and more often. Harry began to find it difficult to complete his chores, which resulted in more cupboard and Uncle Vernon bonding time, which, in turn, made his chores worse, and the cycle continued. His small body once again became a patchwork of bones and bruises. Harry mostly escaped into his mind these days, which wasn’t filled with much to be totally honest. His sunburn has mostly healed, though, and he was mildly pleased about it.
With the lack of food or water, Harry found his healing to be absolutely abysmal. His magic ended up having to take over-fueling his body. He could feel how low his magical core was; His body was draining it by just continuing to breathe. He needed to syphon the energy to heal his more severe injuries and to keep himself from passing out from lack of nutrition and hydration. It made Harry think about how much he must have used his magic to heal himself when he was younger if he had only been back barely a month and his core is already so drained.
Harry was so broken in so many ways that he stopped feeling anything at all. Numb to the bone. He lay in the same position he had landed in when he was tossed into the cupboard a few hours ago. His back was on fire while his body ached like an abscessed tooth. He had found out what Vernon had done with Hedwig, his beautiful girl, and she did not fly off to Barcelona, or anywhere for that matter. He does not regret breaking his uncle’s nose in the slightest to avenge his owl. No matter how much his back hurt now, he couldn’t help but feel satisfaction in the pain.
Harry found himself in the position of finding that if he ever sees another grapefruit, he was going to rip out his own tongue and shove it down the throat of whoever owned the fruit.
Harry swore to God and all things holy that getting a cold in the middle of the summer should be written down as an eternal sin. Harry wasn’t even sure where he would have caught one! He’s stayed on the Dursleys’ property. None of the rest of them have gotten even the slightest bit sick. The timing, though, couldn’t be more perfect; just in time for Vernon to have a company party at the Dursley residence as a thank you for their hard work through the turbulent times at Grunnings.
Harry was just glad Dobby wouldn’t come in to stop Harry from going to Hogwarts and drop the pudding on the head of Vernon’s boss’ wife. Harry touched the wooden bottom of the stairs over his head with his knuckles. He ignored the grief his body gave him for it. Harry wasn’t about to risk anything even remotely similar happening tonight. He had received the same instructions as when he was twelve. “Make no noise and pretend he doesn’t exist.” Easy enough, that’s what he normally does. But that’s also what he had thought last time.
It was this cold that worried him, though. One cough or sniffle and it would be all over. At this point, his magic was stretched so thin, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to heal anything. So if Vernon got a bit too drunk or hit him in the right spot, Harry might be in some serious hot water. As it is, he’d already been fighting the tickle in the back of his throat for the better part of an hour.
Harry was sure that Vernon’s Japanese golfer joke was no more funny than when he told it three years ago. At least this time, Harry didn’t ruin the punch line with Dobby hitting himself on Harry’s wall. The joke wasn’t even that clever or well-thought-out, but the Grunnings crowd must either be made up of Vernons or they were too terrified to not laugh because the joke received an uproarious reception. Harry had been secretly hoping that the punch-line would fall flat out of spite for Vernon reusing a joke from three years ago.
Harry lasted until pudding, again, before he yet again ruined Vernon’s work dinner. If you were to ask him later, Harry would swear on his parent’s graves that he has never sneezed louder, nor will he ever sneeze as loud again. It was a sneeze worthy of making God’s robe sway and was loud enough to wake a giant. It was filled with phlegm and was the build-up of three days without sneezing. Harry was sure that the Whomping Willow herself could hear his sneeze all the way in Scotland. The pressure release left Harry with a pounding headache that bounced around his skull before settling behind his eyes. He stifled a moan and pinched the bridge of his nose.
The silence that echoed back from the sitting room after was even more deafening than the sneeze had been ricocheting off the walls of the cupboard.
“What was that, Mr. Dursley?” Harry could hear one of the guests break the spell.
“What? Oh, it must have been one of the neighbours' cats.”
“Are you sure, it sounded an awful lot like a sneeze?”
“A sneeze?!” Vernon cried, incredulous. “Of course not! We’re all here? Dudders, why don’t you have a look around and see?” A thunderous waddle answered. Harry felt the floor vibrate harsher and harsher as his whale of a cousin trampled closer and closer to Harry’s cupboard.
Dudley flicked open the grate on the door and peered his enormous pudgy face down at Harry, squinting his little pig eyes. “You hear that, freak? You’re fucking dead. DEAD.”
