AN: Figure the only way I'm finishing a story is if it ends before I get seventeen alternate routes for it stuck in my head. Quickly now!
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He's eleven years old the first time he kills someone.
And he is sure that it is, in fact, the first time. Despite everyone in this new world - his world, the place where he belonged - telling him the first was at the tender age of one, right after being made an orphan, he just spoke to his supposed first victim. The dark wizard Voldemort was not alive as normal people were, but he was not dead as normal dead people were either.
He had wondered, idly, in the middle of his panicked thoughts while seeing that monstrous face emerge from another man's skull, how the entire world could be wrong about something that seemed so important to them. What else could they be wrong about and believe just as strongly? What was he himself most certain of, and could that be wrong as well?
Minutes later, he is convinced of one thing: Professor Quirrell is dead. His hands are covered up to the wrists by the ashes that his Professor's flesh became when it came in contact with his skin. He is relieved that the man was facing him, at least, even as he dug his fingers to the hands wrapped around his neck, and then his face when the man let go and cried in horror. He prefers remembering that over having another look at Voldemort.
In the quiet that follows he is struck by memories of kneading dough for whatever pastries Aunt Petunia demanded of him. The way that white powder clung to his skin felt different than this black and grey one. It still got into the little lines that ran over his skin, making them stand out, making his skin feel oddly dry - like stretching it was just a little bit harder.
He had played with that feeling once, when he was seven and learning to bake, until the cake started burning and Aunt Petunia slapped him. He didn't feel the urge to play after that.
Quirrell is still withering away under him. Nothing is left of his head at that point, and when his chest collapses, Harry, sat upon it as he was, jolts from his reverie. The ashes packed into the Professor's robe cushions his rear, so he doesn't hit his tailbone too hard against the stone floor at least.
Then a black smoke rises from the remains, and coalesces into a face he was hoping not to see again.
Fear returns, if the ghost of Voldemort was possessing Quirrell, it could try to possess him.
He is not fast enough to get out of it's way and the last thing he remembers is the draining cold as it passes through his chest.
When he wakes up in the Infirmary the Headmaster is there to ask some questions and explain some things. His friends visit and they eat sweets and laugh and spend time together until the sun is down and Madam Pomfrey kicks them out.
She tells him to go to sleep but lets him visit the bathroom when he asks.
It takes a minute to dislodge a mirror from the wall and set it up in front of another so he can use both hands to move his hair out of the way. He searches and searches until Madam Pomfrey asks if he needs any help in there.
He sees no eyes looking back at him, and no hint of a fanged mouth, so he answers no and returns the mirror to the wall.
His hands feel dry and stretched and he wants to wash them again but they look clean, and he has probably inconvenienced Madam Pomfrey enough.