"Then we will get ice cream," The necromancer said, trying to keep her voice softer as she patted the child on the head. She was not well equipped to deal with crying. Or children. Or feelings. "But first, Harry, we have to finish up our work. Your uncle is still alive, and we have more to complete. It is cruel to let him linger in this state. When things become overwhelming, it is best to get the task done quickly. Save your panic for afterward." The boy nodded, wiping his tears away.
Harry sat down again and the horcrux was removed from his head. It truly was a phenomenal piece of spellwork, and had it been encased in anyone else, she would have studied it gleefully. The shard of Voldemort struggled against her spell, having firmly rooted itself in the scar, so it took some painful tugging at the horcrux for it to finally hiss and fly out of him. With a swift blast of fiendfyre the screaming soul piece died.
"That is another spell you are not to try on your own," she said, eyes narrowing at the very curious face of her apprentice. "You'll burn down all of London if you aren't careful. Now, I know that was painful, how do you feel?"
"Weird, different." His hand cupped the bleeding scar. "I hadn't noticed anything about it before but it feels better. Will the scar go away now?"
"No, but it should fade considerably. The horcrux was keeping it from healing, but a cursed scar like that will never go away." She crossed the room to her shelves and pulled out a box of heavily enchanted items. "Pick something out of this box. I would prefer a piece of jewelry, but if it's an object we can keep it here under the wards."
As Harry began to carefully dig through the pile of objects, the necromancer continued her lecture.
"Now, a horcrux. A horcrux splits your soul into two pieces. It's calculated that the split takes out between fourteen and eighteen percent of the soul. As you are young, I expect that this split will leave you feeling considerably detached, as you haven't reached maturity in body, mind, or magic. I think in this case it is important to set aside a specific part of your soul so that you don't end up accidentally giving it all your emotions or memories. That would make you quite insane.
Now for the construction of a horcrux – the ritual takes three steps. The first is the most complicated - the splitting itself. This requires a sacrifice and the correct mindset – the soul does not naturally wish to do this, obviously. As your uncle is still alive, I believe he is best suited. You must willingly, and without deep remorse, kill him with the curse avada kedavra. Next, is the incantation which will separate –"
"K-kill him?"
"Yes." She very, very politely tried to hide her annoyance. Honestly, it was only her luck to be stuck with such a crybaby, moral apprentice. "You have already basically done so, Harry. I had not expected him to survive the Spirit Drain. He will pass on soon - nothing can heal him now. If you had been a few years older and suffered a while longer he would have died instantaneously. You were willing for that, this step is no different."
"I didn't know that spell would kill him!"
"I did warn you there would be some violence involved in being my apprentice. I did tell you murder is not off the table. I have not deceived you in any way. You signed the parchmentwork and took the oath. You cannot back out now." She stepped closer to him, her eyes hard and glowing brightly. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she regarded him with a look of coldness he had not even seen on his relatives. Harry looked away in panic and sniffled loudly. The necromancer sighed, forcing in her temper. She reminded herself that this was a literal child – a six-year-old boy and if he had been frothing at the mouth to commit murder that would have been very bad for other reasons. Harry was not yet accustomed to the morals of necromantic magic. She would train that out of him, but he needed time. She continued in a flat tone. "We are using your relative as a benefit to you. He is already functionally dead. First by my actions and now yours. My first kill was a complete stranger – an innocent muggle. Would you rather kill an innocent or the man who physically abused you for several years?"
Harry started to cry again, his stomach twisted into sharp knots and he no longer wanted ice cream. While everything she'd said was true, it did not make the situation any less overwhelming.
"I don't want to look at him," he begged after a long moment. His mind was whirling. He wanted to learn magic, he needed to learn magic, and this was the cost. It was fine! It was fine, he didn't have to look and he could pretend it wasn't happening to a real person. It was pretend, like a game or a dream.