Harry lifted up one hand and gave his cousin a perfect view of Harry’s favourite finger.
Dudley frowned and tilted his head to the side. “-Fuck you! If my dad doesn’t getcha, I’m gonna.” He whispered harshly, spittle flying. He followed his father’s example and turned a lovely shade of puce.
Harry gave his cousin a savage grin. “Sure, if you can catch me, Big D.”
Dudley pounded a meaty fist into the door of the cupboard, shaking the staircase. “Fucking dead.” He muttered as he tromped back to the sitting room.
“Yeah, just some stupid cat,” Dudley called out to the group. Harry heard the armchair moan as his cousin hunkered into it once again.
“Thank you, Duddikins,” Aunt Petunia said in a tight voice. And the night continued.
Harry sat in the cupboard as the minutes passed somehow too slow and far too quickly. He sat in a purgatorial state of agony and bliss, both satisfied and hating himself. He half hoped for time to move faster and for it to freeze and never start again. His stomach tingled as though little ants were crawling around his intestines and stomach lining although, his mind was numb, completely blank. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or not yet.
It was hours of drawn-out torment before the Grunnings office left and Vernon came to “fetch” Harry. It was an exciting few minutes where Harry sat leaning against the wall in the hall while Vernon stared at him getting increasingly redder and redder as he inspected his nephew. Harry was surprised he managed to get quite that red before turning purple. His walrus moustache quivered and shook like a suffocating squirrel. Harry could smell the alcohol oozing from his uncle’s pores. Harry wasn’t sure what Aunt Petunia put in the punch, but he was sure no one cared what pudding tasted like by the time it came around.
Vernon’s black beady eyes were glazed and unfocused as they glared into Harry’s glassy green ones. Dudley was standing at the bottom of the staircase and was vibrating in anticipation. --The most exercise Harry was sure his cousin had had in years.-- His aunt, on the other hand, was deadly calm, peering down at him from her pinched face. She was leaning against the door frame gently with her arms crossed tightly across her body.
“Boy, we have put up with you, and your, your freakishness for far too long! We clothed you, fed you, gave you a roof! And we’ve never got an inch of gratitude from you or your kind!” Spittle flew from his mouth and got caught in his moustache. “Your breathing is bringing down the quality of this neighbourhood!” He pauses to look at his wife for a moment, and she gives them all a sharp nod. “And we let you into our home, out of the goodness of our hearts. And all you can do is disrespect our house and taint our Dudders with your freakishness! You ruined our party, you ruined our home, you ruin everything you touch!” Vernon waved one of his large sausage-like fingers in Harry’s face. “Not anymore! We’re going to get rid of you like we did that blasted bird of yours! Not. Any. More.” Vernon’s face got closer and closer to Harry’s with every word. His breath fanned across Harry’s face, burning his eyes from the sour alcohol smell.
“I told you, Potter! Dad’s gonna get you so bad!” Dudley cried with childish delight.
Harry doubted he’d manage to survive this half as well as he would have even one week ago. His magical core was at its limit as it tried to keep his organs from failing. If any of the injuries he gets from this are even mildly severe, it could be the long and not too sudden end to the Boy Who Lived. Because it would be long. And slow. His core would keep him alive, if barely, but still, alive and not getting any better.
Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted his Uncle to use the belt or his fists. The fist had a broader surface area, so more distribution of force. But the belt Harry was more used to, a smaller area, and it was usually on the back and not his stomach where his soft organs were. It was a real toss up as to which one he was hoping for.
Ah, Harry had miscalculated. His Uncle has decided to go with his feet. Harry was on the receiving end of a swift kick to the chest; he coughed violently, his chest spasming. The strike crushed his ribs on both sides, the wall, and his Uncle’s monstrous foot. And another kick and another, into his stomach and chest. Harry did his best to suppress any noises, but his ribs didn’t listen when they made a resounding crack! The air left Harry’s lungs. He gasped, sliding to his side on the floor.
Dudley made a captivated sound that encouraged his intoxicated father. Vernon gave a satisfied grunt at Harry’s pain-filled face. Harry watched through squinted eyes as his uncle unbuckled his belt and slipped it from his pants’ loops. He had thought his Uncle would stop after he broke something. Harry was wrong. The belt rained down on his side with a crack and a snap.
