Chapter 5: Understanding

The thing about appreciation is that it leaves a blank space in the fabric of space where there had once been something else. Physics, being as it is, rushes to fix this problem. This results in air pushing in, as it was wont to do, into the empty space that had once held a human figure. The movement causes a slight clapping sound as molecules hit, and a heavy disturbance of dust and particles lying around: in this case ash. The ash is swept up into the air, being pulled and spiraled in small vortexes, before falling back to the pavement where it started to stick to now drying blood, tears, and onto a small figure huddled there.

Harry, the huddled figure on the ground, watched this movement of air and ash through tear soaked eyes. His mind churned slowly as it tried to process what had just occurred. Processing every fact and working to figure out just how to react to the new information being fed to it. Given everything that had just happened, well, it wasn't an easy thing to do.

To be fair, the shock that his body was falling into probably wasn't helping much either.

Harry sniffled, and as the shock and fear and confusion finally started to subside it was replaced, slowly but steadily with the red hot spike of anger.

And the young Harry Potter was very angry.

He was angry because there were ashes of a dead woman stuck to his shoes. He was angry because there were tear marks running down his face. He was angry because his eyes were red and puffy and sore.

And he was angry because he still felt like crying.

He had stayed on the ground for a long moment (seconds, minutes, hours, it did not matter, not when you are seven and crying and oh so lost) before finally forcing himself up onto shaking feet. What was he to do now? What could he do now? The women's ashes were still at his feet getting blown around in small cyclones of wind, pushing them and dispersing them and Harry knew that soon they would be spread so much no one would even know they had been there. Harry wondered if one day, when he died, if he would look just like that. Gray dust blown in an invisible wind. It reminded him too much of the dirt surrounding Wool's orphanage which had always looked more gray than brown. Maybe that was ash too - He quickly pinched his eyes closed and looked away before he allowed that thought to come to its eventual end.

When he opened his eyes again it wasn't to the sight of ashes, but instead to the sight of his ball. It was colored a sea blue, how he imagined the oceans must look on the little islands far away in the books he read at school. Like the mermaid lagoon in Peter Pan of the pirate island in Treasure Island which hid unknown riches, but more importantly promised adventure and someone always there to help. Someone brave and strong and problems that always had a solution, an answer. Stories that were black and white and not gray like the women's ashes that he would not look at but still clung so tightly to his skin.

The color calmed him, reminded him that there were colors other than red and gray and black (and oh the blood red of the women's lips, and the hateful red of Mr. Toms eyes, and the 'drip' 'drip' of his own blood upon the concrete were still burned into his head and he didn't think he would ever be able to look at that color again without remembering these things. He didn't think he would ever be able to like the color red again.)

He went over to the ball, his ball, doing his best to avoid the ashes without actually having to look at them, and hesitantly picked it up, praying there were none stuck to its surface. He already had ashes on his shoes and clothes; he didn't want them on his hands too. The ball was immaculate though, shining as brightly as it had the moment he had taken it out of its bag. It felt like the only untarnished thing left in the world.

Harry no longer felt seven anymore, he didn't feel older or better or more like an adult. He felt small and dirty and sad and alone.

And he felt angry, because the world was no fair, because the world didn't play nice, because he had had, for the first time ever, someone that didn't mind having him around, that talked to him, that didn't make him feel different or evil. For once he hadn't felt lonely.

And the world had taken that away from him, torn it from his hand, and He was angry because he was so tired of being left alone. Out of everything that had happened, out of the dead lady turned to ashes on the road, out of all the lies and pain and words, out of every crushed hope and dream, he realized that the one thing he was most upset about was Mr. Tom leaving.

He clutched his ball carefully to himself, being extra careful not to bump it and change the color (because what if it became red?) and made his way back to Wool's. This time though, for the first time in two months, there was no one to walk beside him.

—

France was near to boiling this time of year which only worked to drive the Dark Lord's anger higher.

And he was very angry.

"Avada Kedavra"

He knew that his anger would get him nowhere, that it would do more harm than good, but it FELT so good to give into it, to let his anger fill his head and warm his bones. To feel the blood flowing strongly through his veins and to feel the magic singing under his skin. It felt good, it felt great.

"Crucio"

It felt like freedom.

