Water. At the sound of water running, a little boy with black hair and green eyes looked up from his broken plastic cowboys. The reverberations and other signs of the Dursleys preparing for bed made their way to his ears through the confining walls of the small closet he had spent almost all his life in. Smiling slightly for the first time in ages, the emaciated five-year-old pulled an old and beaten-up picture from the confines of the old blankets that decorated his bed. He knew what he had to do.

Silver. The silver of the kitchen knife he had nicked glinted in what little light made it through the walls of his so-called bedroom. It then glinted even brighter at the sight of the living room light that Aunt Petunia had yet to turn off. He ran his finger along its edge, not caring that crimson liquid from his own body ran along the edge, blotching out the silver that had shone so brightly not a moment ago.

Emerald. Emerald eyes shone from the picture still clutched in his left hand, as they did from the boy's own eyes as well as the read the caption on the back of the moving photo: Lily Evans, Prefect and Head Girl at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Blood. He watched as the crimson regret poured out of his uncle's chest and onto the carpet they had worked so hard to keep clean. He watched in fascination as it dripped off his own fingers and hands, silently soaking all cloth material it came in contact with. The carpets, rugs, his uncle's nightshirt, his aunt's nightgown, Dudley's blue pajamas with the black spots and brown teddy bears...

Light. Light was almost all he saw and heard as he made his way to his cousin's room to choose from the collection of untouched books. Looking carefully, he picked one that spoke of wizards and dragons and magic and happy endings...

Endings. He knew this night would have to end soon. Eventually. In a few hours. But for now he could pretend that all this never happened. For now he could pretend his last living relatives were not lying in various positions around the house, in pools of their own blood with looks of surprise on their faces, dead by his own hand. He could pretend he was sitting on the couch in their den with his mother next to him, her beautiful emerald eyes glinting with happiness, her soft auburn hair elegantly covering his shoulders as she held him to her heart.

Love.

"Read me a story, mama," Harry whispered to the picture, curling up on the couch with the knife in his left hand, the book in his right hand, and the picture in front of him. Lily smiled sadly at him from the picture and walked out of it, off to visit some other picture, probably one with a man with trousled hair and circular glasses.

"No!" Harry cried at the picture. "Don't leave me, mama! Read me a story! Tell me a story with happy endings that I never got!"

When nobody answered, Harry looked down at the now-crimson blade in his left hand. Smiling in self-realization, Harry brought it to his chest, then let out a tinkering little laugh as his mother came to get him.

Because in the end, it was better than being alone.