A bead of sweat slid down from his hairline, running right over his nose and dripping down on to the slate. His hands were shaking. Especially the one with the chalk in it. Never the less, it kept moving, pressing the tip of the chalk down hard on the slate, shakily writing out the name Vernon Dursley.

Harry waited. It was completely silent and near-completely dark. He had no indication of any change in the isolated cupboard under the stairs. His heart was beating at a rapid rate, but his breath seemed slow and languid. He felt dizzy. He imagined he would for a long time after this, regardless of whether it worked or not.

He closed his eyes. Tried to steady his heart rate and his breathing. There was a long, silent, painful moment.

Then he dragged his sleeve across the name and proceeded to write down, already having a little less trouble than before, Petunia Dursley. And Dudley Dursley after that.

One more immeasurable period of time passed. He could not breathe. Heart was racing. Thoughts in a strange mess. Emotions paradoxical and even alien.

It was time to see whether or not it had worked.

Did he really want it to?

Yes, he decided, as he pushed the cupboard door open, trying not to wince at the creak it made. He was that kind of person now. He felt that darkness in him. He wasn't the hero of his own life anymore. He was selfish. Hurt. Scared. And very human.

The stairs to the second level seemed so much longer than they ever had before and when he finally reached the top, he nearly tripped over himself in surprise.

Everything was measured. Instant by instant. He was aware of every sound, motion, and action. Putting his hand on the handle, gripping the handle, turning the handle, pushing open the door, move one foot, the other, breath.

He couldn't hear Dudley breathing.

But he couldn't be sure.

So he stepped closer. Closer. Stared right into his Schrodinger cousin's face. Still couldn't be sure. He put his hands over Dudley's mouth. No breath was coming out. Harry knew that he'd killed him. Really, truly. Still, he felt Dudley's pulse at the wrist. Pushed his shoulder. Whispered to him. Then pushed him hard, so that he felt off the bed, landing limp on the floor and didn't move. Said out loud, "Dudley." Then Harry shivered to himself in the cold darkness.

Without any possible doubt, Dudley was dead. Vernon and Petunia would also be.

There was a little relief, even though Harry didn't really know why.

There was a strong feeling of disconnect when he checked his aunt and uncle, just to be sure. When he returned to his bed to wait for morning, he felt empty. He couldn't sleep. Certainly hadn't expected to.

Really, he'd expected to cry. And hate himself. Well, there was a little of that, but not much. Mostly just nothing. Nothing, but a really corporeal sort of nothing. Not just emptiness, but the knowledge of emptiness and the feeling of it. Like he'd lost something, maybe. Forgotten something, but he didn't know what he'd forgotten.

Sunrise was there quickly. Still, he waited, silent in his bed, until a little later than the usual time he'd wake up.

He pulled himself up, painfully stiff from spending all night in a tense state, then went to the kitchen and made breakfast. Bacon, eggs, toast. For four people. In the usual manner he made it. Turned the pot on for coffee. Ate his breakfast, silent and alone. And waited. A ruse. To get the proper timing. Still, it felt like he was truly waiting for something. Like any moment, they really would come down the stairs. And suddenly everyone would know he'd tried to kill them last night.

That, of course, did not happen.

He went upstairs. Checked the bodies again. Just to make sure. Just in case.

Then he called the police and reported to them how he couldn't get his relatives to wake up, that he was scared and didn't know what to do.

His thoughts went to the letter and wrapping paper buried in the park, then returned to himself. And he started to weep for something he wasn't quite sure of.

Three days before the night of this murder, young Harry Potter had woken in the middle of the night to a strange sound, like the echos of a ringing bell. The light in his room was on and a letter and thin package were laying on his stomach.

He was immediately suspicious and checked outside his cupboard. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary there. What on earth could this be?

The letter was in an envelope marked with his name. Even his uncle probably wouldn't be angry with him for opening a letter clearly addressed to him. Right?