Harry chuckled a pain-filled laugh and grinned a bloody smile at his Uncle, his brain glazed over, foggy from pain. Maybe he does ruin everything he touches, but he can’t help but feel the Dursleys deserve it.
“What are you smirking about, freak? I broke your stick. You can’t do any of your blasted freakishness outside of that sodding school!” Harry just kept smiling. “I’ll wipe that foolish look from your face,” Vernon kicked Harry in the nose and the ear and the neck --that was fun--, and the nose again. Before he went back for the belt.
The time bled together. Harry lost track of how long it was before his Uncle got tired and took a step back. “Eh, Dudders, how ‘bout you have a go,”
“What?! Are you serious?”
Harry didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. The three of them debated this and that while Harry lay with his heart in his non-existent boots. If Dudley took up the torch, Harry was sure he would not make it. His whale of a cousin had learned from Vernon, but he was yet to learn self-control. Under Dudley, his chances were slim.
Harry’s thoughts blanked with blind panic. The only thing he could think about was getting away from his cousin. He wouldn’t make it far at all, but maybe, maybe, he could get far enough to get outside. Then maybe. Maybe, he could get the attention of one of the ever so nosy neighbours.
So, he tried. While his relatives were discussing amongst themselves, Harry gathered himself and purely through adrenaline and compartmentalization, Harry managed to get his feet under his body and push himself into standing. His body was on fire but his mind was empty. He just had to get outside. He stumbled and fought against his body’s urge to drop back to the floor. Harry staggered to the door that led to the kitchen and sitting room.
His moving had stolen the attention of his relatives from their riveting discussion. Harry stared at them like a deer caught in headlights. Time paused. And Harry wondered when it would start again. Then it did. Vernon grasped wildly in Harry’s direction before lumbering over, closely followed by Dudley and Petunia. Their eyes wide, jaws dropped.
Harry had a wild look to his eye that was concerning to those sober enough to notice it. He looked around and stepped back, and back, and back until he was completely in the kitchen. Vernon was close behind him and getting closer. Harry ended up backed into a counter and leaning on it heavily to stay up-right. Harry and Vernon stared at each other barely a foot apart, panting heavily, waiting to see what the other was going to do.
Vernon moved first. He managed to grab Harry around the neck. Harry choked and gasped, trying to get any little bit of oxygen into his lungs. He flung his arms up and pushed against his uncle's cheeks. But found himself too weak to do much. His vision had started to blur on the edges when Harry floundered with one hand behind him, trying to find anything on the counter he could use to bash into his uncle.
Harry’s hand grasped around the handle of a larger kitchen knife that had been placed beside the knife block to dry. Harry’s only thoughts were on getting Vernon to let go of his neck and to breathe. Harry grabbed the handle of the knife as securely as his feverish, oxygen-deprived body could and stabbed his fist into the meaty jugular of his uncle’s neck and pulled the knife back out.
Blood showered Harry’s face and soaked the front of his shirt. Harry gasped in sweet air as Vernon’s vice-like grip on his throat lessened. Harry inhaled coppery spray from the blood flowing out of his choking uncle. Harry made eye-contact with his uncle and watched as the fiery anger faded and drained away with the blood leaving his body. Then his whale of an uncle teetered and collapsed to the floor with an absurdly large bang.
Silence filled the kitchen. Harry stood, panting with the kitchen knife clenched tightly in his fist. He stood, leaning against the counter staring, mouth agape, at his dead uncle.
“You! You!” Aunt Petunia stood shaking, quickly reaching hysterics. “What have you done, you freak?! I knew something terrible would happen to us because of you!” She covered her mouth and let out a shrill sob. “You and your stupid father and my freak of a sister! Damn you all to hell!” She stumbled to her knees and crawled to her husband’s body. She knelt, smoothing back Vernon’s thin blond hair.
Dudley, who had been silent up until now, looked from his parents to his cousin and back. His tiny beady eyes flicked back and forth stupidly until he settled on gawking at Harry. “I’ll kill you, you fucking piece of shit!” He screamed. He panted gathering his breath, and with all the training from his boxing coach, he lumbered over to Harry. Harry, for his part, did his best to scurry around the enormous body of his uncle and stay out of the reach of his cousin and aunt. He managed to get around his uncle, but he was still very frail and was unable to make it very far or very quickly. Harry made it as far as the dining table.
