Clarity on a Monday Night

Summary: Thunk- yet another photograph to be pinned to the corkboard. Harry James Potter, immortal assassin at the back and call of the gods, was bored, for a lack of better word. "Who do you need offed this time?" he asked. Green eyes glanced at the image before him, already wondering if his corkboard had any room left for its soon to be newest addition.

Undisclosed location

Thunk. A razor sharp steel blade pinned a photograph by its center to the corkboard. The picture was one of a lovely young woman with blue eyes. The exquisitely engraved knife sunk deep through the lady's nose and into the coarse material behind the photograph. On the other side of the room, a dark haired man lounged lazily on the couch. He twitched a finger and watched unblinkingly as the knife detached itself and soared to him as easily as a puppet obeyed its master. He caught the blade easily and sent it flying once more towards a different photograph.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

As he wordlessly summoned the knife from yet another photograph, he reached for a glass of red wine. He swirled sipped on it languidly as he observed his handiwork with half-lidded green eyes. He stretched on the couch, the darkness of his outfit almost blending in with that of his couch and the room. Across the room, the corkboard was absolutely covered in photos stuck haphazardly one on top of another. They were all filled with holes and cuts. The images were secured to the board without any noticeable aid; no tape, no pins, no tacks- just magic.

The man set down his half-empty wineglass with a contented sigh and spun the knife in his hands expertly. His fingers danced elegantly around the hilt of the blade, coming oh so close to the edge. Just as he was about to throw the obsidian blade once more towards a picture he hasn't shredded to bits yet, he paused. His disinterested emerald eyes flickered coldly towards the doorway; he stared into empty darkness for a moment before getting up fluidly. He reflexively changed his grip on the dagger and smoothed away the creases on his black jeans.

'Looks like I have a visitor', he absently hummed. Harry wondered which client it was this time. It had better not be Loki - not after what "he" did the last time he "visited".

The ex-hero ran a pale bony hand through his hair as he headed through the doorway. Just before exiting the room, he checked his knife behind him towards the general direction of the corkboard. He left without looking back; had he cared enough to look back, he would have seen that the knife embed itself in the picture right between someone's eyes.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked sarcastically as wine poured itself. Harry sat on a rather delicate-looking antique tea table. A number of cheeses cut and arranged themselves into a platter. He relocated to the living room to greet the guest who had invited herself in without even a knock.

"Wine?" Harry asked. The figure raised an eyebrow delicately.

"Pinot Noir," Harry answered the unasked question. Since he already had an open bottle, he saw no harm in sharing. He waved his hand at the bottle; it started pouring a glass for the lady.

The raven-haired beauty in front of him sipped her wine in approval before answering Harry's original question: "Naturally, this is not a social call, dear Master of mine," she smirked haughtily.

She looked up from her wine glass, revealing blood red eyes staring past thick black lashes. "I am in need of your... services." She said elegantly, the last word rolling off of her lips with just a hint of seduction. An unhealthily white hand slid a photograph across the table. She selected a slice of cheese from the platter in front of her carefully.

Harry took a fleeting glance at the photograph but did not touch it. His services indeed- before he agree to anything, certain conditions must be met. Old as dirt he may be, but amoral he was not.

Harry's expression smoothed to a slate of blankness. His calculating eyes stared unblinkingly at the deity who was now nibbling on the cheese gracefully.

Really, the Perevells should have known that no god would consent to being bound like a common slave. Death was greatly displeased; she challenged him for her freedom in a fit of rage- and a reversal of roles. Harry knew that as a mortal, he would have no chance, but he was hardly given a choice. While the deity could not force him to agree, seizing the souls of his family was well within her rights. There was no choice.

Five hundred years- five hundred years have passes since the Hallows were more or less forced upon him, yet he still lives, ageless for eternity. It was a curse greater than any other. Just because he was ageless in appearance did not mean that he was immune to illnesses; the gods have decided to generously granted him continuous good health in return for his aid in some of their… requests. Their circular logic baffles Harry at times; here he is, stuck as an immortal servant, and these beings have the gall to act like they're doing him a favor. Go figure.

At first, he blamed everyone. He blamed Dumbledore, for manipulating him into being the Master of Death. He blamed the Perevells, for creating the artifacts. He blamed the gods, the fates. He was bitter, and he still is to some degree. Time merely diluted his emotions, turning them into shadows of their original intensity. His infamous rages were now a thing of the past.