And so, for a short time he allowed his anger to take hold, he allowed it to kill and torture and maim, to tear and rip and destroy because it was what he needed, to pull through this, to bring his sanity back.

There was nothing better to remind one what sanity really was then a bout of insanity.

(And the red of the muggles' blood, spilling upon the ground every time he cut one to pieces was beautiful and lovely. It showed scarlet on the earth, staining his shoes and pants and clothes, painting his world in a flowing, living, red. He had never truly appreciated the color until he was much older, until he had stopped associating it with Hogwarts and started associating it with death.)

He relished in it, in the power of it, in the screams of pain and fear, in the begging voices of the homeless and worthless muggles as he made his way through the underground and hidden communities in the heart of France. They were the filth of even the muggle community, the ones that would not be missed, the ones that most would be happy to see gone. (And he refused to remember that he had once been considered with them, thought just as worthless and unwanted. He would not think of that now. Not now.) These were the ones that would not warrant investigation, as even in his insanity he knew he had to be smart about this. Had to ensure he wasn't found, wasn't arrested, wasn't suspected.

He could be angry with himself, he would be angry with himself, later: for his lack of control, for giving in, but not now, NOW he was angry at everything besides himself. With the muggles whose fault it was that everything had fallen apart, whose fault it was that he was so angry. It was their inability to keep to themselves, to mind their own business, to leave him alone! This was their fault, not his. Never his.

He cut a blood drenched gash through the bowles of France and on through Germany until he reached Munich. He tore and ripped and wallowed in his victims screams until he was satisfied, until the anger clouding his mind dissipated and he was left with nothing but silence.

—

Harry's mind had gone silent at some point on his walk home. Exhaustion and shock getting to him. He walked the three flights up his room before realizing he needed to wash instead. Leaving the ball where it was on his small cast iron bed he turned back to go to the washroom.

The ashes had washed off easily enough and somehow that felt like cheating to Harry. Somehow he felt they should stick to him, stay with him, cling to him like that boy's screams did, the screams that were louder now than they had been in a while. Then he remembered the red of the ladies lips and realized that the ashes might not have stuck to him but something else had. Something that was perhaps far worse. (And one day Harry would run across an old play and an old woman screaming 'out damned spot!' and he would know exactly how she felt in that moment. He would feel sympathy for her, because he knew how hard it could be to get out the stains of your past.)

He had washed his scar and hair then, doing his best to get rid of the blood, his blood he reminded himself, not hers, before locking himself in his room. He barricaded his door with the few pieces of furniture he had and sat on his bed afterward, looking out to the world below from his small window. 'It should be gray' he thought 'like in the old movies, but it's not. It's still all colorful like nothing has happened at all.'

He stayed like that for a very long time.

There was no missing persons report on the women (who would report it? No one who knew her would put their own life on the line to say she was gone). No one searching for her (the rumors she was dead were already spreading, why would they search?). No obituary announcing her death (why would anyone bother?). She passed from the world like everyone in that far corner of London did, unknown, uncared for, and only a fascinating gossip story for over a burning trash bin. Harry hadn't expected anything else, not really, but he had still stolen a newspaper and checked.

It also didn't mention Mr. Tom, but somehow everyone seemed to know he was missing too (and maybe they knew more, but were too smart to say anything), or maybe Harry was just reading too much into the pitying looks he was being given. He didn't think so though. Not here. Not in this corner of hell.

At some point he had stayed in his room for too long, long enough that his teachers had started to worry and sent someone to fetch him to actually come to school. They had given him long enough to recover it seemed. He was a little embarrassed to think that he had forgotten about school all together, though once he remembered he still didn't feel the want to go back. He didn't feel like doing much of anything. His mind felt empty and silent and he didn't think even school would be able to fill it again.

Ms. Palmer finally got sick of his staying around too it seemed, and with the help from the school representative, forced his door open and kicked him out to 'do something instead of moping. Ya' should be used to this by now!'. Not that the change of scenery had done much, not really, the inside of his small bedroom was just as empty and desolate as the halls outside of it. Just as run down, just as miserable and drab. The school was hardly any better, and seeing his classmates with their parents and siblings and happy families only made him hurt more.

A pop echoed in the back of his mind, again and again, almost loud enough to drown out his memory of the screams.

"So you're alone again ha? Knew he would leave just like the rest. Whatcha do ta run this one off ya freak?"