The handwriting was a little difficult to read at first. It was in very old-fashioned cursive, with the letter squished terribly close together. He'd be scolded if he wrote like this on one of his school assignments, but adults seemed to get away with it all the time. He noted, before he began properly reading, that this handwriting certainly didn't belong to his aunt or uncle, or anyone else he knew.

'Dear Harry,

It would seem you haven't been having the best time, as of late. I imagine you're rather annoyed with your lot in life. If only someone could change that, things might be a lot better for poor you.

So I'm sending you your birthday present a little early this year. I'm sure you'll appreciate it. You're a very grateful and good boy. And I imagine very clever and never rash, if you're anything like me, which I do hope you are.

This particular present, which I imagine, being a child that you are, you've opened first, may seem like nothing more than a simple chalkboard, with only the most boring uncolored white chalk with it. The chalk may be mundane, but be assured the slate is anything but.

It'll be a hard concept to wrap your head around, but I doubt, even if I had the patience to, that tallying around it will do you any real good. Magic, much like the sort you've read about in stories, is very, very real. True witches and wizards are scattered around the world, quite cruelly hidden from you. You might never meet them, if not for the fact that you, too, are very magical yourself. You are destined to become a wizard, Harry Potter.

Maybe you've seen magic already, not recognizing it for what it was. Maybe not. If you wish to test the plausibility of my irrational and strange claims, the chance is right now.

Your chalkboard is, as I said, a very special one. It's so special, in fact, that it is considered special even in the magic realm, so full of special things. You mustn't ever show it to anyone. I insist on this, though I doubt you really need telling.

Using chalk of any kind, you can write on this board the name of someone you know. The instant the tip of your chalk leaves the slate, this person will die. Magic releases their soul from their body, instantly, so that there is not even a shred of evidence of death left behind. There's no going back once it's done, so don't use it too lightly.

But I do recommend you use it.

It's a madly useful object. I had such trouble ever choosing to part with it. I'd considered other gifts too. But I wanted to something that was useful to you as well as just fun.

Though I suppose, being the child you are, that you might lack my dark sense of humor.

I've blathered on too long. I'm sure you're bored.

Happy birthday, Harry. So sorry I haven't been part of anyone's life in such a long time. Lot's of love, and I'll write to you again next year.

Your loving many-greats-grandfather,

Death XXVII'

Harry didn't have any words or properly connected thoughts to explain the strange letter. He dismissed it's accuracy for the smallest moment, before allowing the total of his hope through. It was a morbid and dangerous idea. The appeal of the super natural won through, as it always would. There was a war going on in his mind, quickly won as he decided not to worry about what would happen if it were all untrue: what did he have to live for anyway?

So he threw himself wholeheartedly into the consequences of it being real.

Inside the simply-wrapped package was, as expected, a slate and several pieces of white chalk. It looked fully unremarkable – just a simple slate, without even any decoration.

What should he do with it?

He spent all night awake, writing out a little plan in his mind, going back on it, returning to the plan. He thought about destroying the slate and letter. Thought about showing it to an adult, for a brief moment. Considered not using til a better and more obvious reason to presented itself. Considered becoming a hero from a comic book with an especially grim power. Maybe burying it.

In the end, he decided to bury the letter.

He was certainly not a hero. As of yet, he didn't call himself villain either.

But he was going to forever stained with the murder of three people.

Harry was rather shell-shocked and quiet when the paramedics and police arrived. A woman in a stuffy-looking suit led him away from everything. He took his school backpack with his slate tucked inside and she let him. They sat in the back of a police car that started driving away somewhere after a while while she calmly talked to him, not so much asking questions for answers as keeping him occupied. Maybe making sure he was okay. He wondered if he really looked terrible. He wasn't in a solid state of mind, that was sure.

Everything in the world had changed so suddenly. He didn't even feel like a child anymore. Death was his something-great-grandfather? Death the twenty-seventh, actually, apparently. The slate worked, so why should he doubt anything else in the letter?

He was a wizard, then. What was he supposed to do about that. Death XXVII said he'd write in a year. His next birthday, assuming.

