Chapter One

The Child

Cecil Palmer, eighteen years old, was travelling around Europe during his break from college.

Today was the day before Valentine's Day.

And he couldn't find his hotel.

As the sun began to set, Cecil wandered down the identical labyrinths that the locals called streets and was starting to panic. He didn't want to die in the inevitable bloodbath that tomorrow would always become, especially just as a person caught in the crossfire.

He imagined choking on heart-shaped confetti or being blown up by a pink card, most likely depicting teddy bears.

Shuddering at the images of his untimely demise, the blonde began to walk a bit faster, trying to suck up the courage to knock on a door and ask for directions. He would have to be courageous to be the next Voice, after all.

The tentacle tattoos wound around his chest tighter and he could feel the slight squeeze. Wrapping his arms around his self, Cecil rubbed his sides in a vain effort to relax them.

As he wandered on to, yet another, row of identical buildings, Cecil decided enough was enough and wandered up the driveway of the nearest house. Number four. Lingering on the mat (depicting the word 'WELCOME' in black plastic glued to the brown bristles), he shifted his weight to his other foot before knocking on the door.

A handful of tense moments passed and Cecil turned to leave, when the door was yanked open and a screech penetrated his eardrums-

"WE DON'T WANT WHAT YOU'RE SELLING!"

Cecil turned back, "I'm not selling anything, miss." She was an ugly creature, akin to a horse than a person with an absurdly long neck. This 'woman' stepped back,

"American?" she asked, a slightly dreamy tone in her voice, her whole attitude changing drastically. After he signalled affirmative with a nod, she stood aside and gestured for him to come inside, "What are you doing in England, stranger?"

She curled a lock of hair around a finger and smirked coyly. Forcing himself not to wrinkle his nose in disgust (after all, a radio host must be polite), Cecil smiled and answered,

"I'm travelling Europe, but I'm lost. Do you think you could direct me to this hotel?" He held out a scrap of paper with the hotel's name written on it. She sighed and led him into the living room. He saw a small child on the stairs, and waved to him. He didn't wave back.

"If I wasn't married, you could stay here. Let me see." After handing the woman the paper, Cecil began to look around. He cringed as he caught the dark purple eyes of his reflection and hurriedly shifted his gaze down, his mother's words racing through his head.

Someone is going to kill you one day Cecil, and it will involve a mirror.

Raising an eyebrow at the pictures on the mantelpiece - who would dress up a beach ball? –he couldn't spot that child from before in the pictures.

"Oh, I didn't get your name." He called out, over his shoulder and still frowning at the pictures.

"Petunia Dursley, at your service," She giggled, coming to stand next to him, pen in hand. Distracted by her use of a forbidden product, Cecil momentarily forgot about the missing child.

"Cecil Palmer." She just giggled again, before looking at what had him fixated,

"That's my son, Dudley. Isn't he just a perfect angel?" The beach ball? A child? Shocked, he slipped his directions from her hand and into his jeans pocket.

"Yes," he replied, distractedly, "Where's the other boy?"

"What boy?" She snapped, voice growing cold, "There is no other boy here." Cecil eyed her out the corner of his eyes and plastered a smile on his face.

"I must have been mistaken, my mistake." She huffed,

"Yes, it must have been." His fake smiled widened,

"Excuse me, I must be off Petunia. Thank you for the directions."

On the other side of the front door, Cecil frowned as he felt her stare on his back and began to walk away.

The sun had set in his, admittedly brief, interaction with Mrs Dursley, street lights illuminated the paved streets and Cecil could shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

Maybe it was the sky; mostly stars, partially void.

Maybe it was the date: she seemed too accepting to have him in her house - it was Valentine's Day tomorrow!

Maybe it was the lack of the Faceless-Old-Woman-Who-Secretly-Lives-In-Your-Home in that home.

Maybe it was the mirror: on display and not covered in a dusty old sheet, to be feared whenever you passed it.

Maybe it was the fact that no helicopters circled the sky, not even one painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving.

Maybe it was that child on the stairs, pale as any ghost he'd seen with only three shocks of colour on him: his emerald eyes, dark hair and a red cut on his cheek; hidden by the messy, dirty hair.

Fuck.

He was at the end of the next street when he came to that realisation. He'd never be the next Voice if he couldn't spot things as important as this. Cecil turned on his heel and ran back to Privet Drive.

When he got to number four, he stopped and pressed his ear against the door. The stern, icy tones of Petunia where accompanied by a quiet whimpering.

Nestled safely in the hollow of his throat, one half-finished tattoo of a runic eye sleepily blinked open while his organic eyes rolled up into his head.

And he was watching from a vantage point on the staircase.

The boy from before was knelt on the floor in front of the door under the stairs. Cecil bared his teeth, wishing that they could see him watching them, as the raven-haired one flinched back against the door when Petunia approached.

"Why did you show yourself to that man, Freak?" The boy just whimpered and scooted back more, so the dirty soles of his feet where flat against the painted door.

"Answer me, boy!"

His eyes snapped open and Cecil barged through the door.

Petunia stood over the child, hand raised over her head and poised to strike. Her head snapped to him and their gazes locked.

A snarl burst from his lips and his meagre amount of tattoos went wild. Purple tentacles curled up the column of his neck and creeped up the sides of his face, twisting furiously. He shook as he strode forward, the door crashing shut behind him.

"Get away from that child." His voice was low and dangerous; a mother bear protecting her cubs.

Petunia shrunk against the wall and the toddler stood up, managing to stifle his cries, before slowly walking to him.

The child clung to his leg and Cecil growled at her when she stepped forward, a low, guttural sound from the base of his throat. He didn't know why he was acting like this, but the boy reminded him of himself.

More or less alone in the world, where you are hurt by those who were supposed to be looking after you- either mentally or physically.

But nobody had helped Cecil.

So he was going to help that child. He growled again and Petunia backed into the living room. With the threat out of reach, he scooped the boy into his arms, turned and shoved the door open.

Cecil Palmer strode into the darkness.