He was hollow, cold and callous. In the span of these years, he has seen kingdoms rise and fall, dictators come and go, humans live and die; all while the sands of time escape from his desperate grasp. In fact, he had ended some of those eras himself. He has brought entire empires to their knees. He has made kings bow and scrape, queens weep and pray. Of course, the gods they prayed to was the very ones who wanted him gone. Slowly, his heart withered day by day as he wastes away, isolated in his own dimension.

By the time his heart deadened completely, he had already ceased to care. It matters not how he came to be this way; there is simply no way to escape his personal hell.

Magic was now obsolete, a notion to be scoffed at or perhaps a tale told to children. The only wizard left was him- all possessions, all knowledge, all history was now his, but he has never felt any emptier than he did now. What is the use of a world of wonder if it was a world of one? To see an entity that was to him like mother's warmth forgotten even to history was harrowing.

Simply put, assassinations were now his specialty- certainly not his only skill, but one he has honed to perfection. Like everything else in his life, it forced upon him by the unique circumstances of his existence. Omnipotent entities would not have bothered with a mere immortal like him at all except for the tiny fact that they are not allowed to directly interfere with human affairs. Humans were created to have free will, and the power of the gods does not belong on their plane of existence.

Well, technically, neither does Harry's. He has a dimension all to himself, but occasionally, a mortal would stumble across his dimension looking for their final resting place. Each time Harry would direct them to the nearest exit- a portal he would like to call the Perfectly Round Tunnel of Endless Light. Ever since the invention of some electrical muggle device, he has been getting hundreds of these visitors a day. He didn't mind the company, but these mortals never stayed.

Harry wondered if he should put up a sign somewhere on his property.

Harry shook away the thoughts that gathered around him like will-o-whisps: he had a nut to wipe off the face of the Earth.

"Right, so who is this kid?" Harry frowned and took a longer glance at the photo, wondering if he still had space left on his corkboard for another photograph. He inspected the face thoroughly, engraving the facial features deep into his memory. "He's awfully young, isn't he?"

"His name is Yagami Light, also known as Kira," the ruby eyed woman hissed, crushing the cheese in her fingers to dust. Harry raised an eyebrow- that was good cheese, and she just had to go and waste it. Whatever this Light fellow did, he didn't envy the poor sod in the slightest. He hasn't seen Death this pissed since some fellow named Stalin set off the third world war. Death of course, had commanded Harry to end the conflict. Having just finished cleaning up the Holocaust and some asshole named Hitler, Harry was none too pleased. "He is seventeen."

Harry's other eyebrow joined his first. That is rather impressive, if such an accomplishment was something to be proud of. Whoever this Yagami Light was, he had to be someone quite special to kill so many people at such a tender age. At seventeen, he was still busy chasing skirts- well, until Dumbledore had gone and snuffed it. "Very young then. What did he do to warrant your wrath?" Harry asked, just a tinge of curiosity coloring his voice.

"He is using my servants' tools to kill criminals," she huffed reluctantly. "The situation will be... ratified, but his killings have to be stopped immediately." She narrowed her eyes menacingly as the grip on her wineglass tightened. Harry did not shift; he merely kept a wary eye on the deity. The madness he saw in her eyes was not unusual in the least. Harry absently wondered when he would have to greet the new Death.

Ah, yes, those amusing miniature death gods of hers. What forego would forego the chance to build a personal army of minions? They may have a king, but he knew that the real power lies with the Queen, who so happened to be sharing a nice bottle of Pinot Noir with him. Harry thought that the tiny little monsters were rather cute, flapping around carrying those Death Note of theirs. However, they were undisciplined and uncultured- they could hardly even be trusted with the most menial tasks. Their utter incompetence was a joke amongst those in the Heavenly Court.

"How many did he kill?" Harry asked in casually. Usually Death doesn't bother with mortals killing each other unless the deaths started hitting four digits or higher. Any less would be worth neither her time nor her attention.

"One thousand four hundred and sixteen," she stated, She ignored the hairline crack in the neck of the wineglass and swirled the contents.

"Since when?" Harry asked, his voice equally bland.

"Since fifty-nine days ago," Death deadpanned. Like him, deities typically count in days. Concepts like months and years change, and being older than most methods of timekeeping, they rarely kept track of time using mortal methods.

Harry was mildly impressed. He would give the brat a slow clap if he wasn't tasked with killing him. For a seventeen year old, this kid was going places- places like the top of his hit list.

"How soon do you need him gone?" Harry broke off a chunk of cheese. He would most likely not need more than two hours at most to finish the task, but he lacks the gods' ability to smite mortals. Zeus certainly was creative in his ways. Harry chuckled humorlessly; from what he heard, Poseidon is still upset that his fellow god turned the entire beach to glass.