Harry looked up from his spot at the dinner table where he had been staring blankly at his food. He only transferred the look at the other dark skinned boy, though, and didn't say a thing. What could he possibly say to that anyway that would not confirm his fears? That he had been abandoned for good.

The other boy seemed to realize he wasn't about to get an answer and just scoffed.

"Better get ova' it Potta. No one evea wants tha ones like us 'nyway."

Harry turned back to his food and drowned out the rest of their words.

Those were not the end of the comments though, far from it, and as the weeks went on he realized that he couldn't keep their words out forever.

'aww, look at poor little Potter, seems you're not so special after all are ya. Just a runt like tha' rest of us'

'You's neva gonna get 'dopted potter. Might as well jus' giv' up. It's betta' tha' way.'

Some of them gave him pitying looks, some of them sneered and smiled at him as if they had just won some kind of game. The others, mostly the older orphans, shushed the younger ones and pushed them away. None came to comfort him though, none came to help, no one really came to stop the others' words.

'We both know that those words hurt more than any of their blows ever could.'

School wasn't much better. The other children might not have known he was from Wool's, but the teachers did and somehow that was worse. Somehow the sad looks and understanding pats on his back felt more like blows then the other children's punches and kicks ever had. He didn't ask how his teachers knew, after all, the adults had their own way of figuring things out, and he really didn't care. All he cared about was stopping them, somehow, from giving him those sad and understanding looks.

—

He had found a small farm house in the middle of somewhere he couldn't bother remembering the name of. He was almost certain he wouldn't be bothered there given that the nearest town was three hours away and he had killed the now ex-owners of the house. He only took the briefest amount of time to double check the house, put up some basic wards, and he locked himself in. The silence in his mind needed the echoing silence or the world and the only way to get that was to get away from everyone completely. He had done this once before, after they had graduated Hogwarts. After he had split his soul for the second time and suddenly his mind and passion had felt so empty, so flat, so bland. As if nothing mattered either way anymore. Back then he hadn't been sure if it had been the creation of his second Horcrux (he had been the first to try after all) that had caused the change or if it had been the life he had used to create it. As much as he hated to admit it, back then, before he had finally met the shambles of his would-be family, he had still, stupidly, had a small amount of hope. The kind of hope that only an orphan could have, one that strove for some kind of recognition of coming from a greater whole instead of being a singular unit.

Meeting his father and uncle had quickly crushed that dream. And then they had quickly crushed them. After all, what good was family like /that/? But the killing had left him feeling blank and empty; his hope lost and in its place was a black stone ring.

He had left England then to try to, in a way, find the driving force for who he was and also, though he would never admit it, out of slight fear that he had done something terribly wrong splitting his soul again. No one had ever attempted to split their soul more than once and he was young and frightened back then that he had damaged himself somehow.

In the end he had come out of it for the better, had come out of it determined to create the seven Horcrux he wanted, needed. He had been half way to Albania before he fully realized what was truly on his mind, before he remembered the diadem and found his drive again. He was sure that once he created all seven of his Horcruxes then he would find that perfect stability for his soul...

But that was neither here or there at this moment. He was not here to think about that. That was history long since past. It was unimportant, unneeded and would just muddle his thought process.

Or would it? He paused for a moment, sitting down on the bed he had commandeered from the master bedroom and looking out the window to the farmland beyond. Perhaps it was best to let his mind take him back to where it wanted, to trust his own thoughts to lead him to the answer he sought. Yes. Such a process had rarely led him astray before. Perhaps this was for the best then. It's not like he had any other ideas at the moment anyway.

With a deep breath he closed his eyes and let his mind wander where it would. He did not bother to wash the blood from his boots or his hands did not bother yet to change. He had more pressing matters on his mind.

—

"You're wrong." Harry said one day, much to the surprise of his teacher who had asked him to stay after class. Perhaps she was worried with school ending for the summer that he would have no one to help him through this, whatever it was she thought this was. She was probably right though. After all, who at the orphanage really cared for him? Who there would help him if he needed it? The only person who had ever helped was-

"You're wrong." Harry repeated, as if trying to convince himself. "He's just…He's just gone for work for a while. He'll be back. You'll see." He didn't know what came over him to make him say those words, but once they were out they fell heavy in the air, suffocating. His teacher gave him a look, one that he hated seeing, the look that screamed 'I know you are lying and I'm going to give you one chance to correct yourself.'