While Dudley was not known for his speed, he was surprisingly strong. If he managed to get a hit in, it would be all over for Harry. So, when his hulking cousin came within reach, Harry sent a prayer up to whoever listened and threw himself at his cousin with everything Harry had left. Thankfully for Harry, it was unexpected enough that he managed to catch his cousin off balance, and with the entirety of Harry's weight, which to be fair, wasn’t much, he managed to bulldoze his cousin to the ground.
Dudley landed with a fantastic oof. With the knife still in hand and out of options, Harry brought it down into his cousin’s chest and fatty stomach. He stabbed down and pulled back up until his arms grew tired. Harry was sure his cousin wouldn’t be going anywhere. He could see the feeble rise and fall of Dudley’s chest still, but Harry was confident he wasn’t going to be performing in Swan Lake anytime soon --as if that was likely regardless--.
Harry let out a breath from where he was sitting in his cousin and wiped the blood and tacky hair from his eyes. He blinked for a long time and tried to convince his body to stand. Harry wasn’t sure if he could anymore. He didn’t have any broken legs, but he doubted they were strong enough to hold him if he tried to stand again. So, he breathed instead. He tried to calm his breathing and keep himself from coughing because every time he coughed, it ignited his ribs.
When Harry cracked open his eyes, it was to his aunt standing in front of him with a large chef’s knife that was used for butchering meat. Harry remembers having to learn how to properly chop a whole chicken into the right pieces with it when he was seven.
“I never should have taken you inside. I should have left you in a dumpster or in a ditch on the side of the road. You’ve brought me nothing but pain and sorrow.” She had tear stains on her cheeks, seeming appropriately shell-shocked. She had blood all up her hands and elbows. “I’m sorry, Lily.” She whispered before bringing down the knife in an arching swoop.
Harry was, for once, grateful she made him do most of the butchering. As her swing was awkward and not confident. Harry was able to sweep the blade away from anything vital with his forearm, his muscles screaming the whole way. As Petunia finished her swing, the knife flew from her grip and embedded itself into the wall. Petunia made a retching sob before dropping to her knees in a pool of her son’s blood. She looked up through the hair that had come out of her pinned updo and gave Harry a poisonous defeated glare.
The fire in Petunia’s eyes never dimmed as she reached forward to take the kitchen knife from Harry’s fist. They struggled back and forth. And forth and back. Harry’s wrist and fingers began to tire. His grip started to slip. Petunia didn’t notice and ripped the knife from Harry’s hand and jerked it into her stomach.
Harry’s eyes widened. The breath left his body as he made eye-contact with his equally, if not more so, surprised aunt. He watched as she pulled out the knife from her body and gazed in shock at the bloody steel. Harry laughed an airy laugh that sounded deranged, even to him. The knife clattered to the floor between them. Harry had grabbed it again before he knew he had thought about it and swiped the blade across his aunt’s throat in one swift movement. He watched the blood pause for a moment before welling out and sprawling over him for the third time that evening.
Harry slid off his cousin’s body and to the sopping wet floor. He couldn’t even bring himself to care that he was laying in congealing blood. His relatives were gone and would never bother him again. His brain shorted, and he found himself looking at his bloodied hands. He had planned their demise as a young child but had stopped once he got old enough to realize there are consequences to murder. Over the past few years, his fantasies had evolved into moving away from the Dursleys and not having to deal with them anymore. He hadn’t thought he wanted them dead anymore.
Harry lay next to the cooling bodies of his relatives, staring at the ceiling of the kitchen, and thought of nothing until the blood on his clothes dried and his injuries had well and truly seized up. He stood up with a plan. It took him a while to get his feet properly under him. He’d been right, his core was quite depleted. He was well and truly on his own and would be healing like a muggle for the foreseeable future.
His plan was basic; he needed to get rid of the evidence. The best way he could think of was to use fire, and he would need to make it look like an accident. So, that would mean magic. Magic, Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to use. His wand was gone, and he was very low on energy of any kind. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
Somehow, Harry was able to make his way outside and to the garden that he has tended since he was old enough to tell apart the different ends of a spade. He sat. And quieted his mind. He focused on what little magical energy he had left, and gathered it together in his mind. Harry wasn’t sure how long he sat in front of the late Dursleys' home before he was sure he had gathered enough energy.
Harry had done plenty of accidental magic before. He’d even blown up his aunt. He could start a little fire. He’s been using his magic all summer to keep himself more or less healthy. He can do this. He breathed as deeply in as his injuries and the cold would allow and let it back out slowly. He focused on the house and pushed what little was left in his magical core into the foundations and up into the walls. He did his best to alter the energy into life, into fire. He sat. and sat, and sat some more. Until he smelt smoke drift from the open window.