"Now," she demanded, white teeth coming together in a snarl.

Harry snorted fearlessly in the face of insanity, "You know that's not possible." He crossed his arms and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"Then as soon as you can manage it, Harry James Potter. My patience runs thin," She gulped down the rest of her wine and crushed the glass. Getting up, she melted into the shadows and vanished as if she had never entered.

Harry rolled his eyes and banished the glass shards away. Did she have to crush the glass? He was running out of wineglasses. He got his order less than ten minutes ago, and her patience is already running out? Demanding and arrogant, unsympathetic and unpleasant- how typical. With a sigh, he drained the rest of his glass and got up, his Deathly Hallows pendant swinging against his black shirt. The symbol keeps him anchored to this dimension; he can neither take it off nor damage it, for it is his collar- also, supposedly his treasures.

Harry checked the magic on his knives casually slipped into his dragonhide boots, which were still as good as new even after half a millennium of use. It was a shame he didn't buy another pair before magic imploded. With a resigned sigh, he pocketed the picture and yanked open his door… only to be greeted with a rather familiar sight. He must have been truly distracted, to have missed another soul's presence in such close proximity.

"Despite what you might think, this is not your resting place; your final exit is-" He began, the words forming on his lips almost reflexively. He could recite the speech in his sleep- if he got any.

"That way," the crouched over, black haired insomniac said, pointing towards the glowing tunnel with a crooked finger

Harry blinked. "Then what the hell are you doing here? Go on, scram." He shooed the soul away impatiently. He didn't know who the man was, and he didn't care to find out. He had a child to kill and a conscience to bury.

The odd soul ignored his motions and began muttering percentages under his breath. "Yes, if you are who I think you are going to kill who I think you are going to kill, then there is a sixty-seven point five percent chance of you meeting him." He murmured and bit his thumb. Harry made a face; why does he always get the weird ones?

"You know, you are rather rude." The assassin crossed his arms. "Eavesdropping is a bad habit." It was quite obvious that the weirdo had listened in; just how good was his hearing? He was lucky Death didn't smite him on the spot.

"Says the man shooing away guests," the man pointed out, completely unaware of the danger he was in.

"You are no guest of mine," Harry rebutted dryly.

"How very hospitable of you to turn down a lost and recently departed soul, Mr. Don't Be Rude," the man rebutted.

Harry bit back a sharp reply. The sooner the nuisance left, the quicker he can do his job. "Look, what do you want? How do you know me anyways?" His anger meter was surely rising, bit by bit.

The black haired man stared piercingly at him with bright red eyes- Death's eyes. Harry mentally rocked back on his heels in mild surprise. Well, looks like the minions have been getting frisky- procreating with mortals and whatnot. They must really have been bored, Harry thought, caught between laughing and scowling. He met the gaze unflinchingly.

Again, the nameless soul answered only the inquiries he wanted to answer. "If you meet a man who has my exact current appearance, tell him that he owes me 1.735 jars of strawberry jam that he stole from me; I will be charging an interest rate of 0.23 jars every year the debt goes unpaid. An offering at my grave- a nameless one roughly 1.73 miles to the east of the back entrance behind the last wall- will suffice."

Harry blinked at the amphibian-like oddity before him… and blinked some more. He had no problems remember the message, having been tasked with much worse before. This is by no means the most peculiar request he has had to fulfill before- he refused to grant Loki anymore "favors"- not after what he asked for the last time he dropped by- but this was up there in the top dozen requests. Of course, he was not obligated to grant this one by any means.

The man with shinigami eyes continued to gaze unblinkingly at him, awaiting his reply. Harry was strongly reminded of an owl eyeing a mouse.

Harry saw no harm in it; a debt unpaid would undoubtedly hinder a spirit's journey to afterlife, and the last thing he needed was this weirdo hanging around him for eternity. "Sure; I can't guarantee that your message will be delivered, but if I see a man who looks just like you- Harry doubted that such an event would occur- I'll tell him what you said."

The man nodded in thanks. "That will suffice." Then, he added with hesitance, "I cannot see your name or your death day counter."

"Well yes, I'm already dead." Harry shrugged, stating the obvious. His has died more times than he can count by now. The man cocked his head, like a scientist presented with a particularly interesting specimen. "If that is all," Harry said sarcastically, "I have a task to get to."

The man silently moved out of the assassin's way and watched as the black clad disappeared through the bright tunnel.

"I win, L. In death, I solved a case before you. You will never solve this one." Beyond Birthday gave a satisfied and peaceful smile as he faded away into light.

