IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battle fleets cross the daemon‐infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defense forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re‐learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away …. where bonds were forged through smiles, sympathy was presented to those in need, and envy of the specials was casted aside. All of those constituted a melody … an aria for the lost souls, calling upon a far greater power from a twisted world.

Weather forecast:

Sunday, 29/6/1991. Clear.

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their mysterious nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all. The sun rose aggressively on the same well-trimmed front gardens and lit up the brass number four on the Dursleys' worn out wooden double front door; it burst into their living rooms briskly through the gaps of the red curtains, through one of which, ten years ago, Mr. Dursley had caught a glimpse of a shadow of a darker-than-black cat when he had been seeing that fateful news report about the rain of asteroids. The photographs on the mantelpiece were the final nails in showing just how much time had passed.

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of an athletic boy wearing different-colored clothes - but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a well-proportioned blond boy painting his first model toy, on the rim of the battlefield sided with the Imperial Guard, assorting his toys together with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother, all the while accompanied by another shady looking kid. The room was basked in the presence of Dudley Dursley, but by observing the picts more closely, one could have gasped in abrupt realization as that another boy was presented in every picts, too, but somehow, he was surrounded by a mystic mist, diverting all the attention away from himself, as if he was a simple passerby, only a rather recurrent one.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for long. His Aunt Petunia was always the first to awake and it was her grievance that her whisperer voice that made his sleep rather hard to defy.

"Harry, dear! Wake up!"

Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk … Kachunk …

For all of Petunia's effort, Harry could only have dimly heard her voice over the sound barrage of the dated train wheels grinding against the impossible rail coursing high above the air. The sun light brightly shone through the windows of the passenger car, stopped short just above his head. The boy sat there, absent mindedly, on the bench seat with his eyes dratting back and forth, all the while tracking the hectic sway of the grip handle in front of him. He was not in the "real" world.

Even in his own world between the consciousnesses, Harry was idly occupied by a trance of dowsiness as if he took a drug that had made him dream. He did not feel like doing anything, for even if he did, it woud be for naught. It might have been overly obvious, since he knew that the train was not real, neither was the air he breathing, nor was the vibration provocatively rocking up his ass. Ignoring all of those mentally constructed details, however, the world was pleasant as it was, devoid of reason and practicality: truly catering to his feelings and desires for a simple rest. Harry let his consciousness drifted away with the train, ever caring less.

As time passed, the ever gentle light was gradually dipped in a golden glow of a dying afternoon. A shadow loomed over Harry, as the boy hung his head naturally during his light slumber.

"It is time." A voice boomed over his head loudly, but Harry did not feel any chiding tone, not was there any hostility, so he knew it was fine to … hear.

Time for what, exactly.

"You shall not remember this conversation, but I am here to tell you that it is time."

What is the point of telling me when I am to forget it anyway?

"Because I have a vision, child."

A vision?

"Now, I shall cast the dice; seven kings, seven colors."

I don't play with dice.

"Spoken like a true king."

I am no king.

"You have a purpose. I have created you so."

I was?

"Shall one of the seven kings be crowned, I will return to this sector once again. In the grace of your servitude, I shall grant you your heart desire, as you will die, and return to your space and time."

A death for a wish?

"A life for a wish."

Optimistic, eh?

"Quite so. Now, I am going to suppress this memory. In due time, you shall experience it again."

Can I take the blue pill?

"Tell me, what do you want to dream of?"

Eldar Motorcycles.

"So much for a tranquil world of dream. Good night, child."

….

…

…..

….

"Harry, dear! Wake up!"

Then, Harry heard his aunt's walking toward the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. Now, somewhat awakened, he tiredly aligned himself against the wall and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a Dark Eldar flying motorcycle in it. He had a rather ominous feeling he'd experienced the dream in real life, and shuddered at the thought. There was a fine line between fiction and reality, and he had bloody no intention to cross it. However, as much as his rationality denied it, he could still see that the battle was still going on, the Assault Space Marines was engaged in a glorious charge at the Tau Fire Warrior on the hill created by his knees under the blanket; the Fire Warrior held their uphill advantage bravely, but alas, the Assault Marines had already closed their distance, with a lucky roll of no one in particular, as the dice manifested from thin air. The rest, as they had said, was history. The battle was all but decided once and for all, but Harry could not watch it to the definite end, as his aunt softly knocked on the door again.

"Dear?" she called worriedly.

His aunt was back outside the door.

"Are you up yet, dear?" her delicate voice delightfully rung through the door, as the shadow of her legs was casted unto the room through the clearance between the door and the floor.

"Yes, I'm up, aunt." said Harry absent mindedly, diverting his gaze from the blanket to look at her shadow, when he was reminded that he still had his routine to complete. "Can you just wait me finish my routine, please?"

"Yes dear, after you are done, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

"Yes, I will do that." Harry replied, chuckled at his aunt hysterical perfection when it came to her beloved little Duddley, and heard footstep echoed away from his door. He had a vague thought that he had forgot something when he casted his gaze on the flattened blanket, but then, he stood up as he knew it would be no use thinking about something the brain refused to recall, and that the forgotten would resurface in time. All he could do was to patiently wait.

Harry laxed his joints momentarily, titled himself forward, dropped face first to the floor, and started doing push-up. After a while, beads of sweat glisteningly dropped from the pinch of his nose to the floor as he kept pushing away, and he stopped counting at one hundred-ish. Then, suddenly, his breath fell out of pace. His brows knitted to a scowl as he realized that his body was getting too tired just for a routine exercise. Harry drew himself closer to the floor for a brief moment to gain some momentum, and launched himself back up at a relaxed standing pose with his moderately toned arm.

