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Petunia Dursley wore a false smile as she pushed her cart through the local grocery center, offering idle simperings to the fellow housewives she knew as she collected the items on her list.

She found it so tiring sometimes to keep up appearances in front of her neighbors, but it really was worth it when she saw the adoring, jealous looks she garnered for the work she put in to keep a normal, well-adjusted family.

She waved at Mrs. Kruager, who had to wrestle her four young ones at once while looking for proper flour for her homemade Bakewell tarts. Poor sow. Petunia thought in mock sympathy, even as she smiled sweetly at Mrs. Morrison, who gave her her own fake grin. The two were particularly nasty rivals, as Mrs. Morrison had tried for years to beat her award-winning flower garden.

Sweet was what she would call the feeling she got when she looked down on the other housewives of the neighborhood. The air of superiority and the awards and recognition to back it up was something she unashamedly basked in. She was proud of her family, her dutiful husband who worked tirelessly to provide for them, and her precious son who saw what he wanted in the world and took it. It was right that the other women should look upon her with envy, as she lived a life that was envious, and almost perfect.

Save, of course, for the nephew she was saddled with, she thought with bitterness as she moved over to the cleaning product section. Oh, how she resented her dreadful sister for finding a way to torment her from beyond the grave! She hadn't even the decency to allow her the time to grieve her passing and what little feeling she had left for her before having that old fool of a man saddle her with her brat.

She at least had the ease of mind that the boy at least proved to be somewhat useful. She'd be damned if she'd allow him to be a layabout like her sister had been allowed as the apple of their parent's eye. As far as she was concerned, the boy was like a baby cuckoo that was placed in a robin's nest to usurp the robin's children for their mother's affection.

Well, Petunia was certainly no robin, and she'd be damned if she allowed that to happen. Dudley was her pride and joy, and she had made that quite clear to the welp. She'd be damned if she'd allow her son to go through the same neglect and indifference that she had gone through with her parents, especially for 'Perfect Lily's' boy.

Petunia stewed in her inner monologue even as she turned around the corner into the next aisle, and promptly walked head-on into another person, their carts running into each other. She let out a grunt of annoyance, ready to tell off whoever had run into her for not watching where they were going. The biting remark died on her tongue though and was replaced with a groan when she saw who it was.

"Oh! Mrs. Dursley! What an unexpected surprise!" Arabella Figg chortled, much to Petunia's dismay.

"Ah yes, surprise," Petunia said with fake pleasantry. She couldn't stand the crazy old woman or her brood of mangy cats. She found her too odd, too eccentric for her tastes. If it wasn't for the fact that she was the only person near their house who was willing to look after the boy when they were out enjoying themselves for free, she wouldn't bother giving her the dignity of a second glance.

Mrs. Figg though seemed rather oblivious to the disdain felt by the other woman, nor taken aback by the thinly veiled acidity of her town as she blabbered cordially, "However are you, deary? I see you're out for a bit of grocery. Getting a few cans of Choosy meself, only the best for my babies." She said, holding up various cans of premium cat food as though it were some grand accomplishment to have placed a tin can into a shopping cart. Petunia sniffed.

"Yes, well. I need to be going, you know? Can't be diddling too long, Vernon will be ever so stressed having to go over what he missed after our trip to Anglesey. I'm sure he'll want a decent meal to come home to."

Petunia tried to end the unwanted conversation there, but Mrs. Figg didn't take the hint, moving in her way as her curiosity made her ask, "Oh, did your family go on a vacation?"

Petunia rolled her eyes at the crazy old bat. Airhead of a woman! Probably has dementia. She thought rudely as she turned and said condescendingly, "Yes, Mrs. Figg. Why do you think the boy was staying with you for the Easter Hols?"

Mrs. Figg looked taken aback, and Petunia felt satisfied that maybe the old woman had finally gotten a clue that she didn't have any interest in participating in small talk. Just as she turned, however, the net words spoken made her take pause. "Harry didn't stay with me over Easter."

Petunia almost knocked her cart into the shelf as she came to a halt, turning around to look at Mrs. Figg with a shrewd eye, "He had to. I had him call you, we sent him over."

Mrs. Figg shook her head, her confusion growing, "If you did he never arrived, and the lad certainly never called me."