Kanto, Japan

Harry stepped out of a bathroom stall easily and made his way out of the crowded shopping center. No one thinks twice about a stranger emerging out of a bathroom stall unless if said stall was already occupied at the time of arrival. If that's the case… well, that's what the obliviate spell was created for.

Right then, Harry thought as he loosened up the muscles in his neck. It took some time to weave his way out of the evening crowd; since when were muggles so numerous? Time to find this Yagami brat.

"Point me, Yagami Light." The Elder wand immediately materialized from his pendant and pointed north. Harry swiftly disillusioned himself and pulled out his Firebolt, which he also disillusioned. He probably did not need it, but he would rather not be accused of being an alien again.

Time to go to work, Harry thought as he mounted his broom and swiftly kicked off from the sidewalk curb.

Several quick minutes later, a coughing and hacking Harry dismounted in a suburban neighborhood full of cookie-cutter houses. The air has gotten much worse since his last visit to Earth. What have these muggles been doing to the damn planet? Harry grimaced as he tried to clear the smell of pollution.

Once Harry caught his breath- pausing every so often to curse the living hell out of industrialization- he meticulously categorized the entry and exit paths in the household. In a down to earth neighborhood like this, he doubted that he would find any traps. Nonetheless, he did a precursory sweep out of habit. Harry calmly scaled the wall upwards using sticking charms. Midway through, he contemplated dropping by the cake shop before leaving. It has been a while since he had last indulges in mortal pastries; he wondered if they stocked treacle tarts. The very thought of the delicious sugary creations made him all the more eager to finish his job.

When Harry reached the window, he glanced inside using a small hand mirror that he kept in his pocket. It was one he gave Ginny on their tenth anniversary. Good, the boy was alone in his room.

Quickly, Harry apparated inside the room and fired a barrage of locking, silencing, and safety spells on all exits of the room. He appeared motionlessly as his target immediately got up- knocking is chair over in his haste- and spun around with a wild look in his eyes. The teenager started breathing rapidly; Harry could almost hear the drum-like beating of his heart.

Harry ignored the mad child. His eyes trailed downwards from the teenager's hand- a black pen still within his grip- to the open notebook on the desk. It was crammed full of names in tightly packed columns. Harry took his time in observing the room, his eyes pausing on Ryuk. The shinigami cocked his head curiously at the new arrival. He sensed great power in the man, but he looked to be just that- a human barely out of boyhood. Reflexively, Harry sidestepped Light, who was surreptitiously inching towards his blind spot. He arched his neck and took in the interior of the room.

"Well, this is a cozy room you have here. I don't really understand what you could possibly be dissatisfied with; you've got a good family, a good home, a good school- in summary, a good life." Harry broke the silence.

Light started to snarl before suddenly clamming up, the wildness in his eyes instantly shifting to intense fear when he caught sight of Harry's pendant. Shakily, he reached for something in his pocket, but he did not withdraw his hand.

"What? Don't look at me like that," Harry huffed, catching sudden shift in attitude. He didn't care for whatever the teen was going to do- nothing he could do at this point would save him. "You've been busy, haven't you? Writing all those names- it's a shame you've been so diligent, Yagami Light. You really wouldn't have be in this situation if you weren't so gun-ho about killing people. Really, you had the right idea, but the path to hell is usually paved with good intentions. Death has a margin of a thousand or so deaths per year, so you could have flown under the radar if you were more a bit more cautious. You could have just thrown the stupid little book in a random direction and ran away and screaming like a normal person, but no, you just had to play god." Harry muttered and rolled his eyes. "Really, being a god is not at all an occupation any mortal would want. I suppose you're already halfway there- you certainly have the madness part down."

Again, Light stayed silent. He looked towards Ryuk, silently pleading for him to do something.

"Don't look at that sorry excuse of a minion," Harry drawled. Ryuk shifted uneasily, the grin falling from his face. "That guy isn't getting off easy either. I'd be surprised if he can make it to the next century in one piece. You would do well not to show your face to anyone; you knew better than to drop your note. Death is... unstable."

Turning his attention back to Light, he said, "She really isn't happy with you, which is a shame since you are so young and have- well, had, I suppose- so much potential. Really, I hate killing children," Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Still, Light remained silent, a bead of sweat dripping down from his hairline. His handsome face was gaunt with fear while his brain worked quickly, desperately planning an escape. He is a god; he cannot die just yet- the mantra repeated itself over and over in his head. Even to him, it sounded feeble and frantic.