He smiled a victorious smile. No sooner than he started celebrating, the whole house went up in a rush of heat and flame. Harry scrambled back out of the way, as to not singe his eyebrows. He carefully stood and limped down the road. He was far enough away by the time the firemen and police got to the Dursleys’. It took them longer than a typical fire to put it out. By the time the last flame became ash, the bodies of the residents had crumbled as well.
Harry walked and walked and walked. He kept to alleyways and to side streets. Eventually, he found an empty alley behind a busy shopping area to stop. He curled up against the wall and a locked recycling bin and passed out.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d slept for, but it was certainly not nearly long enough. At least it was dark, it would make it easier to move around, considering how he looked straight out of a horror movie. Which was scarily accurate, considering. But Harry decided not to dwell too much on it.
He had managed to make it to the mouth of the alleyway before fate, once again, decided to spit on him.
“Hello, there! You wouldn’t happen to know the way to The Bronze Monkey, would you?” Harry looked up to see a tall pale man standing directly in front of Harry’s nose.
“Oh, um. Sorry, I don’t.” Harry said, unsure.
The man gave him a charming smile. “That’s alright.” He said, grabbing Harry’s shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to.” He flashed Harry a smile with his abnormally sharp teeth and shoved Harry into the brick wall beside them. Harry groaned and blacked out for a second. When he came to, his head was pushed to the side and the man was latched onto the junction of Harry's neck and shoulder muscle like a leach.
Harry was certain his day could only get better at this point, because how can you get any worse than killing all of your remaining family and getting jumped by a vampire in a very unsexy way? Honestly, it can’t get a whole lot lower than that, so Harry will remain hopeful that his day can only go up from here. To do that, though, Harry was going to need to get rid of this human-sized parasite.
To add to Harry’s day, the man pulled a switchblade from his pocket and sliced his own palm and pressed the wound into Harry’s mouth in a practiced movement without letting go of Harry’s neck. He kept his hand clamped over Harry’s lips until Harry swallowed around it and drank the blood. Harry wasn’t sure how much he was forced to drink before the palm left his face.
The only thing Harry could come up with in his pain and fever-addled mind to get the thing to let go of him was to bite back. He bit Harry, why shouldn't Harry bite him back? So he did. Around this vampire’s muscle shirt and into the meat of his shoulder. Harry bit as hard as he could and did not let go until he managed to wrestle the knife from the vampire’s hand and stab him with it in the side. Harry hadn’t thought that it would have worked. He was genuinely surprised that it succeeded.
The vampire let go of Harry with a gasp. Harry used it’s disorientation to stab it again, and again. Like he had with Dudley. And worked, as it had with his cousin. The man dropped. But Harry knew from what little he paid attention to Hermione’s rants that to kill it, he’d need to burn it and now. So, Harry did his best to dump the huge beast in an empty garbage can. He ended up taking almost half an hour and aggravated all of his injuries in the process, but he eventually managed it. A small chain around the vampire's neck glinted. Harry felt strangely drawn to it. Before he was aware of him doing so, he had the necklace shoved in his pocket. Using the same technique as with the Dursleys’ house, he lit the body of the vampire on fire.
Harry also knew from Hermione’s ramblings that to turn a vampire, the sire needs to empty their victim of blood and feed them a small amount of vampire blood. What was that Harry said about his day only getting better from here? With a sigh, Harry picked up the vampire’s switchblade and walked out of the alley and away from the smell of burning flesh. Harry waited until he found a new alley that was on the edge of downtown before sitting against a wall.
One thing Harry did know was that he did not want to become a member of the undead. He had enough trouble for being the Boy Who Lived. He’s already defied death too many times to be comfortable to try again. He could already feel the vampire blood twisting its way into his core. And Harry did not like how quickly this was moving. He felt he needed to make a choice. He gazed down at the blade of the knife. He’d already seen how magical creatures were treated by wizards. Did he really want to have to endure that if he didn’t have to? Not really. People already turn on him depending on what the Prophet is saying at the moment. He really doesn’t need to give them another reason. Would anyone even want him to help defeat Voldemort if he was no better than a murderer himself?
Harry looked at the blade again, then his wrists. Then the blade.