Dudley's birthday – another age added to his brother – he had a surprise present for him. Harry felt somewhat complicated that Dudley was getting older, closer to the ever present death, but the thought only lingered for a second. Harry dismissed his negative attitude. Life was to be lived gracefully. Needless worry brought along needless stress. Whatever might have come, would eventually come. Never mind that, socks … socks …

Harry started digging around his closet, looking for socks. He found a pair after he fought through the sea of mismatching socks, and after flailing them about in sudden strikes to get them straight out, put them on. His eyes darted around the room looking for his white shirt and black trouser. Harry was bad with general house works, because most of the time, his aunt did them for him; however, on rather frequent social nights that his adoptive parents must attend to, Harry found himself in the position of supreme chef to cook for his opponent and his brother.

The young boy walked toward his work table, which was like a smelly metal mountain of trash according to Petunia, but to him, personally, the tools were perfectly in their places. He could close his eyes and started tweaking away at his inventions with the right tools in impervious precision. Petunia was banned in his room for some obvious reasons. Still standing in front of the table, dazed in the reminiscence of Petunia's disastrous adventure through his table for a second, the boy grabbed his white shirt and his black trouser he had hung on the chair last night, and get dressed.

Then, Harry reached for his CMP, plugged the earphone in, and started the music.

BGM: Like a dream come true – Pimpsona 4.

Nodding to the beat, he scrambled for black covered notebook, which was situated at the middle of the table, and flipped it open. There he found his glasses acting as a bookmarker just as he left it last night. Some other unfinished projects on the table caught his eyes, but he shrugged away, as that day was an off day. He had principles, which dictated that he must grab the glasses, substitute it with a pencil as a bookmarker, stuff the glasses into his breast pocket, and goof off to the kitchen.

After he had dressed appropriately, he went down the hall into the kitchen, but he doubted that even if he dressed sloppily, no one would make a complaint, for it was more or less suicidal to mock one of the Dursley. He amusingly snickered at the wicked thought of walking back up to his bedroom, slipping into his pajama, and insisting on going to the celebration dressed like that to watch the myriad of expressions that the guests may displayed briefly on their faces. Yes, that would have been entertaining as he needed a laugh badly. It was excusable, as he was still, all in all, a child. He was about to turn his feet to retreat back to his room when he forcefully broke the dangerous train of thought. Harry reminded himself that he still had to uphold to image of the Dursley, after all.

As he entered to kitchen, he noticed that the table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he had wanted, not to mention the obvious bulk of the tabletop terrains and the portfolio shaped codex. Harry blinked when his gaze met the wrapped book. Exactly why Dudley wanted a codex was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley freakishly collected all of the codex, and even then the codex was unneeded as he even remembered every stats and rules of each army - unless of course it involved a genuine codex to decidedly reprove the cheating or otherwise loosely rule interpretation of somebody during a session.

Dudley's memory and utilization of the codex came full circle when he was up against Harry, but tactics and memorized materials were on different terms: Dudley couldn't often catch Harry in the flank. Harry do look his part of shadiness, and his tactics were always alternative in pace and rhythm. Perhaps it had something to do with supporting a rising industrial regime, but Harry had always been dark and slightly skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier than he really was because all he preferred to wear were form-fitting shirts and suits to engage in general talks and some of the core businesses. Somehow, when he was dressing in something more suited for the older men, Harry looked proportionally more trivial. However, under the suit, there was a toned body trained to fight. The boy knew that his age was regarded rather more lightly than he would expected, and sometime, during the negotiations, in the eyes of the adults, a healthy display of violence was … necessary. He could have relied on his trusted guards for protection, but the punishment dealt by the headman always had more impact. It ensured fear, and generally speaking, fear was good.

Much of the terror in the underworld was instilled by the unexpected intensity coming from a thin face, knobbly knees, ruffled black hair, piercing green eyes, and coupled with the occasional usage of fair priced rectangle glasses, all of which perfectly described a nerdy little brat; however, by mixing all of those traits and items up, making sure that it would blend, adding a crushing aura of oppressiveness as the icing, with grated shrewd mind of a genius, and baking it up in the rising Dursley Family, then, you would have the renowned Masked Executioner of the Dursley.

Harry did not like the over dramatic title one bit as he disliked uniqueness in general, but as if it was the last resort of other conglomerates to annoy him, the title was known in every corner of the dark world, and recently, it had appeared on some gossip magazines. Harry had the intelligence agency to dig up the identity of the one proposed that title for him, but to no avail. However, there was one unique feature of his own appearance that he liked, and it was a very thin scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt Petunia was how he had gotten it.

"I'm not quite sure, dear." she had said. "You were delivered to us by an unknown benefactor."

"I understand." Harry had replied, keeping his emotions indifferently in check, as he saw worries, maternal fears, and unspoken sadness poured forth from Petunia eyes. He never asked her again.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen wobbly, scratching his head with sleepily strokes as Harry was turning over the bacon stripes by stripes. The man glided over the floor like a ghost, with his skinny leg hidden behind the long trousers, and his body looked dangerously malnourished compared to other fatty pigs acting as heads of sub-branch families.

"Haaaaaaaarryyyy~~" he yawned by a way of a morning greeting. About every day in the week, Uncle Vernon sheepishly walked out of his bedroom, in his unkempt suit, headed straight to the fridge, and gulped down the freezing milk; greeting Harry was a voluntary action. Harry did not blame him though. Any lesser man would be dead within weeks if put to the position Vernon was occupying. The birthday of Dudley came as a hard earned boon. Both Vernon and Harry needed a breather, and a haircut. About haircut, Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the boys in his class put together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew back the night after – utterly disheveled, uncontrollably spiky, and indescribably wild, tickling away at the heart of the girls his age, and attracting a lot of unwanted attention without him ever using Axe associated products.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had an oval face, with sharp features, cold blue eyes, and thick blond hair that stayed unkempt no matter how he grinded it down. Aunt Petunia often sighed in resignation that the hair might have been passed down generation by generation - Harry often answered to her complaint that he understood.

Harry silently put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room, and there was still the chicken soup. Dudley, noticing that Harry was struggling, started counting his presents. His face fell.

"Why are there so much presents?" he said, looking up at his mother and father accusingly. "It's not like I am a snotty little brat or anything."

"Darling, it is a social thing. Just try to accommodate with it."