Petunia was quiet, processing this bit of information. Then her eyes narrowed, her voice taking on a sharp, dangerous pitch that was edging on a hiss.

"Didn't he?" She said to herself more than in response to Mrs. Figg.

Petunia pierced her lips, "Well, thank you for informing me of this, Arabella. I'll be sure to look into it." She said with a fake sweetness even as Mrs. Figg blubbered out a defense.

"Oh… I'm sure he simply forgot, Mrs. Dursley. I don't want to have caused him any trouble." Mrs. Figg knew she had accidentally caused trouble for the boy and was now trying to do damage control. She swallowed when Petunia whirled around to glare at her.

"I… appreciate your concern, but I do believe how I deal with my nephew is none of your business." She said crisply, hushing the older woman's protests as she looked down miserably. Petunia sniffed and walked away, thinking about how she would deal with the lying little brat who dared to defy her husband's orders.

-/ↀ\-

Vernon Dursley sat at a corner booth in a local tavern stewing in his own misfortune, a glass of cheap bourbon swirling in his hand. The deluge of laughter and small talk coming from the open bar obscured his thoughts, helping to dull his thoughts away as he repeatedly called for a refill on his glass.

What had Vernon in such a mood was his resentment toward his bosses at Grunnings for not appreciating his talents. For years now he had headed some of the best business deals for client contracting the company had ever seen, racking in millions of dollars for the pocketbooks of those fat cats. For years he as director of sales had managed the accounts of several investors who relied on him to make an appropriate assessment of the projection tracking of Grunnings' stocks.

What was there to show for it, then? A cramped office at Grunnings' main factory that he couldn't turn around in without bumping his elbows into something? An unappreciative group of employees he saw as underlings who he had to yell out for their gross incompetence? And now, the company board saw fit to give the vice president position of Senior Sales Manager to Borris Arthrow, a yuppy little upstart that had only been a part of the company for a few years and had already surpassed Vernon in a position on the corporate ladder approve himself.

Not once did Vernon stop to consider the reasons why for his lot in life. Never did he consider that his office was only cramped because of his unhealthy girth, or the fact that while he was a valued asset to the company to obtain client contracts, it was his poor leadership skills and disagreeable personality when dealing with employees that closed the door to his promotions.

And now he was drinking himself to excess, drowning his frustration in cheap liquor as he felt more comfortable blaming others for his problems rather than doing any amount of self-reflection. The only reason he wasn't sitting directly at the bar was due to the fact that the stools couldn't support his weight. Instead, he had to sit allow in a cramped booth, angrily speculating that Arthrow was probably screwing one of the board's daughters as the reason why he was so easily passed over.

None of this would have been as much of a problem if we didn't have to be responsible for the boy. Vernon grumbled inwardly as his thoughts took a darker turn. Potter was a drain on their finances, taking up space and time away from his own family. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. The couple had planned on only having one child until Vernon rose up high enough at Grunnings that they could afford to have another child. Their family would be perfect then, with a responsible man and dutiful woman joined to look after two perfect children of their own in an upper-middle-class home.

But then, Petunia's freak sister had to get herself blown up and all their plans for the future had been blown to hell. Having to take care of two children on his salary had been too soon, proving to be a drag on their finances while providing nothing but stress on Vernon who had to work double hours just to get ahead as the state wouldn't give financial aid to a family that was 'more than capable' to provide for both boys by their own bullshit determination.

It wasn't like the freaks had the decency to help, either. Apparently, they could dump the brat on their doorstep because Petunia was the only family he had left, but couldn't be bothered to send any money over for the boy's upkeep from his supposed rich father. Vernon scoffed at that, the lack of money proving in his mind that Petunia's sister had been lying about their financial status. Not that the satisfaction of knowing the Potters had been no-good destitutes pretending to be far above their station did anything to alleviate the problems that beset his family.

The stress of having to work overtime just to catch up with the bills had caused him to put on a significant amount of weight than he had when he married Petunia, making it difficult for them to partake in any lovemaking, their bed often cold as a result. He couldn't spend time with his son as often as he would have liked, making him overcompensate for lost time by spoiling him. It was also the reason why much of their savings were spent on holidays, as the time they had to be a proper family was much of the time nonexistent thanks to the boy, and he'd be damned if he ever allow him to come along on their family trips to spoil the mood.