He didn't though, he just looked at her, and insisted again, louder this time, that Mr. Tom was coming back. He was. They would see.

Her eyes turned sad then and she nodded slowly before letting him leave. He left the school, a new determination in his step and a stubbornness set in his jaw as his mind made the decision for him that Mr. Tom was coming back. He was. There was no other way about it.

The environment changed then, both at school and at the orphanage, as he refused to back down. The words of his teachers became more pitying, and from his peers they became more violent. Harry's own reaction became just as violent in return, yelling and pushing his words at those that questioned them, as if saying them loud enough, screaming them harshly enough, would make them true.

"He's not coming back!" One child yelled as he mashed Harry's head against the dirt outside the orphanage (the dirt that looked like ash and made Harry want to vomit). He struggled against the hold and pushed back, kicking and scratching at the dirt and he tried to get the other boy off of him. "Just admit it already you monster! He's not coming back! You're just as abandoned and alone as the rest of us you freak!"

"Never!" Harry yelled and got a mouthful of dirt for his effort, "He's coming back! You'll see! He's coming back! He is!"

No one believed him, and when he looked back on it when he was much older and understood more about the world, he still wouldn't be completely sure why he was so insistent on the point. Why he was so reluctant to admit that Mr. Tom was gone, all he knew was that, at that time, he couldn't do it. He couldn't say that he was alone now, that he had been left behind again because if he did it felt like something very important would shatter inside of him. And so he lied to himself, and he lied to others, and insisted, no matter what, that Mr. Tom, the only person that ever showed any signs of carrying for him, was coming back, because there was no other option. There wasn't.

—

His breath came out in a sharp gasp and his eyes snapped open. He glanced carefully around the room, his mind slow to catch up with his body as he tried to remember where he was and what he was doing there.

It came back in a sudden rush and he only just managed to silence the anger that sprung up, this time at himself.

He knew it would come sooner or later. In this case later.

He pushed it away though and forced himself off the bed which creaked under his sudden movement. The blood that had been thick and wet on his clothes when he had first 'found' this house was now dried solid and fell from him in chunks as he moved. He glared down at the flakes of blood and his clothes before going off to find someplace to wash. He could do it through magic of course, but there was, sadly, something appealing about actual hot water and a shower. He would think more about the ideas his mind had developed as soon as he was clean.

He took his time in the washroom, showering, shaving, and glaring at his overly curly hair and wondering if he should just shave it all off as before, or at least cut it short, which would certainly cause him less trouble. With a flick of his wand it laid itself out against his head and straightened decently, though never fully and he had never truly been able to figure out why that annoying wave stayed even with the strongest to straightening spells, before redressing in freshly cleaned clothes (this one he did with magic, there was no way he was going to bother waiting for them to clean the muggle way).

He smiled as he pressed down his shirt and tucked it in, no sign of blood anywhere on its black surface. Magic really was quite a wonderful thing.

He made his way to the living room then, carefully stepping over the two bodies of the home's past residence (which he really should do something about), before making his way to the living room. He lit a fire with his wand in the fireplace, though in the heat of summer it was hardly needed, before turning his mind back to his thoughts.

He was not happy where they went.

He was sure, now, that all of this: the whole Harry thing and the gifts and the muggles and really just everything that had happened were, sadly, the fault of his own bad planning and fragile state of mind after his resurrection. It was hard for him to admit of course, but he knew that failing to admit to your own faults would only lead to your dismissing them and, likely, someone taking advantage of them. You could not fix something you refused to admit was broken.

How many times had he argued that point with Dumbledore only to have him refuse to acknowledge his point?

He shook his head, that had been ages ago, when he was still a school boy. It was alarming how often those memories kept popping back up recently, but, perhaps also a hint.

He concentrated on his memories surrounding the incident he left behind in London, on the emotions associated with them, and he analyzed every piece. It was a long process, and the fire was burning low and the sun had long set before he had drawn any real conclusions, at least any which made sense. The small realization he had come up with that night only led to more questions though, ones that he would require more than just thought, but actual spell work and proof. That would mean moving on from here, finding a magical settlement, and getting the supplies he needed. It would also mean getting money, but he would worry about that tomorrow.