"No last words?" Harry offered and unsheathed his dagger. He spun it easy and waited for the teenager's response. "Well, Death isn't patient, and she definitely wants your soul delivered on a silver platter. Technically, she wanted it about an hour ago, so I am quite late." Harry shrugged, unconcerned that he was disobeying a deity. "By the way, if you somehow find yourself in front of a small old-fashioned house after this, do yourself a favor and turn around. You'd be in the wrong dimension, and you had better not knock on the door for directions," he added absentmindedly.

Light's heart pounded in his chest as the words registered in his mind. The absurdity of the statement pierced through the haze clouded his mind- what dimension? He clutched the recorder in his pocket with shaking hands, ironically hoping that L would be able to avenge him.

He knew that the detective is just itching to nail him to the wall as Kira. Surely the man would investigate if his top suspect suddenly disappeared. With new player crashing their game like so, L would not be able to resist poking his big nose into this.

The tension was stifling inside the small room; quickly, Harry leapt into action and froze Light in place. In a less heartbeat, he appeared next to the petrified teenager and said in a voice that sent chills down Light's spine,

"Don't you know, Yagami Light? The gods don't appreciate mortal trying to do their jobs for them. They're not patient, and they are not kind. It is because of your arrogance that I am here on their orders. I was sent to be your judge, your jury, and your executioner. You brought this on yourself." Harry's voice cut through Light's muddled thoughts. The assassin pressed their bodies close- uncomfortably so; he could hear Light's frantic last breaths and the hate in the boy's eyes. Harry's bright green eyes stared deep into Light's honey brown ones. "Don't look away. I want to see the life fade from those determined eyes of yours." Harry whispered.

In one swift blow, Harry's dagger sliced from the middle of Light's right shoulder- above the clavicle- diagonally down past the left edge of his sternum. The magic imbibed in the dagger ensured that Harry met no resistance as the blade cut through flesh and bone as a knife would butter. On its way down, the tempered steel severed a number of major vessels in the body, causing the teen to bleed out before the minute was over. As he told the teenager, he cradled the body in his arms until the corpse started to cool. Emotionlessly, Harry dropped the body with a thud as one would a sac of potatoes. Light's eyes were open wide with fear even in death- a sinner's eyes. Crouching down, he carved the mark of the Deathly Hallows on the base of his throat. A mark to always make him remember those whom he has mark was his proof; his clients would know that the job has been done. Casually, he wiped his dagger clean on Light's shirt and spelled away the lukewarm blood.

"Well, that's one job done. Now, what to do with you?" Harry looked up at Ryuk. "You'd best make yourself scarce before Death comes after you. I'd wager you have a good couple of decades left if you're lucky. I would advise you not to show your face to anyone, but since you'll be dead before the end of the century, I suspect it wouldn't matter. Do try to make the best of the time you have left. There should be apples in the kitchen- downstairs to the left." Harry shrugged as Ryuk fled right away, the concept of living on limited time startling the creature.

Harry strode over to Light's desk and picked up the death note. He turned it around and flipped through the pages from front to back. He spoke aloud, knowing that his words were being recorded. The quiet click of Light's recorder had not gone unnoticed by his keen ears. Harry wondered what would come from the recording. "So this is a Death Note… I suppose it's a pretty cool toy, but toys are for children." Harry dropped the note back down on the desk. "She didn't specifically order me to dispose of the notebook; I guess I'll leave it here for the next mortal foolish enough to incur Death's wrath."

With one last look, Harry admired his handiwork and leapt out the window, cancelling the spells on his way out. He had things to do and places to go. Surely, there was a treacle tart somewhere with his name on it.

L Lawliet chewed on his thumb in thought; when he chose to take on the Kira case, he expected that it would be his last case. Never did he think that it would end like this.

His keen black eyes took in every pixel of the images before him, which had arrived within the past hour- along with some very unsettling news.

Yagami Light was found murdered at roughly 19:15, Monday 21st of January, 2003- in other words, forty-five minutes ago by Yagami Soichiro. He was found with the Mark etched into the base of his throat. Investigators subsequently photographed the crime scene and discovered a voice recorder, which was still recording.

The Mark- a bisected triangle with a circle in the middle- is linked to a series of unsolved murders dating back five hundred years ago. Each and every one of them went unsolved. The deaths all occurred in the same manner- a diagonal cut across the chest leading to mass hemorrhage and subsequent death. Oddly enough, the cut was completely smooth- even across bones and various organs. No message was ever left behind other than the strange mark. The killings are whispered in hushed tones; the murderer was never referred to as anyone but M- for murderer or marks. L was very familiar with those cases even though there has not been one in close to half a decade. Each and every single one of the victims were criminals of the worst kind- people who murdered thousands of lives. Some say that M is a gift to humanity- a hope for humankind. Others suspect that M is a group of people, an organization of assassins for hire.

