In Every Darkness

In that second several things happened.

Lightning flashed, for it always seems to do so in such times, especially in such dark times as were being experienced on 31 October 1981. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, rain fell in torents, and a man lay dead on the ground floor of his house.

A mother lay dead, eyes wide and green and unseeing, staring off at nothing, alongside the cradle of her year-old babe. She lay as she had fallen, spread-eagled, red hair flowing like the mane of a proctective lioness. Lightning flashed and a woman lay dead on the floor alongside the cradle.

The baby screamed in pain and terror as the green light ripped his soul from his body. Then the scream ended and he lay there, awake, unmoving, soulless, spiritless. He stared unseeingly at the creature before him, and then his eyes glowed green.

The murderer pointed his wand at the child, the child whose eyes saw too much, knew too much. He pointed his wand and said the words and watched the baby scream. And then the babies eyes glowed green, a bright, painful, death-filled green, and the murderer knew no more.

And in that second Tom Riddle and Harry Potter both ceased to live. And in that same second, Death was reborn.

---

Vernon and Petunia Dursely were hyper aware that Harry Potter was not a normal child. He saw too much, knew too much, survived too much.

At first they wrote it off to his freakish nature, that horrid magic that they had sworn they would beat out of him. But after a while they realized it was more, much, much more.

Petunia pointed out that he seemed to know when something bad was going to happen. He had much more control over events and his powers than her 'freakish sister' had. And even Lily had gotten cuts and scrapes like a normal child.

But Harry... Harry was different. He was never injured, he was never bruised. He barely seemed to eat or drink, though he was taller than Dudley. His hair was always brushed, his face was always clean, and his eyes... His eyes followed you around, staring, it seemed, right into your soul, that eerie, unnatural, glowing green.

He also hardly spoke. He only did so on three occassions: when asked a question, when it was required of him in the name of good ettiquette, or to give one of his eerie predictions.

His eerie predictions were the worst. "You should not eat that," he said one day to one of his classmates. The boy had scoffed at him and eaten the sandwich anyway. He got sick, very, very sick, and they had not seen him since.

"You should be nicer to them," he said to Dudley's friend Piers as he stole candy from a little girl. Piers had punched Harry, run into the street, and was hit by a car.

And, perhaps, the eeriest of all... "They are coming," he said to no one in particular, eyes seeming to glow in the dim light. "Soon."

Petunia couldn't help but wonder who, exactly, 'they' were.

---

When Harry was nine, he took Petunia aside. "Aunt Petunia," he said to her, training those disturbing eyes upon her. "I know that I am different. I know about the magic and Hogwarts and the wizarding world. I wish to strike a deal with you."

And Petunia, for the first time in her life, actually listened to her nephew. Agreeing to his proposal, she loaded up the car, scribbled a note to her napping husband, and, along with Harry, drove off.

She returned, three days later.

Alone.

---

Harry drew the hood of his sweat shirt over his head as he strode down Diagon Alley. It would be of no use to him if he were recognized at this point in time. Walking into Gringotts, he walked up to an available goblin. "I wish to meet with the Head of the Inheritance Department," he said in the goblin tongue, Gobbledeegook.

"I'm afraid that is impossible," the goblin replied in a haughty, snooty tone.

"Tell him that it is his old friend Ikú here to see him," Harry added, ignoring the goblin's words.

"I told you, human, that is impossible," the goblin growled back.

Harry leaned forward, over the desk, his eyes glowing green and unreal from under his cloak. "Now."

The goblin at the desk fell off of his stool and scrambled away from Harry before collecting himself. Hailing a passing goblin, he whispered something into its ear and sent it on its way. After a few minutes of Harry and the goblin staring across the desk at each other, the runner returned and whispered something to the first goblin.

"The Head of the Inheritance Department will see you," he said in a put-out nasally voice. "Good riddance."

Harry stared at the goblin impassively for a moment more. "Beware of a short stranger in a dark cloak," he said at length. "Good day, goblin Jugtooth."

He strode past the desk and followed the runner, ignoring the surprised stuttering of the Jugtooth who was trying to make sense of the warning and how the upstart human could possibly know his name. The runner led him down a series of curving halls to a large wooden door, covered in writhing ornate carvings of humans suffering various forms of painful death. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the elegant, tastefully-decorated office.

"It has been a long time, friend," came the raspy voice from the executive chair whose back was now facing Harry. "A very long time."

Harry let the door close softly. "I see you kept the door I gifted you," he said in reply. "It is as stunning as when I first made it."

The chair spun round to reveal a very old goblin whose very appearance was unusal for a goblin. He appeared to be human, though with a goblin's head and hands, altogether way to large for a normal goblin. "It is you, dear Ikú," he said, a wide grin causing his face to appear all the more diabolical. "Come, remove your hood so that I may see whose body you now inhabit."

"You will see, though you will not believe," Harry replied with a laugh and then lowered his hood. The shock and surprise on the goblin's face was nearly comical.

"Ah, I see. And what of Mister Potter?" the goblin asked.

Harry forced himself to look shocked and saddened. "It has been one thousand years since we last spoke and you care more about the body I inhabit than of me? My dear Bloodherald, I am hurt."

"No, you are not," Bloodherald replied drily. "And I ask because young Mister Potter carries a great destiny upon his shoulders and a prophecy to control his actions."

"'Young Mister Potter' has been dead for nine years, Bloodherald," Harry said. "He has been so since he was murdered by the one they call Voldemort."

"And so you appropriated his body. I would expect nothing less. What bring you here, old friend?"

Harry turned and ambled slowly about the office, studying the delicate carvings on the wooden panelling. "My friend, do you know who I am?" he asked, switching to English as he ran a finger along a raised minotaur who was stomping his victim into the ground.

"You are Ikú, bringer of Death, servant of the Most High."

"No," Harry turned and stared at the half-goblin. "No, I am not servant of the Most High. Nor am I bringer of Death." He turned back to his study of the carvings.

There was silence for a minute. Then the question: "So, who are you, then, if not servant nor bringer of Death."

"Old friend, I never wished to keep a secret so great from you, but it was as Fate declared, but I am now permitted to share with you the truth, in all of its glory." Harry focused all of his attention on Bloodherald, his eyes glowing brightly and casting a green glow about him. "I am neither servant, nor harbringer. I am Death."

Their eyes locked, thoughts were exchanged, and, as one, both grinned a very bloodthirsty grin.