He stood and put out the fire with a wave of his hand. Sleep would do him good right now, he would think about the rest later. But even now the small amount of progress calmed him, and for the first time since the incident he felt he was on the verge of the answers he sought and fixing what was wrong with him.

—

Summer break started as it is wont to do. The days got longer, and the nights got shorter, the afternoons more humid, and the heat unbearable. Most children looked forward to this time of year, a time away from school, a time away from work and teachers, and a time to stay home and do things that all small children did when they had too much free time. This usually involved TV and annoying their parents. Harry had neither a TV nor parents so he could do neither of these things. He also was not overly looking forward to summer break, but neither was he not looking forward to it. A kind of numbness had fallen across his emotions, leaving them blank and dry like many of the ponds that had once existed during the height of April showers. This melancholy mood left him unwilling to do much of anything at all, and no one really liked him enough or cared about him enough to try and change this, and so Harry found himself in his room nursing a black eye and multiple other fading marks and staring out the window into the world beyond while not thinking about much of anything.

Or at least he liked to think he wasn't thinking about much of anything, in truth his mind was running through every single moment in excruciating detail of what had happened on his birthday. It was at the point of dissecting each and every event; trying to find something, anything... it just wasn't sure what that anything was yet. His mind knew it was there though, and it would continue to tear apart the event until it found what it was looking for. There was no other option.

The temperature in Harry's small room rose though as the summer progressed and the days got longer. The levels started to reach unbearable levels and his store of stolen snacks and bottled water started to slowly dwindle. Eventually because of all of this he had to give in and leave.

Leaving his room brought him a small shock, mostly because no one had bothered to tell him or come and get him, which was this: it was Adoption Day.

Adoption Day was a day where couples could come by, pretend they were interested in maybe getting a child, only to decide a few weeks later that 'really we just aren't ready for this kind of commitment, we'll be getting a dog instead'. Most of the orphans didn't know why the orphanage even bothered to put on the event, but according to Ms. Palmer the orphanage would be closed down if they did not host one at least twice a year. Harry, along with almost everyone else in the community, didn't think that shutting down the orphanage would really be that bad of a thing, but the powers that be (which Harry thought probably meant the government) refused to let that happen without a fight. And so, on September 1st Wool's orphanage held the first of its bi-yearly adoption events. All Orphans were, of course, required to attend.

Harry found himself leaving his room for the first time in almost a week only to be shuffled down the hall, Ms. Palmer giving him an upset glare at the state of his cloths and the mess that his hair was likely in, before shaking her head and kicking him to a far corner where he probably wouldn't be noticed. Harry looked down at the ground miserably and didn't complain. No one was ever interested in adopting him any way; they always wanted the pretty young light-skinny blond kids, or the babies, if they wanted any at all. Most adoption days lead to no one getting adopted at all in truth, there had even been a few notable occasions where no one had even shown up to adoption day. Those days were the best because the orphans got to eat all of the food that had been meant for the wannabe parents. Harry silently hoped that this would be the case this time too.

The rest of the kids were put strategically around the room, the most likely to be adopted closer to the door and the least likely hidden in the back of the room and in the corners. Some of the kids were forced to dress up in their best clothes, which were all hand-me-downs with multiple tears in any way, and their hair was done up to try and make it look decently presentable. Harry noticed that Jane had been moved back into one of the chairs. He glanced at her and noticed that she looked miserable about her new position, perhaps Ms. Palmer thought she was getting too old to get adopted. Harry almost felt bad for her.

Once everyone was in position the doors to the orphanage were opened and a few couples walked in. It seemed that they wouldn't be getting the left over after all. The couples smiled and shook Ms. Palmer's hand and Harry wondered if they could smell the alcohol that she had to have been drinking, Ms. Palmer never went an hour without her alcohol so he figured they must have, before turning to wander around the room. Harry, along with all of the other orphans were forced then to stand around like animals at the zoo for rich overly friendly looking people to come around and observe. Sometimes they would stop to talk to someone, using a high pitched baby voice that made them look ridiculous and only worked to make the child they were talking to even more uncomfortable.

Harry shuffled, pulled slightly on his tattered clothes, and waited for it all to be over with.