"Well, I will open your presents …" gestured Dudley toward his parents; one of whom was battling to move the mountain of present to the living room, and the other was literally drowning sheepishly in his bowl of cooled chicken soup. "… and Harry's." Harry, who was taking the other bowls of soup to the table, began to twirl around in one-two to steer clear of his aunt's battle with the pompous pesky protruding persistent presents.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger because she responded quickly, "We will donate the rest to local charity, so please don't start a campfire with the leftover presents, darling.'' It was hell cleaning up a burnt stain, and there was the commotion with the SP and the firefighters too.

"I thought it was fun?" Dudley's eyes sparkled happily when he remembered the campfire that he had started few years ago. It was the best fun he ever experienced, period.

"Where is the fun in burning down house and home!?" Petunia gasped in disbelief.

"Hm, I like the smell of …" Dudley straight facedly replied to his mother question only to be cut in the middle by her retort, and a chop to the forehead. "Too cliché, that is too cliché!"

"What I am to do with you …" Petunia sighed heavily, wondering where she had educated him wrong. Dudley was geared toward athletic activities and academic studies on his own. Petunia had never really had to worry about him. She and Vernon kept their distance from the children, not too far away, but not too close that it would spoil him, because in him, she could see a figure of mature independence forged by his voluntarily positive attitude in keeping up the image of the Dursley. In his time at home, however, Dudley's childish tendency was attended to by Harry. Petunia often saw smiles bloomed on both faces as she stormed around the hall doing housework. Her Dudley was growing into a fitting heir to the Dursley, both mentally and physically, if only he could stop uttering his occasional surprisingly suspensive comments.

"Well, celebrate my birthday?"

She heard Dudley somewhat normal answer, and her mouth started firing off before her brain can stop it, "I don't think that is the point!?"

Dudley thought for a moment, stood up and walked over to his mother. "If you say so." He started to skim over the present tags, and took the undesirable ones off the table, directly supporting his mother in her battle. It looked like hard work, Harry thought as he was chopping up cucumber for the salad with deadly precision for one who was looking away from the chopping board…

"Here. Happy birthday, Dudly." Aunt Petunia tiredly handed him her present after she had fished it out of the bunch.

"Oh." Dudley settled down on the carpet floor and tear away the wrapping of the parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon was snoring peacefully, deeply immersed in his full bowl of cooled chicken soup.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia hurried away to answer it while Harry watched Dudley unwrap the dated codex, and held it up with great relish, which seemed to be seeping forth from his sparkling blue eyes. He was ripping the paper off Harry present when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone looking worried.

"The escort will be here in an hour" she said, and looked at Harry still chopping onion with the precision of an Iron Chef. "Enough with your cooking fest already!?" She waved Harry to the table.

Dudley paid no attention at his mother's urge, as he was still in shock of seeing Harry's present. Harry brought the bowl of salad to the table, noticed that his present was unwrapped, and winked at Dudley. "A prototype, couldn't finish it. Still get your heart up, yes?"

Dudley held up the decorated bracer put together by his brother, and comically grimaced. "This kept you from the games?"

Harry's heart fell a tone, comically, as he showed a rare apologetic smile. "Well, yeah. Happy Birthday."

Dudley shot a grin at Harry. "Thanks."

"Wait!? Is that …?" Petunia had just sat down on the comforting wooden chair when she saw Harry's present. It was a silver bracer that she had seen in a rejected portfolio, which had been previously sent to the Military Material Division.

Harry expression lightened up for a second, as he settled down on his chair. "Yes, the powered amour bracer. The base wrapping the arm and the fingers are built with Reinforced Exoskeleton technology, made with amorphous metal, which is twice as hard as steel. The RE technology heightens the power and the response of the region it is attached to at the cost of varied degrees of stress on the user body. To counter the stress, between the outer guard plate and the exoskeleton, I have welded in a repulsion system, which partially transfer the recoil force to an easily replicable bolt made of tungsten alloy …"

Petunia dazedly heard Harry rambling on the incredulous construction of his present, only to snap out of it on her T-reflex. "Wait! Where in the bloody hell did you get those alloys!?"

She knew that Harry would never take the alloys from the company just to cater to one of his rejected invention. Therefore the origins of those materials might just be, in the slightest chance, from a dark trade. Petunia knew that her nephew would eventually be the one to deal with the dark face of Dursley Family, but not immediately then!?

"On my table?" Harry confusedly answer at his aunt interruption.

"You have created this … this …" Failing on forming a cohesive description of the bracer Dudley was holding, and falling in to one hell of a mental disbelief hole, Petunia grinded her teeth to continue her sentence. "… in your room!? From materials found on a table of metallic trash!?"

"Why, yes." Harry bluntly answered, which snapped off the last straw of Petunia sanity.

"EAT! YOUR! BREAKFAST!" The Spartan Petunia finally snapped at the two boy's dilly dallying, and showed the otherworldly expression of a yellow cat being compared with President Mori.

"OH MAI GAWD!" Dudley exclaimed shakily as he saw her strange disposition, and started to dig in his food at great haste, his spoon seemed to have multiplied in process. All the while, his eyes glued to his bowl, as he feared that if he looked at his mother a bit longer, he would be sucked into the strange aeons, in which death might finally be granted life.

"And Harry, I will have a word will you later." Apparently, when Harry looked at his aunt's eyes, he felt like he was being gazed down by the Asura having just climbed out of Naraka for the fourth time.

"I understand." Harry nodded nonchalantly and bit into his toast, nailing the hectic breakfast to a definite end, with his uncle still blissfully asleep, drowning peacefully in the cool chicken soup as bubbles started to surface.

"It is great that you will beha…. Not! What do you mean you understanddddddddddddddddddddd!?" Petunia howled at Harry's indifferent attitude.

With that final retort, the breakfast came to a close.

"Vernon! Wake uppppppppppppppppppppppppp!" That time, she was on verge of tears.

E-hem. With that final wail, the breakfast came to a close.

…

…

….

….

BGM: Specialist – Pimpsona 4.

