Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to some British chick, I think. Or maybe she's English. I just know that its not me. ;)

AN: This is dedicated to a certain reviewer...

AN:I'm actually the author's best friend. She's not as crazy as this story makes her seem.

Smile

Harry found it odd when Petunia made a special dinner for him.

Because it was his birthday, she said.

And she smiled at him.

Smiled.

It was after this dinner, this special birthday dinner that Harry made the decision that would change his life forever.

He remembered a day, when he could not have been more than, say, six or seven years old, he saw Uncle Vernon's nine millimeter revolver. It was an old thing, more to scare an intruder than to actually be shot. Vernon would replace it a few years later.

With a shotgun.

As a child, Harry loved to take out his uncle's shotgun and stare at it, stroke it lovingly, knowing it could do more damage than almost anything else he could think of. It was a true instrument of death, and it made him feel powerful.

He was a big man with a big gun, and nobody could hurt him.

And then Hogwarts happened, and suppressed his love for power. For a time.

And then the special birthday dinner happened.

Pot roast, homemade. A cake, of all things. With candles. Make a wish.

And SMILES.

When it was over, when everyone was in their bed, sleeping a peaceful sleep, Harry got out his uncle's shotgun.

He instantly felt the power course through his veins again, as it had years ago.

He became a big man with a big gun, once again. And it felt good.

He crept into his aunt and uncle's bedroom.

And he SHOT.

It was LOUD, so LOUD Harry thought his eardrums had burst.

There was blood, so much blood.

And little red bits that splattered.

His aunt would never, ever smile at him like that again.

She had no longer a mouth to smile with.

His uncle had screamed, dove at him, and Harry was ready.

He did not want his uncle to die quickly, however.

He SHOT.

Uncle on the ground, clutching the remains of what could have been a left leg.

For the first time in weeks, Harry smiled.

Uncle.

Uncle.

Vernon.

It hurts, doesn't it?

Stop screaming.

Listen.

Now.

Do you want me to shoot the other one? I didn't think so.

He bent down slowly to his uncles ear, savoring the coppery smell of blood. He licked his lips.

One little birthday dinner can't make up for eleven years of abuse, Uncle, he whispered slowly, enunciating each syllable.

Surely you knew that.

Now I am going to go into your son's room, and shoot him. Do you want his death to be quick? Like your wife's?

Or do you want it slow, like your's will be?

I put something in his drink, you know. That's why he hasn't come to rescue you.

Not that he could, mind you. Fat, stupid, slovenly pig. It shames me that the same blood runs through our veins

Harry paused and stared at red stain that had become his aunt. He felt a sense of incompletion, like something was missing.

He sighed, and strode over to the body, a kitchen knife clutched tightly in his hand.

His work was never done.

Reviews are most welcome.