—

He stared down at the glass orb as a deep black smoke filled its center. He studied it, turned out over carefully before speaking a word. The black smoke resolved itself into a small screaming wisp like figure for just a moment before that was transformed into a larger figure of a man whose edges were blurred and torn. He made note of both images before putting the orb down and turning back to his notes. He tapped his quill against a parchment full of numbers, signs, and Latin words before starting to draw some lines connecting points of reference.

It was calming work to him in ways that most things were not. It was a calm brought on my having something to do and think about and plan. It was similar to the kind of calm that came over him while he was strategizing for the war, but even that calmness had been tainted with a feeling of haste, uncertainty, and frustration. This calm was like that only in its roots, a calmness of a busy mind and an intriguing puzzle without having anyone relying on him or watching over his shoulder. It was the kind of calm that he enjoyed while he was a school boy at Hogwarts.

Which was precisely what worried him about it.

He recognized the feeling, he understood where it came from and what it meant, but it was the type of feeling he hadn't had in a very very long time. In fact, if he thought back on it (and in that moment he did), it was the kind of calmness he hadn't felt since Dumbledore had refused to let him stay at Hogwarts for the last time. Since he had let the basilisk out of Slytherin's chamber, since he had killed that girl Myrtle.

Since he had made the diary.

And that was the answer, though he did not like it and refused yet to put words to it, but he could no longer deny his thoughts, not with his findings and magic to back it up

He drew another swirling design on the parchment he was looking at, this one purely a doodle as he contemplated everything before him. It was troubling, truly, but perhaps not such a bad thing in the end. He would have to change some things about how he operated but now that he knew what the problem was he could finally develop a way to proceed.

He gathered his things and decided to go for a walk.

—

Adoption Day was near to an end when a final couple walked through the door, Ms. Palmer didn't seem happy about the late arrivals but let them through to see the kids. Harry glanced up at them, taking a slight note that they looked exactly like every other couple that had come through so far, before turning back to the string in his hand. He had pulled it off his shirt and had been tying a number of knots into it to keep him entertained. He was at twenty now and was running out of space to tie.

"Hello." A voice said above him, causing him to jump and drop his string. He glanced up nervously before glancing around to see if there were other children about him that the couple could possibly be talking to, before looking back up at them.

"erm..." He started, shuffling nervously and fidgeting "erm...Hi...hello. Hi..." He answered which caused the women to smile. Harry looked away from her at the man who smiled warmly once he caught Harry's eye.

Harry took a small step back.

"I um...I'm...Harry?" It came out as more of a question than anything, and Harry blushed when he realized that. The couple's smiles only grew though and the woman was now giving him an almost pitying look. Harry knew he had been receiving that look a lot this last month. He hated it.

Harry also hated himself for thinking that Mr. Tom never looked at him in pity.

He never smiled at Harry either, and Harry had to admit that he preferred Mr. Tom's stern look to the smiles on these peoples faces. It put him on edge. No one ever smiled at him. Looked at him suspiciously, yes, forced a nervous and frightened smile, yes, but an actual honest smile? Never.

"Hello Harry, My name is-" The women started only to be cut off by Ms. Palmer rushing over in what could only be explained as a panic.

"I'm sorry! We are closing now; I'm going to have to ask you to leave." She told them, giving Harry a nervous glance (and that was a look Harry was used to too) before trying to push them towards the door.

"What?" the man asked, obviously confused, "the advert said this would be going to until four, we should have another fifteen minutes." He insisted and Ms. Palmer glanced down at Harry again.

"So it did...look. I'm going to be frank with you sir, since you seem ta be like a nice enough couple," and here in came, Harry closed his eyes tightly and waited for the words to hit, just like any time anyone bothered to come and talk to him in his little corner. Harry wondered why Ms. Palmer even bothered letting him out of his room if she was going to do this every time. "You don't want this one, there is something...wrong with this one." and there it was, the words that stung the most and the pain that came with it. Harry didn't bother to open his eyes and look back at the couple, he knew what look they would be giving him and he didn't want to see it, not this time.

He silently thought that Mr. Tom never thought anything was wrong with him.

He clenched his fists and ground his teeth and made sure he didn't cry as the couple was shuffled off to talk to another orphan. The wood floor beneath Harry's feet cracked and splintered and he didn't open his eyes, he couldn't, he didn't want to face the world, to face the couple and Ms. Palmer and everything else.