Every year on Dudley's birthday, the Capo di tutti ca… a wide range of FOREIGN and local celebrities hosted his birthday party, and out of accommodative sake to the social links, Dudley reluctantly attended the event annually with his parents. Every year, Harry volunteered to be left behind at the house, tending to the paperwork that might have been skimmed over by his tardy uncle. The whole house, in those occasions, felt alarmingly devoid of life and warmth. Harry often retired early to his room, curled into a ball in his thin blanket, and tried to fall asleep hoping that the night would pass quickly and painlessly. However, this birthday party, which was debatable on the size aspect of the "party", was Harry's official debut to the celebrities as the hapless nephew luckily picked up by the charitable Dursley. He went under the alias of Danel Radclive in public announcements of his latest inventions and contributions to the Dursley Family. Even in the inner circle of the core company, no one knew his true identity, but for a few of his trusted guards. Anonymity had its use.

"Ready for your debut, darling?" said Aunt Petunia jokingly when she, Dudley, and Harry were outside of the main mansion, decided to walk the few paces towards the gate.

To which Harry replied cripsly. "I see that Uncle is accompanying us today."

Petunia looked at Harry confusedly. "Well yes, his attendance is a must, right dear?" She turned to her left to rhetorically inquire her supposed-to-be-there husband. There was obviously no one on her left, but Harry could swear that he had seen the rough dotted outline of the missing Vernon's figure blinking comically beside Petunia.

Her eyes widened when her brain finally computed that her husband was not there when their escort would arrive in matter of minutes. Petunia started hyperventilating as her anger took over. Her veins was visibly throbbing, and thus, the avatar of Asura was summoned, completed with streams of white smoke breathing out of her ears.

"He is most certainly still sleeping in the kitchen." Harry mercilessly delivered the end destination to the embodiment of hatred that once was Petunia.

"निमित्त…" howled Aunt Petunia vengefully, as she stormed back to the house.

"Godspeed, aye, ma'am." Harry called after his aunt's back, and Dudley started to slip into a hysterical laughing fit - and a moment later Vernon Dursley, whose cheeks were burning with a vehement red, was escorted in tow with his wife. His cologne of choice was deliciously swamping the air with its stomach clutching scent of chicken as Harry's nose picked it up.

"Good of you to join us, sir." Harry bowed smartly at the unsightly sight of his overly tired uncle, who was under a hazy trance, like a boxer in his final bout, standing courageously to take the heat, but not one bit conscious.

"You will pay for this, Harry boy…." Vernon whimpered under the bright sunlight, dimly recognizing Harry's voice. "Remember …"

BGM: Red Velvet – NicotineArmarfi.

"It would do better for YOU to remember that today is our son's birthday!" Petunia bit her lips, and a tear traced down her right cheek.

"Hm, how about we leave those boys after dinner …" With his senses screaming maximum alert, Vernon fixed his posture, straighten his suit, combed his sleep hair back to the Irresistible Wild HairTM with his bare hands, his eyes gleamed sharply as he held his wife's chin tenderly, and gazed passionately into her eyes. "…to have some hard earned time for us adults alone?"

Petunia turned beet red in seconds in front of her husband, whose sharp and handsome face was leaning in. "Why can't you stay like this all of the time!?" She started to throw love-love punches at her husband chest, and her lips glossed crimson as her face moved closer to those of her husband.

"I am sorry to interrupt …" Harry expressionlessly quipped at the entwined lovers. "…but the escort should have arrived by now, and must be waiting for our departure."

"Wha … I thought I told you boys to go ahead and wait at the gates!?" Petunia hastily snapped out of her love-love mode, her face drained of color realizing that she was about to show a R-rated live-action kiss in front of the children, and addressed Harry in embarrassment. "Get going, now! Vernon, you too!"

Harry comically shot a defiant look at Petunia. "For the record, you didn't say anything about us going ahead."

"Then, you would best adhere to common sense, and went ahead!?" Petunia cheeks, in turn, was colored again.

"Then I will take your advice to the heart." Harry dragged Dudley, who was clutching his stomach laughing too much, along with him, and headed for the gates. "Excuse us, we will be going ahead, now."

"What is the purpose of going ahead now!?" Petunia hurried after the boys on the gravel walkway, with Vernon following closely behind, comically sighing away at his easy to tease wife.

…..

….

….

BGM: Stride – NicotineArmarfi.

Half an hour later, Harry, who was somewhat hyped, was sitting in the back of the armored escort car with his brother and the accompanied guard: Sergey "Nexus" Schmidt, on the way to the public celebration of Dudley's Birthday for the first time in his life.

"A reminder to you," Vernon had said, sitting opposite of him in the Limousine, leaned forward, and flicked his index finger playfully at Harry's forehead, "Boy, you are not Danel Radclive here – you can go around listening to gossips of business – but don't butt in and give your saintly advices to them; they don't deserve that gift."

"I'm not going to do anything," sighed Harry dejectedly, "… I know better than that." Uncle Vernon gave him a wink, and looked contented. "Oh, and no magic tricks."

Magic tricks, Harry grimaced. The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry when he was in dangerous situation and it was just no good reporting to his uncle that he didn't make them happen. Vernon apparently believed that Harry could have somehow dodged bullet and bent steel with his inventions, well, he could but that somehow went beside the point.

Today, Harry took extra care by summoning his personal guards to accompany him, and nothing was going to go wrong, at least he wishfully prayed so. While he boredly watched the hectic traffic, Uncle Vernon autonomously talked in idly topics with his wife Petunia, keeping her T-reflex at bay, so that the trip could at least retain in controllable silence. He mindlessly switched topics: people at work, Harry's table, the inner circle, Harry's sea of socks, the heads of the branch families, and Harry's projects were just a few of his recursive subjects. His eyes stopped at a motorcyclist parked his bike alongside the limousine, waiting for the light to turn.

"... living only once; what do they think? They can live twice? "I am the best under the Heaven." Oh please, you are not Japanese delinquents. Bloody youths…"he yawned, and his cologne deliciously filled the compartment, as the motorcycle brazenly roared past the intersection with the coppers geared immediately into chase.