"Harry?" The woman prompted, snapping him out of his thoughts. He'd completely forgotten where he was in a striking short amount of time.

"S-sorry." He said, "I wasn't listening."

The woman had a very gentle expression. She'd told him her name, but he couldn't remember.

"That's okay." She said, smiling in a very peaceful, reassuring way, "Do you have any other relatives, Harry? Someone we could call?"

"I have an aunt." Harry said, "But she really doesn't like me. Um, I guess that doesn't matter. Her number is in the house, in the address book in the junk drawer. S-should I go and get it?"

Harry was feeling exceedingly nervous. He had this idea that everyone knew exactly what he'd done. Like all of it was acting, tricking him into confessing. That was stupid, but... he still felt it.

"No, that's all right," She said, "What's your aunt's name, Harry?"

"Aunt Marge. Um, Marjorie Dursley."

"Right. We're going to have Officer Brown here call your aunt. Is that all right, Harry?"

Harry nodded. Aunt Marge would not adopt him. He knew that for certain. She'd told her brother that he should have given Harry up for adoption more than once. He'd probably stay with her a while, though. Then he'd live in a group home. Other orphans.

What was going to do with his life? He was struck with the idea, that maybe nothing had really changed. But if he couldn't figure out anything else, Death XXVII was going to write to him on his next birthday. He could at least live until then, certainly.

"Are you all right, Harry?" The woman asked.

He realized he'd been ignoring questions again.

"I, I'm sorry." He said. He was shaking.

"That's okay, Harry. We don't have to talk right now."

Harry nodded and tried to visually express his gratitude. The ride was silent. He supposed they were going to the police station. They'd wait there. Maybe he'd talk to a proper therapist.

It wouldn't do any good, probably. He couldn't tell anyone what was really troubling him. Couldn't tell a soul.

He had never felt so alone in his life.

Albus Dumbledore had been expecting a scene like this. He'd responded the instant he'd come into his office that morning to see his instruments indicating distress.

Muggles in blue were crawling over the Dursley residence. Dumbledore feared the worst. He had never considered the need for protection from mundane elements. A potentially devastating oversight.

He had no indication of realities of the situation and feared he might not have time to discover them with covert means, so without a shred of hesitation, he approached the muggles directly, taking only the time to obscure his robes into a glamour of typical muggle clothing.

"What's going on here?" He asked one person standing at the perimeter of the basic area, "I'm a friend of the family," He added.

The man took a moment to look him up and down, then called over another muggle. This man, clearly the superior of the group, quickly explained things to him. What appeared to have happened and the vital information that Harry was fully unharmed.

When the door to the room Harry and the kindly woman had been sitting in, Harry had expected to see his aunt or maybe yet another police officer. Instead, was a man dressed in very strange, off-putting clothing. He had very long hair all around him, including an incredible white beard. He looked every bit an eccentric old wizard and Harry rather instantly assumed him to be that. Yet... he knew, for certain, that this man could not be Death XXVII.

Upon entering the room and seeing Harry, the man immediately let out a reassured-sounding sigh.

"Thank Merlin," He breathed out, Harry's ears perking up at that. To him, the words were proof of his immediate assumptions.

This man was a wizard. Here because Harry had used magic? To punish him? Or maybe something else. Shouldn't jump to conclusions. Did he know? Somehow? He knew nothing about magic at all. He'd just jumped into this. Madly. What were experienced wizards capable of? Could they read minds? Just know things?

Harry was really frightened. Felt an instant distrust and fear of the man before he'd even spoken a full sentence. He couldn't bring himself to look at the wizard man's face, feeling so guilty and afraid.

"This is Mr. Dumbledore. He's an old friend of the family who hasn't visited in years," A police officer who had let Mr. Dumbledore in said, "Wanted to make sure Harry was all right with his own eyes."

"Mr. Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Harry. It's me. Maybe you don't remember me. You were only a child when we met. I knew your parents very closely, Harry, and kept in touch with your aunt a little after they passed away." Harry was able to see a curious expression on Dumbledore's face out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you all right, Harry?" He asked, bending quite a bit to be closer to Harry's level.

