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Chapter Two... "There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved: It is God's finger on man's shoulder." Charles Morgan

"Son? Still awake at this hour?" The sound of my family returning home after the party drew my eyes away from the fruit and cream snack I had prepared for myself. Sure enough there was my mother, emerald dress flashing in the light and staggering slightly drunkenly to the lean-to against the wall. Her husband glancing up at me, his face pinched with a tight tenseness.

I didn't answer his question but instead, chose to observe my drooping mother calmly. It didn't take a genius to guess at what must have happened to make her over indulge in public like that.

"The party didn't go well, then?"

The tipsy Mrs. Potter eased herself down onto the sofa nearby as if there was a great weight pressing down on her. My father cleared his throat and beckoned me over to sit down with them both. I observed their countenances suspiciously. James twisting his wand almost nervously in his hands and Lily staring, as if unseeing, at the carpet, steadfastly refusing to meet anyone's gaze. Especially mine. Something was going on. Something that had nothing to do with the party and everything to do with me. Were they pregnant at last? Had they had enough of the social stigma of a Pureblood lineage sullied with a Squib? No doubt their friends and colleagues blamed my magic-less state on my Muggleborn mother. It was a heavy burden to bear, that blame, and I could see the effects of it sitting in front of me where my mother use to be. As if that disappointment and guilt had filled in a Lily-shaped golem and replaced the woman who use to hold my hand and make me smile. Was she even now struggling to deflect that blame from her own husband? Was it straining their marriage and that's why there was no new heir yet?

"Er, Harry...are you happy here? You know, being around all of this?" He asked at last, gesturing around at the clearly magical home. His meaning was pretty clear.

Are you happy being around magic that you can never have?

Are you satisfied an outsider, the laughing stock?

My suspicion deepened and a sick feeling began to creep into my stomach, fill it up like bile and poison. I was to worried about trying to keep that ill feeling contained that I didn't even answer him. He sat awkwardly for a moment, watching me. Was the struggle clear on my face? Could he see the sudden panic rising inside my eyes? Against my wishes, he continued with his line of questioning.

"Because, you know, if... If you're not, your Grandma and Grandpa Evans have told us that they would love to have you come stay with them." So that's their game. They were sending me away at last. Perhaps I had always secretly hoped that things would change, that they would overcome this ridiculousness and see that I was worth something. That was the only explanation I had for the sharp anguish that burst inside of my chest, for the overwhelming disappointment that consumed me. It was the only explanation I had for the reaction that I had then.

I choked out a laugh, pushing my late night treat away and running a hand through my hair, "Party go that badly, huh? What, were Grandmother and Grandfather Potter there? Did they ask if you'd gotten rid of me yet? Did they mock you for your Squib son, tell mum it was all her fault? Did people laugh at you because of me?"

James started to speak, standing and radiating himself up with an authoritarian air, "Now, listen here, Harry-"

"No, you listen! I am not as worthless as you think I am! I'm not! I may not be able to use a wand or go to Hogwarts but I'm not some broken thing that you can throw away whenever you want! I'm not something to hide away out of public view and be embarrassed and ashamed of! I am a person, just as good as you or anyone else!" I wasn't sure when I had ended up on my feet but, dimly, I noted that my mother had sat up and taken notice of the confrontation stirring in the air. Her eyes were locked onto me, a frown settling on her brow as if she were seeing something she had never before beheld. Was the temperature in the room dropping a little or was it the abject fear of being cast aside taking hold of me?

"That is not what we think!" James shouted back but even to his own ears, it sounded unconvincing, "You are not useless! You're just-! Just-!" He couldn't even think of something diplomatic to say. Nothing that would erase the years of hurts brimming inside of me. How could they convince me of such a thing when he didn't believe it himself?

Any illusions I had previously held were fading away, vanishing in he wake of terrible truths. That thing coming to life inside of me was beginning to take shape, the shape and outline of something terrible and magnificent. There was a rage exploding inside of me, my hands trembling with it. How dare they see me as less! How dare they put this on me!

"This is all your fault anyway! You are the reason I'm like this! It isn't my fault! I didn't choose to be this way!" I felt a pressure pushing upwards, against the underside of my skin, building and building, nearly unbearable with its intensity, "I hate you! You made me this way and I wish you would die! Just DIE, father!"

The pressure beneath my skin, rushing through my body, exploded. I could practically see the tendrils of magic, precious magic, shoot from my body and slam violently into my parent's chest. James rocked with the unseen blow. A heavy frown coated his face like a film until...

He coughed, hard, and blood and thicker things spewed forth in a wave.

Lily shrieked as her husband folded like a lawn chair, crumbling to the ground.

I was bolting up the stairs and away from them as fast as my small, thin legs could carry me.