"I had a dream about a motorcycle," Harry's eyes darted after the bike, reminded hazily of his dream. "It was flying."

Dudley sniggered mockingly. "I bet even you cannot make a motorcycle to fly."

"Who knows? I don't think I want to work on something that troublesome." said Harry.

"How about giving me one on my 18th birthday?" Dudley's eyes gleamed in anticipation as he requested with an expression of "all according to keikaku."

"I will think about it." Which meant I would do it to Harry. That was why he wished he hadn't said anything. If there was one thing more troublesome than his officially overdue projects, it was his unconscious talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon – Dudley would catch on right away, always seemed to think he might be able to eventualize the presented concepts, and as if to push Harry into deeper perils, he always succeeded in building the madness he mentioned to Dudley, prompting the heir to the Dursley to expect more and more of him. Harry could always ditch official work, though, for being the pioneer of the new technology had its own leeways.

….

…..

….

BGM: Electronica in Velvet Room – Pimpsona 4.

Harry darted his eyes over the surrounding structure as the driver informed through the intercom that they were entering the premise of the celebration site. Harry noticed they had left the main road quite some time ago, passing through a pair of newly painted iron gates and entered a passage with buttresses and crenellations protruded sideway like ribcage covering the spine from every surface, disgustingly encrusted with ugly statuary commemorating unknown figures, and wastefully vast areas had been gilded, annoyingly reflecting the sunlight to anyone who happened to turn his gaze onto it. Simply speaking, it struck a deep impression on the indifferent Harry as one of the most stridently vulgar piles of masonry he had ever seen.

"I don't understand art." Harry mouthed off, and hung his head, but then he could feel snarky gazes from virtually everyone on the car at that moment, even from the driver.

The driver pulled up outside the main entrance, halting at the end of a red carpet skilfully without Harry feeling the brake recoiled. After a moment the other escort cars, which completely slipped from the boy's mind, pulled up behind Harry and the honor guards piled out, deploying on either side of the limousine they had arrived on as a full squad, five pairs of operators facing each other across the crimson weave, hands crossing behind their straightened backs, solemnly waiting for the Dursley to disembark.

"Boy, remember." Vernon sharply extended an arm to Harry as the driver hastily bustled up to open the doors.

"I will." Harry took it as they emerged, but he did not follow the Dursley to their informal greetings to the strolling guests. He stopped for a moment to have a word with the Nexus.

"Any further orders, sir?" the Nexus, noticing the glint in Harry's eyes, walked towards him, and faked his dramatic crouching posture as if he was a father chiding a child scared of going to some strange place.

Harry consciously shook his head lightly for the sake of the spoiled-child-persuasive-guardian act. "Stand on alert, and get yourself something to eat," he whispered. Strictly speaking Harry could have his guards accompany the Dursley, but they did not do so in their previous annual visits, and the thought of the armed honor guards mingling with the important figures and the aristocracy ought to be almost too strenuous to the heart of the local guard. How little it might have been, Harry did feel sorry for the local guards to patronize such nauseous structures daily, so he spared them from having to worry about a spontaneous assassination order from him. Harry still had snipers situated from two clicks away, though. Just for safety, he thought, and pondered if it was outrageous.

Nope, he concluded, slowly put his hands up and covered his ears, which, to the outsider, looked like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum, but in fact, he was signaling Sergey to give him a combead, which he slipped into the boy's right ear when he pretended to pat Harry's head. "Leave the channel open," Harry added. ", and secure it. I'll contact you when we're ready to leave."

"Yes sir." A faint smile formed on his broad face before discipline reasserted itself, and he sternly stand up, vectored towards the deployed operators.

"Atten Shun!" Schmidt bellowed, and the operators snapped to it with nanosecond precision. A minor awe caught Harry's train of thought as he never actually saw his guards attended to formal activities. The crash of synchronized heels caused heads to turn around, with even the high profile Britiss Generals looking mightily impressed, and their kids even more so.

"Impressive as always." Petunia murmured as the Dursley gained the elaborately carved entrance doors.

"Quite mild, if I have a say in it." Harry disagreed, emerging from the shadow behind Petunia, causing her heart to jump quite a long beat.

BGM: Backside of the TV – Pimpsona 4

Inside, it was exactly as Harry had anticipated after witnessing the monstrosity the architect had built, the decorator apparently had an appeal to the kind of impulsive ostentation too many of the wealthy mistake for good taste, with crystal and gilt and garish tapestries of historic battles and self-denying-looking kings strewn around the place like a Somali warehouse. The high arched ceiling was supported by pillars distastefully carved to mimic the bark of some species of aged tree, and Harry sank into the carpet as deep as the knee, as though it were a swamp. Petunia's lips quirked as she absorbed the full opulence of their surroundings.

"Bloody fake cotton hell." she said quietly. "Pure marble would have been more beautiful."

Harry suppressed a mocking comment rising up his throat as a flunkey walked over to guide them forward.

"My lords, ladies and gentlemen… We are about to be graced by the arrival of the Dursley family," he announced, not loudly, but it did quiet down the room all at once. "… and their nephew." He added unnecessarily, much to Harry's chagrin. Which at least explained to some stinging gazes who he was. Through a corner of his eyes, Harry surveyed the room quickly, registering familiar faces, who he must avoid so as to avoid any recognition of the most bare of mannerism he might have displayed during the monthly televisual meeting of the R&D department. His face was always hidden during those discussion, but he would take no chance here.

Harry was about to glide away quietly when he realized that it was utterly unnecessary as the Dursleys had already established themselves as the new center of attention, leaving the more trivial Harry free to what he wanted. Well, that was a new experience to the boy, being ignored by the contractors and the army big faces in favor of more connection. Irony tasted bland his Harry's mouth as he tried to chuckle quietly, but then he decided to fade out of the picture and go pursuing for his amusement of observing big shots lying through their teeth, which he did with all due dispatch.