He vanished with a pop.

—

He watched the water lap slowly against the shore of the lake not far from where he was staying (an abandoned house this time, though he still wasn't sure which country he found himself in). The heat was scorching that day, but the sun was sinking in the sky which hopefully meant it would soon cool. He didn't plan on leaving this spot any time soon. He needed something to watch while he finished off the thoughts that had plagued his mind for a month now (and had it really been so long?). So he put up with the heat and watched the waves dance along the shore and thought about how much of an idiot he was for not seeing this sooner, but as it stood he would not have expected anything better from his sixteen year-old mind.

And that was the problem.

No one told you (mostly because no one had tried what he had) that when you tore your soul into pieces to create a Horcrux that you didn't just pull off a small chunk, but you tore it in half. So when he had created the diary, his very first Horcrux, he had shoved half of his soul into it leaving him with half to continue on with.

Then he had gone and done it again, and again, and again...and again.

It was basic math from there to understand what he had done wrong. By the time he had been, annoyingly, killed by the Potter child (though more likely than not it was probably something his parents had done. Blood magic perhaps?) He had managed to create six Horcruxes. That meant that the piece of soul he had been left wandering around with at that point had been one sixty fourth what he had originally started with. Hence, when he had been resurrected using his very first Horcrux, the predominant piece of his soul ended up being, upsettingly, the piece that had come from a sixteen year old boy. That would explain his rash and thoughtless interactions with the muggles, why he had reacted so violently (overly so) to being back in that corner of London. It even explained why Wool's Orphanage was the first place he had found himself going after his resurrection, after all, where else would the perpetually sixteen year old piece of his soul have led him?

There was another problem too, he was coming to realize with this new understanding. One that made perfect sense now that he thought about it, but one that he didn't know what to do about. His sixteen year old self, as he was now remembering, had some very very annoying thoughts and ideas; he now distinctly remembered the fact that at sixteen he had still been so very full of hope. Hope that he would find his father, hope that he would be able to prove that he was a pureblood, hope that he could still, somehow, have a family.

A sickening hope that had been crushed out of him the moment he had actually met his filthy excuse of a muggle father.

He forced that memory forward, the images of him killing that disgusting man, hoping that it would crush that hope again just like it had all those years ago, reminding himself of the moment that had caused that hope, any hope left within him, to shrivel and die.

But even still he could feel it clinging to the barest edges of his mind, refusing to go away. But why? What could he possibly have left to hope for along those lines? There was nothing left and so his hope should die with it! Why did it refuse? It was frustrating and made him want to curse the childish ways of his sixteen year old self. He may have thought himself mature back then, but he knew now that he was just as young and idiotic as everyone else...well not everyone but the point still held.

He pushed the worry to the back of his mind though; he has other problems to worry about.

That problem was one Harry Potter.

He was reluctant to leave his plan half finished, especially in the way he had. It was still a good plan too, so long as he didn't let his emotions get in the way again (and the depth of his emotions now, how had he not noticed the change before? Had he truly been so blind? So deep in denial?).

'Besides,' he thought to himself, ideally picking up a pebble and tossing it towards the lake where it bounced a few times before sinking, 'I still have to kill the boy which requires me to figure out what went wrong the first time around. There is no question about that.'

So he would have to return to London and to Harry. It was the most logical step, and now that he knew what was wrong, though really it wasn't so much wrongness but a...reset to how he had been a while back, he could make sure he didn't make the same mistake twice or underestimate the extent of his emotional reactions again. Simple enough.

The question then was: how would Harry react to him coming back?

Oh, who was he kidding, the child had a miserable existence, he probably could have killed the whole of London and Harry still would be happy to see him again. He should know, he had been in the child's shoes before...in a way at least.

With that in mind he set out to make his way back to London...as soon as he figured out where his aimless wandering had taken him.

—

Harry huddled as far as he could against the wall under his old and rusting cast-iron bed, desperately trying to hide from anyone looking for him. He knew they would be, they had to be, after he had suddenly appeared back in his room when a moment before he had been in the living room. There had been a scream, likely from the women that had been visiting and he knew then that if they found him he would be in a lot of trouble. Probably even more then last time (though at least he wasn't on the roof this time right?)