That made Harry even more uncomfortable. He leaned away, still unable to look Mr. Dumbledore in the face.

"We think he's in mild shock," The woman said, her voice low as if that would prevent Harry from hearing her, "As to be expected. But all right."

Harry nodded, "I'm all right."

The air was awkward for a moment, as apparently no one knew what to say. Then Dumbledore sat down, next to Harry, staring at him in a way that made Harry feel very uncomfortable.

Eventually, he turned to the woman.

"I know he doesn't have any other relatives. At least not any willing to take care of him. What's going to happen here, exactly?"

The woman hesitated for half a second before she spoke. She probably didn't like talking as if Harry wasn't there any more than Harry did. "If the Dursleys didn't have a will that appoints someone to take care of that decision, it'll be brought to a judge. Relatives and any others who feel themselves proper for it can nominate themselves as a guardian, and the judge will decide who is most appropriate."

"So they're really dead, then." Harry said.

Both adults instantly turned to him and Harry really wished he hadn't said anything. It had just sort of slipped out.

"I-" He started to stutter, "I mean, I knew that. I knew it from the moment they weren't breathing and weren't waking up and didn't have a pulse and – I just. Just."

Harry started tearing up. He felt so childish. He was shaking and these two strangers were staring at him breaking down. He was ashamed of himself – deeply ashamed. He hated himself. Already, he hated himself.

The woman put her hand on his arm, very gently, not saying a word. And that was comforting, just a little.

But Dumbledore spoke. And he was speaking like Harry wasn't there at all.

"I'll take care of him." He said, "I'm a friend of the family."

Harry didn't like this man. He instantly did not like this man. He leaned away from him, towards the woman. Despite not remembering her name, she was a source of comfort to him. He supposed that was why she, out of the other police officers, was the one to escort him and sit with him. She was nice. He liked her.

He felt like he'd sold his childhood, a little, but he could still find comfort in kind, motherly people. Harry cried, very quietly, very slowly, closing his eyes, without any sobs.

Legal events progressed. He stayed with Aunt Marge during that, keeping to the room she gave him. He saw a therapist, once. It accomplished little, because Harry didn't feel like talking much at all yet, about anything or to anyone. It was determined to give him time and take him in for another session later. The woman, whose name was Melissa Wright, handled things with him mostly. It came out that how the Dursleys had been treating him was classified as neglect and abuse. Dumbledore came to visit him once during the period and made a point to apologize to him, as if that was somehow the man's fault. Harry wondered, briefly, if it was, but decided he didn't care. He'd fallen into a lethargic depression.

The one thing that surprised him was the ridiculous number of strange people who came forward offering to be his legal guardian. All of them 'family friends' he'd never met before. Friends of his parents. Seriously strange people, who often dressed oddly. Not all of them, but most of them. The Longbottoms, the Prewitts, the Jones, the Noltons, the Wagtails, the Greengrasses, the Lovecrafts, the Lovegoods, the Hobdays, the Weasleys, the Malfoys, fully formed families who for some reason felt that they were responsible for taking care of him and a number of random, lonely people. It seemed impossible. If so many people wanted children so desperately, why were there orphanages and group homes at all? There was something larger at all play here and he knew it. He highly suspected that all of them were wizards.

Most were suspiciously wealthy. A lot already had demonstrated capacity to care for children. Few, if any, had real connection to him. Things were left rather unsure and Harry definitely wasn't filled in on all the details.

Melissa came to visit him often enough, to check he was okay. Mostly, he was left alone. He chose not to return to school for the time being. He spent his time reading the random books Aunt Marge left lying around and staring out the window.

He was used to his Aunt watching his every move and critiquing him constantly, but now that he was in her home and likely to be leaving her life forever very soon, she seemed content to ignore him and occupy herself with mourning. He felt sorry for her, but only a little.

Before too many days had passed at all, he was adopted. It was the day after his birthday.

He'd forgotten about that.

Silly.

Life kept on going for the people who weren't dead.