Cowritten by Pandora and Glass.
Beta'd by Tithed
Encouragement (and cookies) from Peas and Iconic
Team Paperthins

The Team's notes: This one is written by Pandora. And yes, we know that there is an excess amount of 'him', 'he' and 'his' in this chapter; but it serves its purpose. Needless to say, the other chapters would be written "normally". It depends on how we wish to get our points across and what we eat that day (or lack thereof).
-We do not own Harry Potter.

Interlude: The Space of Nothingness between prologue and chapter one

He stares back at himself.
It is all lines and angles: triangular bones jutting out from his nonexistent cheeks, fingers that are little more than mere lines on paper, slanted eyes and arched brows.
And his scars.
He self consciously rubs the red Star of David on his collarbone with his thumb.
He knows that his bruises fades away immediately, nothing but a faint tint to hint where his Uncle had once marked him; that cuts heal seamlessly, only leaving lines of pale silver, but nothing more than one or two marks on his otherwise perfect skin.
But not the Star.

-
He already knows that he is different.
His eidetic memory.
His power to control things with his will.
His scars.
-

Art class is always his favorite.
There are no any predetermined subject for the children to draw by; after all they were only children, and children are known for their creativity. So the teachers always smile with indulgence as his classmates dunk scraps of material into paint or running markers dry, and praise their meaningless creations of disaster. The more adorable ones even got cooed at.
He shudders at the mere thought of it.
He will filch a fragment of snapped pencil that had splinters at the end from his cousin- if he can call that thing even that- and tucks both his precious piece of paper and himself in the corner where the art supplies are stored.
Then, he will painstakingly try to draw a straight line down the paper. And he would continue, filling page after page; days after days of lines until he deemed them straight enough and could draw with ease.
He continues to experiment the lines, staying away from rectangles and squares. It reminds himself of the cupboard that he lived in too much.

He finally curves his lips up after three months.

-
How he was treated differently from the rest of his classmates.
How he was special.
How he just knew.
-

It is tonight, he knows.
He hurriedly escapes back into the cupboard, successfully dodging his uncle.
Digging the paper out under his thin mattress, he uses his other hand to get the blade out before turning back to the mirror.
It is the only good thing about them locking me in, he muses. They won't bother to unlock it anytime soon.
He wonders what would his Aunt's face would be like if she sees that his cupboard walls has become a mirror.
Or that he was the one that went to the kitchen at midnight to collect his, albeit cold, dinner instead of his cousin.
He can't help but smile.

The blade itself is beautiful. Thin, and sharp at the tip and edges, with a silver rosette at the middle of the copper handle. Red stones hang in a chain at the end.
He silently thanks his aunt and his ability to open locks.

-
He knows that his classmates are scared of him.
He also know that they are worthless.
But perhaps it is because he doesn't understand what they are.
This, he does not know.
-

He didn't need to turn around to see his back. Digging the knife into his flesh, he feels a bubble popping then something deliciously warm dribble down. He smiles for the second time of the day before plunging the blade straight in then immediately down along his tailbone, carving his back into equal halves. Then he twists his head around to see his masterpiece.
He can't help but moan softly at the sight with pleasure.
There is no fresh blood gushing out this time; out of the semi dried redness is only a thin line of silver. His fingers move backwards on its own will and traces it downwards and he can't help but tremble- the slightly intoxicating rush floods his head and leaves his mouth dry and breathless.
Ignoring his discarded shirt on the ground, he kisses the blade tenderly before gently nestling it on the moth eaten sweater then slides down painlessly onto his worn mattress.

Before he gives into nothingness, he knows that someone is going to die tomorrow before tossing over to his left side. His subconscious starts plotting.

That night, he dreams lights of pure green.
That night, the red scar glows.