Harry naturally walked to the food carts, and clumsily poured himself a soft drink; the kind that was supposedly all the rage among his peers. Then, he retreated to the shadow casted off a withdrawn curtain of a nearby great glass windows, where most eyes would met with brilliant sunshine from outside as the curtains were opened. That way, most would unconsciously turn their eyes away from his position. Then, the boy directed his eyes to the mingling people to observe the myriad of masks, which amusingly displayed fake personalities, forced humors, fabricated humilities with not-so-innocent snide remarks – collided against each other. Their stories, he knew them all, and he even knew of the darkness that binded them along with those stories. As was his amusement taking over him, Harry still circulated widely, keeping an edge of his eyes and ears open to filter through the torrent of noise, as he would never know what useful little snippets of information could slip out somewhere, in this hall of imbecile. Harry could finally see why the Dursleys tried to steer away from those parties.

His enjoyment in watching the darker part of humanity struggled to accommodate to the lighter side of society was ended abruptly when the entertainment sneakily caught a note of joy in his ears.

BGM: Aria of lost Soul – Pimpsona.

He flippantly traced to the source of the singing voice, and effortlessly found the image a young woman was standing on a relatively modest podium – the fact of which was saying a lot given that the podium was inside such horrid monstrosity of a structure – at the end of the room, surrounded by supposedly "famous musicians", all of whom Harry recognized having encountered through his darker line of work, but he could care less for those junky dickheads right then, because her voice was hauntingly beautiful. She was singing old sentimental favourites, like Skyrises and Someone unlike You, and even an extraordinarily young cynic like Harry could appreciate the emotions she put into them, and feel that, just that once, the trite words were ringing true: There was no mask in the voice. Harry closed his eyes, and within the tearful lyrics, he could have seen the image a girl was driven mad in her white white hospital room, as she was abandoned by everyone she considered family, husband, son, and even daughter. Every night, she was wallowing her cruel fate, until she heard the bell tolled for the six times at 12 o'clock on the day God resided to rest, and her memories came back abruptly, transparently clear as though it was but yesterday. The woman had tearlessly shook off her lover hands, leaving him to Death in the same room, at that precisely same time ten years ago. But the man loved her even to his eventual demise. His last words were as certain as it was chiseled on his grave. "I love you forever more."

Going mad from remembrance, no longer knowing even her own name, nor the name of the man she had heartlessly pushed to Death, the woman mindlessly broke through her window with her frail fists, and reached to the freedom from 86th floor up from the ground. Strangely as the mad world turned, the woman was not falling, she was walking on broken glass as her heart shattered bit by bit, seeing the man once she loved wholeheartedly extending a hand to her. The woman reached for him, and they united, and started to waltz through the needless rules binding them to reality.

As the song ended with a quite smooth improvised transition for blasted junkies, Harry found himself uncharacteristically rooted to the wall next to the blinding windows enjoying snatches of her birdy soprano carried through the room, cutting through the backbiting and the small talks, and he felt his eyes drifting in her general direction every time the crowd parted enough to afford him a clear view.

And the view was well somehow worth it. There was something of her stature that made Harry could not properly register her face or even her generic build from where he was standing. He just knew that she was there, as if she was just a matter-of-factly person supposed to be there, and it was naturally for her to be there. However, her eyes – Harry could see them just strangely fine – were the dark emerald of an elder jewelry, and seemed to transfix the boy whenever he looked in her direction.

"So you're the famous nephew of the Dursley," someone said, patting Harry on the head as he was drowning in the bright pace of the new song. Harry stood through it automatically, raising his gaze a little only to found himself looking at a benevolent-faced man in an overly simple, nevertheless still formal black suit, trouser and shirt with the clerical collar, which positively screamed priest. He looked straight into Harry's eyes. "My condolescène with the accidence involving your parents."

"It is alright, I can assure you." Harry said blandly, returning his gaze intentively. "I don't remember much about it."

"I see." He eyed the boy inquisitively, trying to determine the amount of truth in those words. Harry prosily kept his expression neutral. "I take it you have come to terms with where you are now?"

"At the moment," Harry said, choosing his words with care, "I suppose I don't really need anything else."

"I see." He nodded, and stuck out a hand for Harry to shake. After a moment's juggling with the difference in heights, which was more to put the man off balance than anything, Harry shook it firmly. "Laggera Primapice, Local Priest."

"I thought as much." Harry innocently smiled in return. "You have the look and the attitude of a man of light about you."

"Whereas you seem quite insightful for a child."

"They say that a child's sight can reveal much too many of overly concealed truths," Harry said. "So, I'm supposed to look at something and point out the obvious."

"Which includes thinking about your current standing in the world of adult? You surprise me."

"I do think that the Dursley is my new home," Harry patiently told him, "but it has to do with something more of my origin than anything else. I suppose having no original home with real parents dead would eventually keep any human being awake through a few long nights, asking himself where he is currently in this vast world. Which I did, and I realized that there are many others, whose fates are worse off than me. So all in all, I appreciate my current life." And that he was keeping his newly family prosper, of course, which was far more important to him. Laggera looked surprised, and a little gratified. He asked, and Harry provided.

"I can see your earlier words are far from exaggerated," he contentedly said. "And I truly hope that the Lord may grant you peace in your home for many years to come."

That was what Harry wanted to hear. The boy smiled, and sipped his overly sweet drink.

"As the Empe …. the Lord wills it," Harry nearly slipped a phrase he'd picked up from the codex over the course of his long bitter battle with Dursley's Imperial Guard. Of course when Dudley said it he meant every word, but from Harry, it was just the verbal equivalent of a shrug. Harry had never really bought the idea that His Divine Majesty could have spare some attention from the job of preventing the entire galaxy from sliding into damnation to look out for Harry's morale check, too, or anyone else's for that matter, which is why Harry was so diligent about practicing the throws to decide the outcome value of the roll himself. "I heard that the party is hosted by Mister Wolf Kimberlee this year." Harry continued the conversation with a diversion of topic.