He'd rather ignore the runt, but the boy always seemed to find a way to get in his hair. It didn't help that the stress always had his temper on edge, resulting in him sometimes taking it too far with the boy. It wasn't as though he enjoyed it, but the boy was in his eyes infuriatingly non-compliant, and as he had learned from his own father, a disobedient child who refused to comply with the rules could only be corrected with the strap of a belt. And of all the infractions the boy was guilty of, his content insistence to act out his freakish abilities struck a nerve in Vernon that he couldn't ignore.

From what Petunia had told him, her sister had had proficient control over her own strangeness when she had been the same age the boy was now. As that was the case, he could only conclude that the boy did his freakish tricks on purpose to spite them and humiliate them in front of their neighbors. It was the only explanation for why it always seemed to pop up during the most inopportune moments.

He just wanted the madness to be over, and from the way things had been playing out, it would be another ten long years of this nonsense before his family could finally have some peace and return to normality. With these thoughts in mind, Vernon finished his drink and got up, placing his flat cap on his head as he headed out to his car, hoping there would at least be a decent meal awaiting him at home.

-/ↀ\-

Harry and Dudley walked home from school for the weekend, turning around the corner onto Provet Drive without much incident. Harry did his best to ignore the constant snide remarks from his cousin, who had toned down the physical aspect of his bullying in recent months due to repeated run-ins with the Wrench.

The baby whale hadn't yet figured out that Saul and Harry were operating together, but he had gotten punched in his fat gut enough times to associate the encounters with the beatings he gave to his cousin and any other kid who caught his fancy to practice his boxing skills on. Dudley had gotten wise and kept his harassment of Harry confined to their house, which Harry begrudgingly had to talk Saul down from retaliating against as it wouldn't due for the bullies to learn that it was Harry who was squealing on them.

Upon entering the house, Aunt Petunia began dotting all over Dudley, leaving Harry to hang up his bag by the door. She outright ignored Harry as he sat down to finish his homework for the evening, which was unusual considering she would often watch him like a hawk to make sure he wasn't 'cheating' on her son's work.

In fact, she seemed to go out of her way to ignore him, alone ordering him to help set the table after she started working on dinner. Only, Harry noticed that she was watching him out of the corner of her eye with a vicious look that was only reserved for when he was in trouble. Petunia's behavior had Harry on edge the entire evening, wondering when the hammer would drop. When the meal was almost prepared, Petunia bit out his name sharply as she directed him to take the trays and bowls of food to the table, watching him shrewdly as she tapped a wooden ladle impatiently against her shoulder.

Just as he sat down the last plate, the hammer came as Petunia brought the ladle down on his hand, making him cry out as he clutched his hand in alarm.

"Where did you go while we were on vacation?!" She demanded of him, electing a vindictive laugh from Dudley as he watched from his seat at the kitchen table.

"I went to Mrs. Figg's as you told me!" Harry insisted, rubbing his hand only to yelp in pain as she angrily whacked him in the head with the ladle.

"Lier! I talked to Mrs. Figg at the grocery today, she said you never arrived! Where were you?!" She demanded, and Harry's stopped. She knew, his aunt knew that he had deliberately disobeyed them. Harry began to shake, fear rising within him as he speculated on what the consequences of that discovery would be.

"I-I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia." Tears began to well up in his eyes, flinching back as she raised the ladle over her head as if prepared to strike.

"You're going to be sorry when Vernon gets home!" Just then the front door banged shut, and PEtunia looked up and sneered cruelly, "Ah, there your uncle is now."

Petunia stepped out of the room, and Harry began to shake in fearful anticipation, even as Dudley began to laugh that 'the freak's in trouble'. A few minutes later his aunt came back into the kitchen, looking down upon him with disdain before turning to tend to the dinner presentation.

"Boy! Get in here. Now!" Harry jumped when he heard his uncle yelling at him, and reluctantly crept into the den. There he saw Vernon standing in the middle of the room towering over him as an imposing monolith, his belt held aloft in his hand.

Harry tried to run, but Vernon was faster, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and slamming his side into the wall. Harry groaned even as he scrambled away, crying out in pain as Vernon brought the leather strap down on his back. Harry whimpered, stumbling over himself as he crawled around the room to get away from Vernon's blows, a futile effort as Vernon brought the belt down on his shoulders, legs, and buttocks in a blind fury.