L knew very well that there was no such organization, and no government agency- however covert- is linked to the murders. He suspected that more than one person was behind the killings simply by deducing that no human can live more than a hundred and twenty years at most. Yet, the marks were always carved with the same strokes at the same angle in a rather practiced manner. The mark was not related to any kind of cult, religion, or organization; he ran numerous searches in the past years, none of which yielded conclusive answers.

None like the recorded conversation that L played a dozen times. Clearly, Light knew that his chances of escaping alive are next to none. Thus, he utilized his death in the most practical way to aid the investigation that he knew would follow. The irony did not escape L- here was Kira, silently pleading L for help in the last moments of his life. L wondered if Light was physically unable to talk or did not want to incriminate himself. The question is- why did M allow for such an action?

That boy was stubborn to the end, L mused, gathering his last impressions of the deceased teenager, not at all mournful of his "friend's" death. The recording answered a great many questions but also raised many more. An assassin working directly for the gods- or more specifically, a personification of Death- who seem to have a death quota per person every year. The very idea was ludicrous at best. If someone told L of this two hours ago, he would have referred the person to the nearest psychiatrist.

But now, perhaps the idea is not so farfetched- not any more than an untraceable killer having technology five hundred years ago that is still miles ahead of current advancements. L hopped off his chair fluidly; he had a crime scene to get to. He ordered all investigators to leave the premises; he would personally gather the evidence. For that, he wants no interference whatsoever.

The detective made his way out of the five star hotel that he had temporarily set as his base of operations and walked towards the Yagami house, which was a short distance away; the crisp night air and mild exercise would most likely increase his blood oxygen saturation and thus boost his cognitive ability. Of course, the fact that a rather famous cake shop lies in the path did nothing to deter the detective.

Little did L. Lawliet know that it would be the most memorable walk of his life.

To his disappointment, Harry could not find treacle tarts in the bakery. Apparently, he was in the wrong part of the world for treacle tarts. In his humble opinion, that is blasphemy, for treacle tarts ought to be globally famous by now.

Before his ego could inflate any more, Harry hurriedly squashed it with vehemence. He would not be as arrogant as his clients- no, he would rather suffer an eternity of disease before that. In order to satiate his sweet tooth, Harry reluctantly settled for a slice of strawberry cake.

This cake isn't half bad, Harry thought as he finished the last bite. He got up to return the plate and emptied the store of all their strawberry cakes in one fell swoop. He would need them for his trip back.

Upon receiving the delicious desserts, he carried the large bags out of the store and headed towards the nearest bathroom, which happened to be in a park. Conveniently, the same park that L was strolling through.

Like B had predicted, the inevitable happened. The two forces of nature stopped dead in front of each other, both shocked by the appearance of the other.

L could not believe his eyes; he painfully tore his gaze away from the Mark pendant only to memorize the man's features, pausing at the distinctive jewel-like eyes and the odd lightning-bolt scar on the man's forehead. His heart pounded a sound that was loud as a drum to his ears. For once, he was speechless.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Harry groaned and palmed his face. He casually froze L in place when the detective twitched towards the assassin. "This cannot be happening."

L wondered why the infamous assassin dreaded meeting him of all people- detective or not. While he cannot discount the possibility of the man knowing his true identity, the chances are very slim. "I can't believe that goddamn frogman had hit the nail right on the head," Harry groaned. L was momentarily distracted by the movement of the strawberry cakes before chiding himself. There are more important events unfolding here. He paused to process the absurdity of the statement- and the fact that the assassin had a rather old-fashioned British accent. The only person that the term "frogman" would usually apply to was himself. There was a possibility that "frogman" would be used to describe people who caught frogs for a living or otherwise looked like frogs, but both the occupation and the phenotype were rather rare. L's breathing was labored; he pulled his mind away from the panic from being utterly paralyzed in the presence of a known killer.

Said killer- possibly mentally ill- sighed- an action quite out of line with L's slim character profile of him. "Well, I did promise that creepy weirdo," L would have frowned if he could. "You know a guy who looks just like you, right?" He began reluctantly

L's heart skipped a beat. It was impossible- no, nothing is impossible now.