So he hid himself and tried not to make any noise as people ran around outside, as his door was slammed open, and as feet appeared on the edge of his bed. He started to panic, what would he do if they tried to pull him from out of the bed? If they decided to punish him physically this time? After all, this was the first time he had done something like this during such an important event. Maybe he could run? But isn't that what he had just done? In a way at least?

He closed his eyes tightly and held his breath and counted down from twenty. He could hear the feet moving around his room, catching on one of the uneven boards, before heading back towards the door. "If you're in here," Ms. Palmer's voice rang out, "then I suggest you bloody well stay in here you freak of nature! If I see you in these halls any time soon you are going to get such a beating!" She yelled before slamming the door shut behind her. Harry could hear the lock turning, locking him in, but right now that was probably a good thing.

The sound of footsteps disappeared down the hall and he let out a sigh of relief. At least he would be safe for now, as long as that door stayed closed. That upset him slightly, because why should he be punished for just disappearing? Why should Ms. Palmer get mad at him? After all, she was the one who was saying mean things about him! She was the one who was trying to push away the couple that had actually been talking to him. That may have been interested in him.

That may have adopted him.

How was it fair at all that Ms. Palmer was mad at him?! Shouldn't he be mad at her?! If she didn't want him around then why didn't she just let the couple adopt him? Why did she drive them off?!

And this wasn't the first time either, Harry remembered a number of times when he was smaller, younger, more adoptable, when people had come to talk to him only to be driven off, by Ms. Palmer, by other orphans, by their mean words.

'You can try to pretend all you like, but we both know that those words hurt more than any of their blows ever could.'

And suddenly he understood. He finally got what Mr. Tom had been talking about. He understood how words could hurt more than punches and kick, how they could cut and cut and hurt in ways that bruises and bumps never did, because that is what they were doing right then wasn't it? It wasn't kicks and hits that were driving these people off, keeping people away from him, but words. How many potential families had he lost because of words like 'freak'? how many had been driven away because someone told them he was 'off' or 'odd' and that they didn't want him?

How many chances at happiness had he lost because of words?

It hurt, a lot, more than anything. It hurt and hurt and he realized just how much he wanted to hurt them back for doing this to him. How much he wanted Ms. Palmer to feel what she had done to him, how easy it would be to do, if he really wanted to. He had magic after all, he could do it. He could.

Tears prickled in his eyes and they were soon pouring down his face. A sob broke through his mouth and he found he couldn't hold them back anymore.

Was this what Mr. Tom had felt when he had hurt (killed) that woman? Was this the pain that words could cause? It hurt so much and he could finally understand why Mr. Tom might have done what he did.

But at the same time a piece of his mind reminded him that she still didn't deserve to die, even for her mean words. 'An eye for an eye' wasn't it? Mr. Tom killing the lady was like taking a whole body (literally) for an eye. It wasn't equal and it wasn't fair. Really, maybe Mr. Tom had been right to hurt the lady back; he had just gone too far.

What right did he have to get mad at Mr. Tom for the things he did anyway? He had done mean things too, not as mean, but still mean (and the screams of the boy with the broken hand echoed in the back of his mind even now.)

His sobs stopped and became hiccups, though the tears still flowed freely.

'Maybe it didn't matter anyway', Harry thought, even though he knew it did, to him at least. But a larger part of his mind just wanted Mr. Tom to come back, because he was tired of being alone. If that meant not agreeing with everything Mr. Tom did... Well at least he would still be around for him not to agree with.

—

The Dark Lord arrived back in London at Earls Court station early Monday morning on August the tenth. One month, ten days, and six hours after he had disappeared. He walked carefully through the early morning crowds, the disillusionment charm keeping most away from him, as he made his way out and down the street with new knowledge, understanding, and determination in his step. It was not an ideal situation in the least, but for the first time since being killed he finally felt like he had a grasp on his life again and that he was fully in control.

A smile twisted its way across his face as he made his way out of the station and towards his destination. He had things to get done and this time he would succeed in doing them.

After all, he had a home to build, a war to plan, and a child to kill.

This Chapter did not wish to be written, at all, and it is very different from how it had originally started. I think there are maybe two paragraphs that I kept from the original draft.

Either way, here it is, long overdue. I hope you enjoy it.

TheSeaAtNight