Finally, Vernon had had enough of chasing Harry around and kicked out, his foot slamming into Harry's gut as the air was knocked from his lungs. Harry wheezed, curling up as Vernon brought the belt back down on Harry's legs and arms, undeterred by the way his nephew rolled away from his strikes trying to escape the pain.

"Who do you think you are?! You think you can disobey me?!" He bellowed, slashing the belt against Harry's ribs. Harry cried out, knowing he had broken the bone, clamping his mouth shut trying to hold back his scream, even as Vernon screamed in his ear. "Answer me, boy!"

Just then Petunia stepped into the room, took one look at Harry, and walked over and tapped her husband on the shoulder.

"Vernon, the food's getting cold. Go wash up for Dinner, you can deal with the boy later." Petunia said attempting to calm her husband down, sneering at the boy who whimpered on the floor.

Vernon looked up at his wife and nodded, grabbing ahold of Harry's scalp as he hissed in his ear, "Don't think I'm done with you, boy!"

Vernon let go and turned to the stairs, climbing up to the second floor to wash up as he grumbled all the way, leaving Harry alone in the den.

Harry's body felt like fire, even as he pulled himself up and stumbled into the hallway to his cupboard. Tears welled in his eyes as he fell forward, landing with a pained yelp even as a growing hatred rose to the surface in his mind. He was done with this, he was leaving tonight, and he wasn't taking no for an answer.

Harry crawled to his cupboard, whimpering as the pain shot up his side as he pulled on the latch. He fumbled around, his hands searching in a disoriented daze as he tried to remember where he had put it. His heart began to race when he heard the faucet upstairs turn off, Vernon's heavy footsteps moving out into the upstairs hallway.

Harry panicked and began to search feverishly, even as Vernon lumbered down the stairs. Finally, Harry's hand brushed up against something metal, and he wrapped his hand around the handle he knew was there as he fished out the snubnosed revolver. He checked it the raised it up, just as Vernon came around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and pulled back the hammer in warming.

Vernon froze at the sound, looking up in confusion before alarm set in at the sight of his nephew pointing a gun at him. "Stop! Please stop!" He heard the boy say, even if he wasn't fully processing the words as his mind tried to figure out where the boy had found a gun.

"H-How?" he murmured, his eyes wide.

Harry was in a right state, fear and anger overcoming him as he shouted, "Why? Why do you hate me so much?!" He demanded, shaking the gun at his uncle whose brow furrowed in a heated glare.

"Because you're a freak that's plagued our lives since the moment you were put on our doorstep. We never wanted you, we would have told the old man to take you back if he had had the common decency to knock."

Harry's heart broke. Despite having known deep down how the Dursleys felt about him, hearing it put into words from his uncle's mouth hurt all the same, and he found he couldn't look at him, turning his gaze downward.

"Just let me go. You never have to see me again, I just… I'll just go." He whispered, the fight seemingly leaving him. Vernon, however, had been growing increasingly angry as the words were exchanged, his eyes fixated on the gun. There was no way that the boy had gotten his hands on a revolver, where would he have even gotten it in the first place? He was sure it was just a toy, and that made him even angrier. His drunken mind never thought to pay a close eye to the gun's chambers, and due to that mistake, he ended up doing something incredibly foolish.

"You think, you can threaten me, in my own house?!" Vernon bellowed, his face growing red at the thought of the boy trying to threaten him assaulted his every thought. "You think you can fool me, boy! You think I'm stupid enough to be scared of a toy gun?!"

"W-What? No, no uncle, it's not-!" before he could even try to reason with the man, Vernon stepped forward in a lunge, his fat meaty hands ready to ring out Harry's neck. The action seemed to happen in slow motion, Harry's eyes widening in horror even as he brought the gun up in defense, shakingly pulling the trigger.

A loud bang rang out, echoing through the hallway as Vernon seemed to stop in his tracks, confusion in his drunken eyes. Harry looked up at him, his eyes growing wide in horrified clarity. Vernon looked at him and then down at his sweeter, pawing at a dark red patch that was slowly growing just over his left breast. Looking at Harry again, a stupid look of a curious realization took over his features, his eyes going between Harry's frightened eyes and the smoke rising from the barrel of the gun.