What had I done?

And it had been me. I had used the Words, that strange foreign magic that I possessed. I couldn't use a wand, but I had the Words. They responded to me just as a wand channeled power from a person's magical core and I had used it to kill my own father. Sure, he may have been a bad father but he still cared about me on some level. Nausea crept up my throat the moment that I slammed the door to the attic shut. My dollhouse shook with the force of it. I heaved up sick in the corner. Horror was racing through my body faster than my own blood could. How could I have done such a thing?! How could I have lost it so completely?

"No, no, no...No, how-! How could I have-!"

I'd killed him! Surely, the Words had never failed before! Saying 'stop' would always halt a fall down the stairs. Saying 'burn' had lit a candle when I had been afraid of the dark. My mother's cries from below had faded. No doubt she had rushed her husband to St. Mungo's. They would probably blame it on poison from the party or some disease. Anything to believe their Squib son had murdered the Head of the Family. I practically dove for my little piece of heaven, the tiny house that seemed the attic's center piece, looking for any semblance of comfort. Any at all. What I found when I opened the small home wasn't answers or peace. There, tucked away in what I had always seen as my imaginary bedroom, was a shimmering, shiny cloth and more questions. Lying there so innocuously, so unassumingly, was my father's Invisibility Cloak. How had it gotten there, though? The last time I had seen it, it had been tucked away safely in my father's room on the second floor. My hand slipped inside, slowly pulling the fabric out, trying to ignore the fearful grief boiling in my chest. It wasn't to be, though. As soon as the cloak was free, all I could think of was the man I had just killed. The anguish at last won it's battle and I burst into tears.

I was a murderer! A monster! I was no better than the Dark Lord! What had I done?! A moan crawled out of my mouth, despair the only thing permeating my mind.

"Now, now, Master, don't cry."

My entire body practically convulsed in shock. I spun around so quickly that the entire dollhouse began to rock precariously on it's stand and a pale, thin hand shot out to steady it. A hand that I didn't recognize and yet...My wide, red-rimmed eyes traced the arm up to it's owner, only to find an older man standing usually close behind me.

He wore a suit of sable, a cane in his other hand and he leveled me with such an intense gaze that the very breath caught in my throat. It was the sort of look that I had seen given to others but never to me. Never to me...Black orbs looked at me with tenderness and amused affection. This stranger was looking at me as if I were the most precious thing he had ever seen. The moment that I took him in, I realized where the sense of familiarity that had been pervading my consciousness was coming from. This man had the same feeling to him as the cloak still clutched in my hand. The same coolness that I had felt permeate the living room just before murdering my own father. The hand that had saved my beloved house found it's way to the top of my head, smoothing down my errant hair almost lovingly. That couldn't be, though. Not even my own kin treated me so softly. Why on earth would a stranger? A tender thumb wiped away a lingering tear on my cheek.

"Who...who are you?"

The thin man's mouth twisted into an amused grin.

"Who indeed. I am your eternal servant, your forever companion. I am Death, and you are my Master."

His Master? Death? For some reason the storybook I use to read before bed came to the forefront of my mind.

"Death? And I'm your Master? How can that be when we've never met before?" Even through my despair and confusion, the disbelief was layered in my tone. He didn't seem offended though, rather like I had said something humorous instead.

"You are my Master because I have chosen you, Harry. Your soul and mine have been connected since before man could even conceptualize time. I exist for you and you for me. It is the reason I saved your human father just now. James Potter will not be reaped tonight, you have my word." He purred silkily, kneeling down before me so that our eyes could meet on more equal footing.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart sped. Suddenly, it was as if I could taste the truth of him. Saved my father?

"I didn't kill him? He isn't dead?" The words came out in a relieved choke. My knees went weak with the alleviation I felt.

The man who called himself Death hummed in response.

"Oh, no. You did. I simply...did not allow him to pass. You see, if a Reaper does not carry off a person's soul, the person does not die. The Reapers belong to me, and through me, to you. So I marked James Potter as off limits for the moment, gave him the chance to be saved. You have the power to kill with a word, Harry. But we are one, and through me, you have the power over Death as well."

He wasn't dead. My father had been saved and all because of this person in front of me. This man who claimed so many fantastic things. Was I imagining him? Surely, something so wonderful couldn't really be for me. This had to be just a dream, a fantasy that I was to wake from at any moment.

"But why? Why help me? Why save him because of me?"

Death's smile was broad and true. Just the sight of it eased my heart, despite this unusual stranger and his wonderful, amazing claims.

"Because I love you, Harry."

That night, I left the Wizarding World for good. My father lived, but they would never seen me again in their lifetime.

A/N: I'll be honest. Not a fan of this chapter. I had a hard time writing today. Next chapter will be better, honest.