"That man …" the priest nodded gloomily. "I think he is over there talking to your guardians." He indicated with a tilt of his head at the general direction where a man – Kimberlee – was cheerily chatting away with Vernon and Petunia. "He is an … interesting man in a broader sense of the word. When you have grown up and have some time to allot, I suggest that you should go to talk to him. But it is strange, I think that he would often be accompanied by his ... oh, there." another tilt of the head to the far corner of the room to an obvious guard in a suit, eyes hidden behind sun glasses, "that man is the reason Mister Wolf hardly even cared about his family slipping out from under him anymore."

"He sticks out like a thumb," Harry said. Laggera smiled weakly.

"So he does. But why he can afford to do so for a man of his fame is the real question, don't you think?"

Well the priest's words were right on the money so far as Harry was concerned, as he had come to some deductions, which would need latter confirmations. Harry absent-mindedly exchanged a few more inconsequential words with Laggera and then excused himself to refill his drink, subtly indicating the end of the conversation. After a few more parting words, Harry headed towards the table at the far end of the room where a rather normal bar had been laid out. On the way, He noticed his adoptive parents had managed to extricate themself from the nuisances' presence. The air of confidence they were radiating was remarkable, acted effectively as a repellent of blood sucking insects and buzzing bees, as most of those unanimously parted as the Dursleys gained through, essentially reenacted Mosses walking the Red Sea. It certainly looked as though they were enjoying themself, in the barest sense of the word though, and Harry gave Dudley a faint smile as their eyes briefly met. He responded with a flashing grin, and continued parading around with his parents.

BGM: Madder Red – Fate/Over Night.

"It looks like you've lost your interest in me," a voice sang a note of joy behind Harry. The boy turned, and found himself falling into the deep dark emerald eyes of the young singer he'd been watching before.

Uncharacteristically for Harry, he was momentarily at a loss for words. She was smiling, a plate of finger food in her hand.

"I was, ah, just talking with a priest," he answered automatically. "Recurring life troubles, and loss of faith. Something along those lines."

She laughed, a warm, innocent chuckle which dazed Harry's mind for a brief moment, and just then Harry realized she was childishly pulling his leg.

"I am sorry," However, she soon hung her head empathically when she realized she had touched an awkward spot. "Did something bad happen to you?"

"Please don't, I do not want the celebration to turn into a life counsel in my memory." Harry remarked on the overly abundance of empath in this party. "That would indeed be miserable to me." The emerald eyed singer was transfixing her gaze on him sympathetically, the ghost of a weak smile fainting at the corner of her mouth, and Harry suddenly got the feeling that she could cure him of his twisted other face of loyalty and dedication towards his family he normally kept concealed from the outer world. It was an unnerving sensation as Harry knew the depth in her eyes; a depth that was devouring the light off her eyes. This woman was seeking help. Harry knew, for him too, had fallen into the same ordeal, but escaped that freezing hell of despair thanks to Dudley. The child's eyes was it not now? Harry thought.

"If you think so, then I shall respect it." She picked up a tagged bottle from the nearby table with her free hand, and topped up Harry's cup.

"Thank you." Harry said abit curtly, more to deflect the conversation before she could penetrate deeper into his own mask. The young woman smiled again.

"Finding a way to deflect the conversation, are we now?" She extended a hand with an exaggerated motion as if to forcibly anchor him there to continue the conversation with her; the hand was too slim and cold to the touch, and to Harry quick observation, the snow white hand was not sullied by any excessive jewelry. Harry kissed the hand formally, as etiquette demanded, and to his astonishment she giggled.

"A gentleman as well as a pervert. You are full of surprises." Then she surprised Harry by dropping an explosive statement, truth notwithstanding, with the light of mischief briefly returned to her soul-catching eyes. "Oh, I do notice your frequent gaze at me." Harry titled his head confusedly at her statement, not knowing how to deal with the girl. "I'm Sofia Athennes, by the way. I sing a bit, in case you didn't notice."

"I know," Harry said and tried to appear unfazedly. By name, he could indicate that the singer was not of the named noble blood, and thus he decided to answer to her accusation in a more brazen fashion. ", and very well, too; while we are still at it, I have to inform you that I was more into your eyes than your body." She was taken aback with his provocative compliment with an embarrassed diversion of her, now, bashfully glittering eyes. Harry took the chance to finally have a general view of the young woman. She was tall and slim, with back-length hair of a shade of black he'd never seen on anyone else before or since, hanging loose to frame a face which would have certainly made even ancient sophistry and aged poem shun from needless description, for no mere word could have rationalize such a beauty. Her dress was of an exquisite velvet blue, and seemed to orbit around her figure like a fine mist.

After registering her image, Harry bowed formally, refusing to enter into her game of words. "Harry Potter," the boy said, fully anticipated the drastic change his name would make to the conversation, "at your service." Her eyes widened a little as he introduced himself.

"I've heard of you," she said, a little breathlessly. "You are the boy survived that catastrophic car crash!" Well he evidently had, if his current presence there was not enough of an indication. It was the early incident that had laid the foundations of Harry's ironic reputation as a hapless nephew, but his adventures into the dark shade of society since had created the Masked Executioner, whose savage warpaths and infamous brutality tended to overshadow the presence of such trivial member of the family. "So I evidently did." Harry said, slipping back unconsciously into the sarcastic demeanor he often adopted around Petunia without thinking. "I'd reckon it was a stroke of luck."

"Oh, but it was. I saw it, you know." She nervously laughed at Harry astonished expression. "I was there in Godric Hollow, visiting my relatives. I saw the car came crashing over the outer walls, and came even through your doorstep."

"I see," Harry monotonously replied. "And I need not knowing the details."

"That … is so." Sofia nodded, and then Harry got the feeling that she was finally stumbling to find a topic to initiate another conversation with him.

"Appropriately," Harry initiated intently on the musician's change of music. "Right now, I think it's my duty to ask you to dance." It was a transparent attempt to mingle with the noises, away from the ever-present ears and while appearing normal to the watching eyes, so that he could ask, so that he could inquire what had happened to mental frighten such a marvel of a face. The boy, however, expected the young singer to refuse with modest embarrassment, but she smiled, discarding any traces of artist pride and her status as a background singer, and took his extended arm.