Vernon's eyes suddenly filled with startled rage, even as he stepped forward and raised his meaty hand up to strike at Harry. Fear driving his actions, Harry pulled the trigger once more, and a third time as well, the bullets flying through the air before striking Vernon first in the stomach, and then in the throat.

Harry was in shock as blood began to pour from his uncle's neck at a rapid flow. Vernon gurgled as if choking on fluid, raising his hand in stunned disbelief to cover the wound. Harry watched as his hand was drenched in red blood, flowing out between his fingers and down his shoulder and the front of his shirt.

With a final heave, Vernon's body fell forward, slamming into the carpet of the hallway as the light vanished from his beady eyes. His body relaxed even as the blood continued to flow, staining the carpet red as Harry watched on in silence.

Confusion overwhelmed him as thoughts began to go off in rapid fire in Harry's mind, unable to process what had just happened. One moment Vernon was coming at him ready to pummel the snot out of him, and the next he was laying dead on the floor. His eyes lingered on his uncle's still form, his brain trying to catch up and piece the events together.

"Vernon!"

Harry snapped to attention as his head spun around, looking up at his aunt who had stumbled out of the kitchen with a look of horror in her eyes. She had just begun to carve up the roast when she heard the gunshots and had stepped out of the kitchen just in time to watch Vernon's bloody body collapse to the floor. She didn't even seem to notice Harry as she looked upon her now-dead husband. She seemed to have also forgotten what she had been doing as she stepped forward with a dazed expression while holding the knife in her hand, a weapon she held aloft as though she had forgotten she even had it.

None of these facts registered in Harry's young mind. His emotions, riding high while adrenaline pumped through his body, his mind settled on fight over flight, Harry both confused and scared only registered that a woman who he knew to be capable of inflicting physical harm was moving toward him with a knife in hand. The reaction was immediate, over and done in the span of a moment, as he turned the pistol around on pure instinct, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet wheezed through the air and struck her between the eyes, knocking her back as blood splattered from the back of her head. Her body flew back, slamming into the kitchen door as she hit the ground, her feet catching the door slightly askew as it lazily to flapped back into the closing position.

Harry's eyes began to focus as his panting slowed, lowering the gun as his mind processed the red splatter against the white-painted door. It was almost like a mirage in his daze, even as he picked himself up and lumbered slowly to the door, the gun still in hand.

Slowly, he pushed the door opened and stepped into the kitchen, idly glancing up at the splatter that was trickling down the frame before his foot collided with something, and he looked down. There, sprawled on the kitchen floor, Petunia's lifeless body lay prone like a marionette with its strings cut off. The wound between her now empty eyes was surprisingly clean, despite the thin line of blood that flowed from the entry point. The back of her head however was another story, as bits of brain and bone spilled out with a growing pool forming around her head like a halo.

Harry looked upon her body with wide-eyed horror, his mind starting to catch up with the course of events and what he had done. He knew he was starting to panic as his breathing grew hard again, but even then he was alert and on the edge, so he didn't even think when he wiped the gun around to point it at the kitchen table as he heard the sound of a fork falling onto the wood.

Dudley sat at the table in shocked silence, looking between him and the barrel of the gun. Dudley had been eating when the first gunshot rang out in the hall and had tried to get up when his mother had ordered him to stay put before she had walked out of the kitchen, even as the second and third fired. He had heard her scream and then the fourth, and watched as she fell back into the kitchen in a spray of blood.

He was too scared to move now, looking Harry dead in the eye with a quivering lip. Harry was mesmerized by the sight, having never seen his cousin so scared, so vulnerable before. Harry had long since dreamed of what it might feel like for Dudley to look at him that way, as he had made him feel so many times in their life together. But now, Harry felt nothing but cold.

The smell of something sickly-sweet entered Harry's nostrils between the growing scent of copper in the house, and he realized that Dudley had urinated on himself. Tears formed in the fat six-year-old's eyes, wondering if Harry was going to pull the trigger.

Harry felt overwhelmed by everything going on around him. Harry's ears were ringing, a side effect of the gun being fired. His arms felt weak. His hands were shaking, giving a slight rattle to the revolver. He couldn't think, he could breathe. He felt something wet rolling down his cheek, and Harry realized with a start that he was crying, too.

