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.