Right-o. So here's the deal. I started writing this story over three years ago, when I was just barely past puberty. And it sucks. That's why I chose to abandon it. The entire thing is riddled with plot holes, misspellings, grammar problems, and inconsistencies. I hate it.

That being said, for some odd reason people seem to like it. I just re-read the entire fic, and think I more or less just threw things in because I felt like it, or because I'd really, really like to be able to smartmouth everyone, but am far to non-confrontational to do so.

So here's the deal.

We have three options.

Option #1: I go through and edit the entire thing, fix the mistakes, and keep on going much in the same manner in which it was originally written.

Option #2: I still scrap this thing, but instead post a completely revamped version that I think would much better reflect my current style as an author, and also the fact that I'm now at university and oh-so-mature.

Option #3: I do both. Fix the old one and post the new one.

Please understand that I have very little time to write; no matter what option you choose, I doubt they will be updated frequently. I also have a tendency to contract every single disease/ syndrome on the planet, specifically those that are stereotyped as “old people illnesses.”

But I will do what you, the readers, want. I really don't understand it, but this is one of my stories that gets the most responses from readers. And I feel really, really guilty after reading some comments. Aren't you now glad I was raised by a Catholic mother?

To facilitate this decision more, I will post what I have of the revamped version. I'll put up a poll on my profile page (once I figure out how to do that) or you can let me know in a review.

Thank you for your inexplicable love of this story,

Sword of the Shadow

Helen pushed the paper closer to the boy, speaking gently. He was curled up in the chair, just staring at her with those big green eyes of his. Helen would have hugged him, would have held him and whispered that everything was going to be okay, but the boy refused to be touched. Helen smiled softly, pointing at the box of crayons.

“It's okay if you don't want to talk, Harry. You don't have to, and we won't try to make you, alright? We just want to know what happened, so we can help you. Maybe you should draw a picture of what happened. That way you wouldn't have to say anything, but we can figure this out.” Harry just stared at her, looking deep into her eyes as if trying to find a hidden message there. She kept the smile on her face, tried to appear warm and comforting, but inside she was crying. Only five years old, and an orphan. And to be orphaned on his birthday, no less! The poor boy, with his pale face and sad eyes.

He slowly reached for one of the crayons with a trembling hand. Helen continued smiling, nodding in encouragement. He set the green crayon against the parchment, holding it awkwardly, as if he had never coloured with a thick crayon before. He drew a single line, then paused. He looked at Helen, who widened her smile an inch. He drew another line, right next to the first one. Another glance, this one quicker than the first, and then he drew another line, intersecting the first two. After that, he hesitated no longer, colouring the piece of parchment with abandon.

Helen didn't look at the picture, but instead studied the boy. He was fiercely concentrating, his tongue sticking out between his lips and his brow furrowed. His arm jerked, almost uncontrollably, he grabbed another crayon without taking his eyes off the picture, without even stopping his wild drawing. His eyes shone with tears, but none fell to stain the parchment. Helen's heart jerked, and the urge to hug the despondent child nearly overwhelmed her.

Then, as quickly as his corybantic colouring had begun, he was finished. He carefully replaced his two crayons in the box, and slid the picture across the child-sized table. Helen pulled it toward her, fighting to maintain her smile.

It was an endless field of green, a starburst of the colour, dark on the edges, fading gradually into the emerald of the boy's eyes at the center. Considering his age and materials, it was very well done.

“It's a very pretty picture, Harry. Is it grass?” The boy shook his head, sadly. “Then what is it?” He raised his hand and began to wave it around, forming they symbol of an old rune while mouthing two words.

Avada Kedavra.

Helen gasped in spite of herself, in spite of her training at remaining calm. “I know, sweetling. That's what happened to your parents. But who did it, Harry? And what happened to you?” She reached for another sheet of parchment, but Harry moved before she could offer it to him.

Harry simply pointed at the picture again, and then he brushed aside his dark fringe, revealing an odd cut. The other Healers, the ones who had brought Harry to her when he refused to say a single word, had told her about it. Magic could not seal it, could not so much as stem the flow of blood. It was still bleeding; as she watched a drop of blood rolled down his face, a bloody tear. A bandage would not stay over it, nothing could cover it. And the wound, shaped like a lightning bolt, reeked of Dark magic.

“Wo- would you like something to, to eat?” she finally managed to ask, tremulous smile back in place. Harry didn't move. “I'll go get you some Chocolate Frogs, how does that sound?” She didn't wait for his response, fleeing the room to the bright lights of the main pediatric ward. She shut the door firmly behind her, sliding down the cool wood surface, her face buried in her hands.

“Helen? How did it go, what did he say?” She tried to force her hands to quit their trembling, and fought to stop her legs from collapsing altogether.

“The Killing Curse,” she gasped, pressing her hands against her chest, “someone cast the Killing Curse on that poor little boy.”

“But there were only the two bodies. What are you talking about?”

“Harry Potter. Someone cast the Killing Curse at Harry Potter. And he... survived...”

Admittedly, it's not much, but... well, I'll go along with what seems to be the general consensus.