Slowly, Harry lowered the gun. The boys shared a moment of silence, as if for once on equal footing, as they cried for the innocence gone. Giving one final glance to his cousin, he walked out of the room. For a moment he was afraid that Dudley might try to take him off guard, but the boy never bothered to follow him, rooted in his kitchen chair as though in a trance.

Harry knew he couldn't stay. The neighbors were sure to have heard the gunshots and called the police to investigate the disturbance. Harry's feet seemed to move on autopilot, nearly slipping on the pool of blood that had formed around Vernon's bloated corpse as he bounded over the man toward the stairs.

As fast as he could Harry ran into his relative's bedroom and began searching the drawers and closet for anything he could take with him. He found Vernon's rifle leaning against the back of the closet behind shoe boxes filled with documents and a deposit box that rattled with change. Stuffing the revolver in his pocket he grabbed both items and ran back downstairs and headed for the front door.

Pulling the handle back gently he peered outside the creak in the door, panicking when he saw the neighbors standing out on their lawns looking over at Number Four with concern. They had likely heard the sound of the gun firing and come out to investigate what had happened at a safe distance.

Harry knew he didn't have time to wait for them to go back to their houses on their own. He could already hear the sirens off in the distance, estimating that the police would arrive within a few minutes. An idea formed in Harry's mind, but it ran the risk that he might hurt someone, which made him hesitate to do it.

However, the fast-approaching sirens made the decision for him. He knew he had to run, but he couldn't while the neighbors could see him coming out of the front door and point the officers in the direction he ran off to. He needed to get them to leave, and fast.

Making up his mind, he leaned the rifle against the wall and fished the revolver out of his pocket. Then, pointing the barrel of the gun out of the gap in the door, mindful to point it upward toward the sky, he braced himself for the recoil before pulling back the trigger. The gunshot rang throughout the neighborhood as it did its job, startling the nosey bystanders into a panicked scrabble back into the safety of their own homes.

Making sure the street was empty, Harry slung the rifle strap over his shoulder and ran, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he disappeared into the night while he tried to keep the look of emptiness in his relative's lifeless eyes out of his mind. He was running on adrenaline the whole way to Saul's barn, never stopping to look back, as he departed Privet Drive for the last time.

-/ↀ\-

Saul was in the middle of nailing a board to cover a hole in the wall of the barn when he heard a banging against the door of the barn. Looking up in confusion at the sound, he held the hammer like a weapon as he crept toward the door, wondering who would be at his door this time of night. Whoever they were, they sounded half-mad, what with the racket they were making.

Leaning against the door, he placed his hand over the latch while raising the hammer in defense as he called out, "Who is it?"

"Saul! Let me in, please!" Saul blinked upon hearing Harry's voice, concern rising within himself as he quickly lifted the latch, startled when Harry knocked the door open and ran inside, slamming the door closed as he heaved to catch his breath.

"Shit, Harry, ya alright? What's going o-?" Saul only managed to get out a few syllables before he had to jump back, watching as Harry dropped what he was carrying before suddenly leaning down between his legs and vomiting on the floor.

"Ah, sick!" Saul wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of stomach juices permeating his senses, but he quickly forgot about it as he watched Harry start to hyperventilate. "Harry? Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry was a wreck, leaning against the couch completely unaware that he was standing in his own sick as he continued to dry heave, crying hysterically.

"I-I… I k-killed them! Oh god, I killed them!" He cried, making Saul blink in alarm.

"Woah, what are ya talkin' about?" He asked, watching as Harry began to shake involuntarily.

"I Killed them! Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, they're dead! They're both fucking dead!" Harry cursed, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Oh, shit…" Saul's eyes widened as he leaned back, processing. He looked up at Harry, watching as his friend continued to wretch despite nothing being left in his stomach, "What… what happened?"

Harry then began to recount the events of the evening, starting with Petunia finding out he hadn't stayed with Mrs. Figg to the beating he received and pulling the gun on Vernon. All while he told the story, Saul's eyes grew wider in horror as he drew a mental picture of the nightmare that had unfolded in that house.

