Warnings: Torture, slightly strong negative imagery.
Harry suppressed a gleeful chuckle. The surprise in their eyes had been fantastic, their fear, delicious. They hadn't suspected that he would repay their kindness tenfold. They had grown complacent, cocky in the relative peace of their existence. It had been time to remind them who was at the top of the food-chain.
He shuddered in arousal, tendrils of pleasure dancing up his spine and pooling in his belly. Their screams were—oh so very good.
He couldn't suppress his laugh this time, and the high, insane giggle resonated beautifully with their moans of pain. They stank of sweat, shit, and piss. Yessss, suffer, he hissed to himself. I want you to suffer.
His eyes were dark, almost black, with contained malice. His fingers, wrapped around his precious wand in a white-knuckled grip, dripped with their red blood. The color interested him—it was the same color as his; he would have thought that mud ran through their veins—filth, trash, just like they were.
The Dursleys, disgusting pigs that they were, writhed and sobbed under the pain of his triple-Cruciatus. They were weak. Pitiful. He delighted in their agony; they deserved it and more after what they did, putting their dirty muggle hands on his body, hurting him, making him bleed.
Suffer! Their shrieks carried through the night.