"Yeah, well, even if you don't know him, he knows you. That bloke looks just like your carbon copy. An evil twin, maybe? I'm not sure who would be the evil one. Anyhow, he told me that if I saw you- which he said there was a sixty-some percent chance of happening- I am to pass a message to you. He says in no unclear terms that you owe him… 1.735 jars of strawberry jam, I believe? From that time when you stole it from him- and that he's charging you an interest rate of 0.23 jars per year. He says to make an offering at his grave," Harry recited and paused to remember the location of said grave, "Which is 1.73 miles to the east of the back entrance behind the last wall, wherever that is."

The great detective L nearly quivered. No one- not Misora, not Wammy- knew the exact amount of strawberry jam that B had in his refrigerator. The jam was the first thing that he had seized- and had checked for poisons. L had B incarcerated in the strictest, most secure prison he knew. He had received news this morning that B had been killed by Kira; he knew that there was a chance of the event occuring, but his heart still twisted uncomfortably at the news. He never bothered to ask about B's grave, preferring to shove away his memories of B, sealing them away with the remnants of his humanity. L scolded himself for being distracted by such sentiments and hurriedly refocused his attention.

"What is with you people looking at me like that? First the creep, then the brat, and now you." Harry asked, quite annoyed. "Can't a guy just do his job in peace?"

Well, that would depend on the nature of your job, L thought sarcastically. If your job is to kill people professionally, then no, you may not perform your task in peace.

"Well, whatever," Harry waved his hand and turned his back. L strained against his invisible bindings, but they did not budge in the slightest. "I'm heading back before my cakes melt. Don't snuff it too soon, alright? I swear, if you come knocking at my door, I'll drop kick you straight to hell. No more amphibians on my doorstep," Harry huffed and made his way to the bathroom. Only when he was about to disapparate did he release L.

Another job well done, Harry thought, satisfied. He withdrew the photo from his pocket- another photo to add to his collection.

END

Omake/extras: Caught between Goodness and Greatness

L immediately abandoned his course to the bakery and instead rushed towards the direction M went. As he expected, the killer had disappeared. He could not find neither any traces of the man nor any form transportation. It was as if the man simply disappeared into thin air.

Frowning, he made his way to the Yagami residence while replaying, pausing, and rewinding the last fifteen minutes of his life. What did that man do to render him immobile? There was no poison in his blood, and no contact was initiated. The air was clean, and the encounter was entirely random. In fact, the man seemed rather vexed and in a hurry to leave… to refrigerate his strawberry cake. While he could empathize with that worry, he was much more concerned with the man's knowledge and ability to defy the laws of physics.

Certainly, his abilities and knowledge supports his credence, and the man did not seem to be mentally ill. Seeing the surreal first handed makes the unbelievable suddenly very believable.

He arrived at the house promptly, this worries still at the forefront of his mind. He shoved everything away into a pile and directed his attention to collecting evidence. As the recording suggested, the Yagami was laid back at the spot where M had dropped him. The other person or entity present in the room was now absent, probably having taken M's words to heart. He was not sure if the third party was human; he had monitored the Yagami household for some time before the murder (L kicked himself for not continuing the surveillance for longer), and he never saw another person in Yagami Raito's room- not even his family. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of what could be Raito muttering to himself- perhaps he was addressing an invisible third party? The chances were slim, but he could not discount that.

L tiptoed carefully and used whatever tools he could to collect evidence- hair, fingerprint, footprint- anything he could get his hands on. He noted absently that the room was very organized- the only object out of place was a chair, which might have been knocked aside when Light got up. Other than that, Light did not show any signs of struggle.

Or perhaps he couldn't, a part of L suggested, his most recent experience still vivid in his mind. He did manage to turn on the recorder though, another part rebutted. M didn't immobilize us until we started moving towards him, the original part argued. L paid the parts no mind. He would regather their analysis later at a more convenient time.

To his triumph, M actually left finger prints. Either the man was ignorant of the new technology- which L highly doubted- or he was confident in his ability to go unidentified. L highly suspected that it was the latter.

Continuing, he strode over to the black notebook lying open on Light's desk. His sharp eyes spotted one name at the top of the page: Beyond Birthday. L picked up the book after dusting it to copy the fingerprints- undoubtedly a mix of M's and Light's.

The Death Note, L mused as he flipped through the book, skimming the rules and the columns of names. So this is Kira's killing method. Presumably, the third party in the room was a shinigami, explaining cryptic clue that Kira had left behind earlier. He would have to reinvestigate the Kira case later; compared to M, this case was insignificant. However, he would confiscate the book for further investigation. Such absurd methods require extensive testing, and he did not trust the investigators not to misuse such power.