"He-He didn't believe me! That fat oaf, why didn't he believe me?!" Harry cried out in a confused rage and sorrow, his young mind having a difficult time processing the implications of murdering a grown man and woman.

"Jesus Christ…" Saul breathed, finding that he was having a hard time dealing with the implications of the topic as well.

Harry started to break down, blubbering uncontrollably as he slide down to the floor away from the vomit. "They were right, Saul. I am a freak! They were right! I-I didn't even think! I… I just killed them, and-!"

"Harry! You are not a freak!" Saul shouted at him, walked over to look him dead in the eye as he crouched down next to him, "Shit happened, okay?! Ya said ya warned him, right? That ya gave him the choice to walk away?"

Harry nodded through the tears.

"Then there's no one to blame than them. Ya didn't have a choice. You're just a dumb kid who was tired of hurtin'." He said even as he sat down and wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulder, pointing his finger in Harry's face to insure that he was paying attention to every word said.

"But I killed them!" Harry insisted, and flinched back when Saul growled angrily.

"Ya defended yourself! What, do you think that fat asshole wasn't gonna kill you after ya pulled a gun on him, even if he was stupid enough to think it was a fake?"

"I… I…" Harry stumbled, thinking.

"There's nothin' more you could have done," Saul said, pressing Harry's head into his shoulder as he let the boy cry and come to terms with what had happened. The boys sat there for what felt like hours, Saul never moving even as his legs began to get cramped and the smell assaulted him, wanting Harry to know that he was still there for him.

"I can't go back to town. The police will be looking for me." Harry finally said.

"Probably, yeah." Saul nodded his head. Harry looked up at him, hesitation riddled in his eyes.

"Can… can I stay here?"

Saul hugged Harry then, and the boy finally let go, melting into his embrace, his energy spent. He didn't know what the future would hold, and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to forgive himself for what he had done, but he was glad he would have his friend by his side to help him through it. Harry soon fell asleep, exhaustion catching up with the small boy.

Saul would spend the whole night with him, comforting him through the nightmares that came and went. Harry hadn't known it, but Saul had cried as well, empathy overwhelming him for what his one friend had had to do to survive in an unfair world.

-/ↀ\-

A meditative silence fell upon the study of Michael Corleone as Harry finished his tale. Michael had listened to his story without comment, allowing him to relieve himself uninterrupted. The boy had run his voice hoarse toward the end, unfiltered emotions peaking through his stony facade. It would stand to reason that admitting all the bad things that had happened would have given some relief, but in truth, he seemed more heavy-ladened, which Michael assumed meant that he had avoided thinking about what he had done to his relatives up until now.

Michael had suspected something as such had happened upon piecing together the evidence Peter had provided. But something of this severity was an instance he thought he would only ever see in a war, and that had been on the side of the enemy. He felt slightly ill-prepared, and he could use a drink.

Michael rose from his chair, moved over to the liquor cabinet pulled out a bottle of aged disaronno, and after a moment to ponder over something, grabbed two glasses. He set the glasses on the table and poured a moderate amount into them from the decanter, and set it aside. Then, he took up one glass in his hand, while pushing the other toward Harry.

Harry looked down at the glass in confusion, gazing at Michael incomprehensively he pointed out, "I'm a bit young, don't you think?"

Michael shrugged his shoulders, leaning his own drink close to his mouth. "I think you've earned it."

Harry looked down again, observing how the golden amber seemed to sparkle in the glass. Hesitantly he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a cautious swig. He grimaced at the burn in the back of his throat as it slid down his tongue, but he bared it as best he could, swirling the remaining liquid thoughtfully.

"Your aunt and uncle called you a freak. Why?" Michael suddenly asked. Harry frowned.

"How should I know why those bastards did what they did?" He said, somewhat harsher in his tone than he needed to be. Michael hummed, choosing to ignore it as he was caught up in thought.

"Perhaps. But, is there any truth in what he said?" He pondered even as Harry glared at him sharply. Michael was unapologetic, waving his glass in the air, "You have to admit, there's an unusual element to the story. Doesn't the incident on Christmas Eve strike you as a bit odd?"

Harry blew air from his nostrils, shaking his head as he shrugged his own shoulders, "A freak? I don't know. If I am, so what? They're dead, it doesn't matter." He said dismissively, to which Michael raised an eyebrow at the seemingly callous disregard for his relative's deaths.