"I'd love to," she whispered passionately. "I've a few minutes before my second set."

So as they were drifted across to the dance floor, Harry pulled the taller woman closer, and breathed in her reddened ears. "So what is it that you want of me?"

And the cheerful mask of Sofia Athennes broke.

The color in her face was drained in an instant as she looked at Harry with horror, her eyes devoid of the will to live. He knew. He knew. He knew. She madly chanted in her tormented mind. But even in that state, her body still elegantly followed Harry's whimsical lead, which accompanied by occasional twist and overhead turn, until finally, when she pulled him closer by herself with a fragilely renewed confidence. "Protection." The girl murmured faintly.

"Why me, the adopted …" The damned woman knew his secret! Harry held his breath as he felt the unnerving sensation nauseously return to occupy his senses. "… nephew of the Dursley? I am practically a charity mascot for the house."

"You looked me in the eyes, Harry." Harry unconsciously flinched at the breaking voice whispering of his name. "And as you see into mine, I also placed my eyes unto you. In you I see … different experiences, Harry. Amidst them, there is a look of power in your eyes. A power untouched by ambition and desire. A protective power imbued with devotion and care…" The woman hands began to tremble in his as she met the glowing green eyes of Harry, "… no matter how…"

Sofia pulled away in the purest fear of the boy of many faces, and tried to return to the stage with her shaking legs. Harry, with what looked like the reluctance to part with the beauty to the ever vigilant eyes, caught up to escort her for a part of the way, seemingly chatting to no purpose with the intention of simply prolonging a pleasant interlude in what otherwise promised to be a dull late-morning.

"May I ask if you have been reserved for the noon?" Harry asked in a sudden smooth tone to ease her perturbed mind, with the expectation for a negative answer, as it seemed his companion was well-reversed in the intricacies of the noble circles. It came with frequent exclusive performing for the corrupted aristocracy, Harry supposed as even him did not know such a good singer existed. She shook her head, looking both surprised and afraid. Harry's rampant expression when he was unmasked seemed to have a rather undesirable effect on her as he chided himself of his immaturity.

"How about you accompany with us …" Harry gently gestured towards the still socializing Dursleys. Sofia nodded immediately without needing him to finish his sentence. "… for lunch. Oh, how fortunate." He blinked at the woman.

"I don't see any reason to decline." Meaning she could not escape from his clutch, now that she had gotten him interested. Sofia started to sniffle in quick succession with her dress silently slipping across her slim shoulders, her body trembling in the uncertainty of her fate.

"Take a slow breath. Five – four – three – two – one - zero." Harry calmly advised as he saw the woman started to hyperventilate. Harry suddenly had a hollow feeling that if she made a scene here, then they would never meet again. "Hold it in, and hear your heart beating. Two – one. Try to calm it down."

"Exhale slowly. Five – four – three – two – one – zero." he counted with experience in dealing with the aftermath of Petunia Asura mode. "Do you feel better?"

"Y-Yes, thank you." The color returned to her face as she replied without thinking. Those depthless emerald eyes naturally drifted to Harry, and he could have seen that there was at least some of the light hovering in her windows of soul. This woman could still be salvaged. He thought. At least she did not tread on his darkness while retaining as one of the "Others".

"I think you should take a rest in the stage room." Harry said, the idea of taking the singer as his possession took a firmer root in his mind. A nefarious plan began to cook itself up in his brain. The woman still knew too much for her own safety. "You still have to sing for a second set, do you?"

Sofia's eyes widened as she was reminded of her duties. "Yes, I will," she said, with a delicate shiver. "I shall return for you once the set is over."

Well, Harry was about to offer to escort her from the stage room to meet the Dursley, of course as his principles dictated, but now that he had reconsidered it seriously, it would do him no harm to accept her offer, so as to appear to the onlookers that the singer took an interest in him, rather than the opposite of it. The act of her fetching him to visit the Dursley would appear somewhat like this in the eyes of the celebrities: Under the pretense of sympathetic interest, Sofia would approach the hapless nephew, and persuade him into introducing her to the Dursleys only to have them as her sponsor so that she could have gained a massive boost to her career. To finalize the faked act, the boy put on his best love smitten expression and said: "Yes, I will be waiting for you." Well, Harry wanted to exaggerate for a dramatic effect, and it worked, pushing the attention to the young woman, but she did not notice that. Sofia nodded at Harry's smile, bashfully, and trotted on light steps back to the stage, and Harry watched her go, whispering to his combead. "Nexus, get me her detailed profile."

"Yes, sir." Sergey replied evenly through the vox channel. "May I ask if you have plans to make her into one of us, sir?"

Harry's track of thought halted still, with some he could have sworn even derailed, and came crashing through his skull, vanishing out of his mind in an instant.

Blimey, Sergey. Harry cursed. He never failed to surprise him.

Yes, why did he even take an interest in this woman?

A fundamental question was presented. Then, he would need a fundamental answer. Yes, when he thought of the woman, what would surface first and foremost?

"No, something more of a secretarial division." Harry immediately threw his "first and foremost" out of his brains in the same hole his trains of thought crash through, and voiced his rational thoughts. Dangerous, dangerous, he smirked chillingly. "Prepare her lodging at the Mount's End, Nexus."

"Copy that, sir." Sergey's voice dropped a few Celsius degree. "It would certainly be wise to employ beautiful singer ladies as your secretary, sir. We brawny guards were certainly not of use to you in brain matters. Why did it had not came to me before, alas, what a failure I am."

Harry silently chuckled at Sergey's remarks. It hit home, but he could not budge Harry with only that. In fact the boy wanted to tickle at his guard snarky side abit more. "We shall see about that."

"As indeed, we shall." Nexus voice went dead in the combead, killed the conversation so as not to be dragged into Harry's pace. The guard did know him well. Harry sighed, somewhat relieved, though another question stuck immediately up as he did not know what was he relieved of, nor why should he feel so.

…

…

….