Later that night, L tapped endlessly on his keyboard. He had recreated M's physical profile from memory, and he ran searches based on the fingerprints that he was able to obtain. He was unsurprised that the fingerprints did not match any in the database; the technology was not older than two hundred years at best. The fact that the searches turned up negatively supports the theory that M is one man and not an organization. L's portrait of the man was actually more useful: L found a match.

With anticipating building in each second, L clicked on the matching result- the entry dated back to over five hundred and seventy years. An old historical archive in Surrey, England had to be demolished, and an elderly historian had converted the records into electronic format for easier storage.

L was sure that she never knew the significance of her actions. He traced the pixels on the large monitor in front of him with a finger. He had a name at last.

Harry James Potter, born 31st of July, 1433. Orphaned nephew of Pentunia Evans Dursley and Vernon Dursley. L noted that all records of Harry James Potter ceased when after his eleventh birthday. A quick backtracking of both of his relations noted that Petunia Evans Dursley's sister, Lily Evans, had disappeared in much of the same manner. Neither of the disappearances were questioned, and Potter's father was never identified.

Nonetheless, L stared intently at the old- almost primitive portrait displayed on the screen. He was more than ninety-five percent certain that this man was M- and a rather powerful being connected to gods at that, if his words are to be taken at face value.

Gods, a rather excited part of L exclaimed in wonder. This man could prove the existence of gods.

This man is also a mass murderer, a more serious part stated calmly.

Yes, many questions can be answered by this man- not only about religion, but also regarding his supernatural abilities, and to a lesser extent, culture and history. This man could be the key to a new era for humankind. However, extracting the information would prove to be quite tricky, for he had no way of knowing the fully capabilities of the target. Even if he was able to be caught, there would be no guarantee that the being would be cooperative. Thus, coercion or force would be out of the question. An even more complicated issue would be catching the man, since his appearances were rather random before. L could hardly wait half a century for the being to rematerialize again only to find a cooling corpse.

The detective stared at the little black book resting innocently on the far side of his work station. Light's recording echoed in his mind.

"Death has a margin of a thousand or so deaths per year, so you could have flown under the radar if you were more patient." He could almost hear that ageless, teasing voice.

L had no doubt that Light unknowingly exceeded the quota. He had been killing an average of twenty four criminals a day, if not more. Over almost three months, the total death count would exceed one thousand by quite a margin.

And Death acted because of it. Death, a female entity judging by M's use of the feminine pronoun, noticed the killings and had thus ordered M to stop them at the source.

Meaning it was possible to lure M by catching Death's attention through a thousand lives lost by the hands of one. If it was possible to predict the appearance of M, it was possible to negotiate with him, to find his weaknesses, and perhaps to bring him to justice and solve this half-a-millennium long case.

To close such a case would be the ultimate height of his career. The thrill from winning against such a powerful opponent would satisfy even him. His competence would be unquestioned. Even better, the potential for new technology and abilities was limitless. To be able to cut through solid bone and tissue so easily- to immobilize someone at the very thought of doing so- that power would revolutionize the world.

And all it took was one thousand lives.

"The gods don't appreciate mortal trying to do their jobs for them. I was sent to be your judge, your jury, and your executioner." L's mind quoted the words hauntingly back at him, recalling them in the same voice that said them.

One thousand lives. What was one thousand lives in the grand scheme of humanity but a drop in an ocean? All for the chance of a new world- what would be the price? There is no guarantee of it, but presented with greatness and goodness, which holds precedence?

L crouched, motionless, his eyes fixated on the small black notebook. He sat for a long, long time, completely still.

Slowly, he reached for the notebook and flipped to a blank page.

AN 1: The Perfectly Round Tunnel of Endless Light isn't actually made up. If you google near death (or revival shortly after death) experiences, a number of them describe this endless tunnel of white light.

AN 2: Yes, I did twist around the timeline and the development of various technologies.

AN 3: In this story, magic is biologically inherited, meaning genetics. Take that with as much irony as you wish.

Mandy: Well, here's another short little one shot to tide my readers through until I can update my other stories. I actually wrote this one quite a while ago, so all I did was change some parts and polish the story up a bit. If my summer plans go through, then I might not be able update until quite late in the summer. On the other hand, I have exams quite soon, and my roommate got me sick. So now I'm stuck feeling nauseous and the room won't stop spinning. Great.

I do believe I could have written L better. The canon L probably would have been a lot cautious in making his decision and would have taken more time. Even if he had to make a decision, he wouldn't be the one writing the names. Anyhow, I hope you guys liked it. :) Feel free to drop a review or a PM if you did.

Edited: 26 March 2014