"I think it does."

Harry looked at the man, so Michael explained, "Killing a man for the first time, it's a haunting experience that never truly leaves you. I learned that in the war when I was twenty-two years old. That you had to experience that at seven." He shook his head, "It's a tragedy of lost innocence."

"I don't think I was ever innocent." Harry offered, and Michael smiled at the boy's cynical observation.

"Maybe not, but all the same." He said as he lifted his glass in a toast, "To innocence."

Michael threw back the scotch and set his glass aside, watching as Harry reluctantly followed his example, showing a better reaction to the burn despite the pinched look in his eyes. Harry smacked his lips and placed the glass on the desk, then looked up at Michael with a sagacious gaze.

"Will you turn me over to the police?" He asked, watching how the old man would respond to the question more than anything else.

Michael smiled in approval, waving his hand in dismissal, "You don't have to worry about that. Your hands have blood on them, yes, but no more than what I've seen from some men. As far as I'm concerned, it's an internal matter for our family."

"'Our' family?"

Michael nodded his head.

"Yes, that is a matter I wish to discuss with you." He then leaned back in his chair, folding his fingers together as he began to explain why he had gone to all the trouble sending his lawyer to the U.K. just to bring Harry to Sicily.

"Eighty years ago, my father moved to America with nothing. From there, he founded an empire, one that I helped to put on the map. But now, that empire is dying. I handed it over to someone I thought I could trust, but that trust was misplaced, and I must suffer the consequences of that mistake."

"But you remind me so much of myself as I was in my youth before I was set straight." Michael said this as a compliment, feeling a rush of nostalgia, "You have the same spirit, the same guts. You could live the dream my father had. You can be the salvation of our family."

Harry scowled at this, "Is that all I am? Just a tool you can use to fix your mistake?"

"You are more than that!" Michael jumped forward, causing Harry to lean back in his chair as the old man spoke passionately. "I won't lie and tell you my motivations aren't selfish in a way, but I offer to teach you how to stand on your own two feet! How to become so powerful no one can tell you what to do, what to say, or how to think! When you no longer have to be the one who gets kicked around for the benefit of the bigshots who want to walk all over you."

"All your life you've been dealt a bad hand. But why should men like us have to dance on their strings when they should dance on ours? Don't you think it's time something was done about it? Don't you want to be in control of your future, of your destiny?" Michael came down from his passion to speak softly, inviting Harry to ponder over his words. "I'm not asking you to follow in my footsteps, I'm asking you to allow me to show you how to make your own path and run with it."

Michael sat back down, a sigh escaping his lips, "But the choice is yours. I'm not your aunt and uncle, Harry. I won't press you into this. I can only give my offer." He reluctantly added, watching the boy beneath the brim of his lashes.

Michael held out his hand, with the expectation that if Harry took it he would accept his offer.

"And if I don't accept?" Harry swallowed.

"Then you leave with that briefcase that Peter showed you, and you'll always remember the opportunities wasted," Michael said simply, awaiting his answer.

Harry thought about what Michael had said, surprising himself that he was even considering it. He didn't fully trust him, and every instinct was telling him that he should just take Saul and the money and run. Yet, he found that some of what Michael had said held some appeal.

The simple matter of that fact was that Michael was correct, he was tired of being stepped on and treated with no basic respect or common decency. But more than that, he wanted peace, and if he was the one with the power, perhaps he could have it.

Slowly, Harry reached forward and took Michael's hand in his grasp, shaking firmly but not letting go as he said, "Only if Saul stays."

A smirk formed on Michael's lips, nodding his head at the boy's demand.

"Not a problem."

-/ↀ\-

Well, that ends the Surrey Arc! What did you all think? Were you expecting for events to play out as such?

Also, be aware that the next chapter will probably be delayed two or three weeks, depending on how long it takes for me to do an extra amount of research into some of the topics that will be covered in it. Then after that, I need to make a detailed outline for chapters 10 through 15. I hope you can understand this and will be patient with me, I've really been on a roll.

Please Read and Review, comments are always appreciated above all things.

Shoutout to my friend AlexWoundedSide, who I helped post his reviews. I'm happy that you enjoyed listening to my story so far!