The necromancer's voice made it sound like Harry had better stop complaining. "Very well. Now, let me continue. The next steps will be much easier for you. You simply physically separate the shard with an incantation, giving it sentience and determining what this sliver will keep and then finally, binding that shard to your chosen vessel with another incantation. Have you decided upon one?"
Harry held up a thick, gold signet ring carved with etches of snakes and adorned with a large black stone. It was too large to fit onto his fingers, but he thought it was quite pretty and so he held it up to her. A quick lesson in enchanting later and the ring was sufficiently theft-proof, tamper-proof, everything-proof, and sized down to fit snugly on his finger. Alabasandria set the ring on the covered figure of Vernon Dursley and made him practice the spells needed for over an hour.
Finally, Harry was deemed ready. At least, ready in the sense he could pronounce the spells correctly. Mentally, he was a bit flustered about the murder part. He pulled his magic up to his wand, letting it buzz across his body, soaking in the feeling. The joy of connecting with it gave way to anger. He forced thoughts to the front of his mind, reminding himself of all the pain and punishments he'd experienced.
Uncle Vernon would hate magic, that much was certain. He already called Harry a freak enough times whenever anything peculiar happened. Harry imagined what it would be like if he was stuck in that cupboard with his relatives forever. He would never have his magic back, or a nice soft bed, or new shoes. All things promised to him if he learned necromancy.
Uncle Vernon had smacked him upside the head the week prior because Harry had cooked his bacon too crispy. He hadn't received any food at all that day. Harry wondered how his uncle would react if Harry did any magic.
Harry thought about the joy he'd felt walking around Diagon, the comfortable couch he'd slept on that was so much better than the cold, dark, closet. He thought of the promise of ice cream, the reassurance that he was good at magic. Harry had never been told he was good at something before. And Harry was good at necromancy and if he killed his uncle he would get his own bedroom and ice cream and magic.
His uncle was a bad man. You were not supposed to smack children, Harry was pretty sure. And - and oh this thought made Harry twitch in shame - well, the rest of Uncle Vernon's family was dead, weren't they? Who would cook him bacon if Aunt Petunia was gone? Wasn't this kinder?
It was fair, wasn't it? Parents were supposed to love their children. The Dursleys had not loved Harry, not one bit. And it was mutual. But Uncle Vernon was supposed to love Harry, and he didn't. It was his job to feed Harry, to make sure he was safe and happy and healthy. And if he killed his uncle, he would be safe and healthy. He was just helping his uncle do his job… right?
His grip steadied on his wand. His mind focused on his promised ice cream.
"Avada kedavra!" The spell hit his uncle, passing through the sheet and although Harry could not see what happened underneath, he suddenly felt a wisp of cold energy and knew that his uncle was dead. Something within him snapped with a sudden burst of pain.
Gasping, he curled his magic around the strange, pulsing thing in his chest, examining it. He heard faint sobbing and focused inward on the shard of his soul. He saw himself, a bit younger, crying inside of his cupboard.
"You will be the Freak in the Cupboard." He told his horcrux. "You will hold everything the Dursleys did to me – all my fear - so that I can be a good and strong wizard and not be scared anymore." Little Freak Harry wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded, their twin expressions somber and hopeful. "I'll keep you very safe," he promised, a wave of calm washing over him. "No one will hurt us anymore."
He pulled away from the shard and focused on the ring. Casting the first of the twin spells, the black inky mist of Freak Harry billowed out of his skin, weaving around in circles above their heads.
Where the soul piece used to live felt hollow - a void of blackness where fear and trauma once lived. He cast the final spell and Freak Harry spiraled toward the ring. The ring bounced around on the table before falling still.
"How are you feeling?" the necromancer asked him after a long moment.
"Alright," Harry said, feeling rather calm about the whole thing. He eyed the dead body before him. He didn't have any opinions about Vernon Dursley, so he moved away from it rather quickly. "May I have ice cream now?"