Chapter 2

written by miss myself and, once again, lightly edited by us, the illustrious aquila (for writing style, and some details that simply didn't make sense to me before)

Disclamer; we make no money of this and claim no legal rights to the harry potter franchise (*distant sobbing*)

Dumbledore sat silently at his desk, pondering. It was going to work. It had to work. Of course it would work, it was for the Greater Good after all. He had visited 4 Privet Drive earlier that week, and had placed the heaviest compulsion charms he could, forcing the young Dursley couple to detest the very existence of anything.. unusual.

He had also planted a number of false memories in Petunia Dursley's mind, causing her to believe that she had had a horrid relationship with her sister, when they had in fact been close as could be. Despite her initial jealousy of her younger sister's magic Petunia loved her sister, who was kind and caring. And as Lily had never hesitated to inform her beloved sibling of anything magical they had quickly gotten past that obstacle and remained close despite rarely seeing each other. At least, that was what had been.

After all, Lily Potter was dead, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Grand sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, recipient of an Order of Merlin, First Class, and soon to be sworn in as the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, had killed her. What was a bit of posthumous defamation to that?

Oh, it was all done indirectly of course. After all, the Leader of the Light could hardly afford to have blood on his hands.

But yes, through delicate orchestrations and extreme levels of forethought, Albus Dumbledore had almost reached his goal.

He had left young Harry at the Dursley's doorstep but an hour ago. Everything had gone according to plan. If no one acted how they shouldn't Dumbledore was home safe. Harry would grow up to be the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

With his inherited pride and stubbornness on one side and the low self worth he was bound to have after the Dursley Harry would grow up starved for affection, timid and shy, but not broken, never broken. And then when Dumbledore sent someone for him as he turned eleven he could easily be kept ignorant of the ways of the magical world, accepting whatever he was told as gospel. He would be malleable, easy to bias against dark magic, and willing to do anything for those he loved.

The perfect sacrifical lamb.

Dumbledore had predicted every move the now toddler would make as he grew. He knew how many people had died, how many would die. He knew who was expendable. He knew who he killed.

In a literal sense, Albus Dumbledore had never murdered.

But how many lives had he claimed with his masterful web of lies, with his facade, in striving for his goal, in fighting for the Greater Good?

The answer, dear reader, is far too many. If it were possible to see on a person the deaths they had caused Dumbledore would not merely have blood on his hands, his entire being would be drenched in it.

A raven haired boy sat quietly under the cherry tree. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, revealing a flash of an odd scar on the seven year old's forehead as he leant against the tree trunk, deep in thought. Just an hour ago his uncle had, once again, yelled at him, saying how he was a worthless good-for-nothing freak who should have died with his parents before proceeding to beat him.

The only thing that kept the boy from lashing out at his uncle right now was the thought that his day would come. That one day he would kill them all. That he would see crimson running down the walls, staining the carpet, marking the boy as a killer. That he someday would giggle as his hands closed around their necks, squeezing until they would never take another breath. That one day he would laugh as their mutilated corpses would reek of death and hatred and-

The Boy Without Soul yearned for the day when he would finally end the Dursley's pitiful existence.

A butterfly fluttered above his head, and swooped down to settle on the boy's knee. He cocked his head.

Why did people value their lives so? Everyone, everything, all of it would meet its inevitable end. So why did people try so hard? To preserv? To cherish? To live? To love? Everything would die. Why bother? Why try to care so intently? If everything you cared for would be ripped away from you, why bother caring at all?

Why not shut yourself away, try not to care? Never care and never get hurt? But then, the-boy-without-soul had never felt much of anything. Amusement, annoyance. Nothing as deep or consuming as what everyone else seemed to want to feel.

Perhaps it wasn't their fault though. They were after all raised in a world where emotion was considered a blessing, even when all it did was tear them down, make them weak.

His bright green eyes, the colour of fresh leaves in spring, narrowed as the butterfly moved to dance over his fingers. His lips parted and, almost tenderly, they slipped out. The damned words.

"Avada Kedavra."