A/N: Hello! As requested, here's another Harry/Death fic! This is a Supernatural/HP crossover but it will be a few chapters before the boys come into play. If you're looking for this to be a SuperPowerful!Harry, story, then turn back. I don't write that sort of thing, sorry. It just isn't realistic, so for those of you who disliked that about His Companion Was The Grave, you'll once again be disappointed, hate to tell you. For the rest of you, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothng. Just a surly hedgehog, a coffee pot and a fidget toy named Megatron Shenanigans. Meg Shannan. Get it? XD

Chapter One..."There are tones of voice that mean more than words." Robert Lee Frost

My earliest memory was of sitting inside the empty, unused pantry and listening to my mother cry. Back then, I didn't know what words like 'disorder', 'squib' and 'disabled' meant. They were outside of the spectrum of my understanding at that point, but it didn't take me long to realize that those words were massive, life changing utterances. They were thigns that crawled out of people's lips when they didn't think anyone was listening. Sometimes, they didn't care if others were. Even a child, barely out of it's toddling, could learn that those things meant 'different'. They meant 'disappointment'. Ugly. Those words were things to be feared. Listening to my mother sob as if her heart were breaking, the Healer patting her hand as if she could somehow cure it all with compassion, I curled up inside the little nesting spot I had made for myself and hugged my little wooden toy man to my chest. The funny smelling Healer Smethwyck had spent all morning pointing her wand at me and making my body feel tingly with magic. Tests, she had called them, though my far-too polite child mind didn't dare ask what for. Instead, I had retreated to my safe little hideaway only for the woman to bustle my mother into the disused kitchen to deliver what could only be bad news. I tried to ignore the cold feeling settling in my belly and instead pretended that I wasn't dropping eaves on my own mother.

"Lily...I'm so sorry." My mother sniffled and the sound of her blowing her nose resounded through the room.

"There isn't anything you can do? Nothing? He's our firstborn, Lydia! Surely there's some procedure..."

"There just isn't at this time and you know that, Lil. But...maybe it won't be so bad. They have special schools for kids like him now, you know. He can be with children on the same level as himself. It will almost be like he's normal because Harry will be around kids just like himelf. They'll even teach him a trade when he gets a little older, teach him to be of some benefit."

"Oh, Merlin, you know those schools are sub-par at best! But he can't go to Hogwarts...he would be a laughing stock. Harry would never be able to fit in there. And what about when he grows up? Maybe I should just...send him to my parents? Raise him away from magic, in the Muggle world where he won't be so different? What am I going to tell James? His parents? You know those people would look down on him. Purebloods, bah! The only thing pure blood is good for is a headache and a half!Poor Harry...what kind of quality of life is he going to have now?"

"We have support groups for kids like him now, even for parents like you. It's important that you know what to expect as well. Harry will likely be prone to outbursts and it is vital that you get him into a Vital Functioning Therapy program. It will help tamper the outbursts as well as help Harry to cope emotionally as well as with any physical side effects his condition may present. In children like him we often see an increased intelligence but an overall inability to perform. It can lead to behavioral and emotional problems which if untreated can have serious consequences as he ages."

"Like what? How could it get worst than this?"

The Healer sighed and seemed as if she were deliberating her words carefully, judging how much more my mother could handle.

"We have seen a marked increase in suicides in similar circumstances. Substance abuse, anger management problems, lack of successful employment...Well, you get the picture. The program is geared for preparing children for the life they now face."

"I see." She breathed shakily.

The two meandered out of the kitchen, still whispering amongst themselves and all I could do was clutch my toy tightly and pray.

When my father came home that night there was an argle-bargle the likes of which the Potter home has never experienced. There was crying, shouting, and then more sobbing. Angry words were launched back and forth over the barricades of my mind like projectiles. There was disbelief and then disappointed resignation. I hadn't moved from my hidey hole and so I could hear every word. Despite having no siblings, despite having no friends, I had never felt more alone than I did at that moment.

~"Words are the voice of the heart." Confucius~

"Now, Harry, what was your diagnosis?"

Sigh. As if they didn't already know. I sneered at the smiling woman in disgust. They made us all reiterate our "disabilities" every year for everyone to hear. As if we hadn't been schooling together all our lives already. Merlin, it was like some sort of sick humiliation. An annual degradation so we didn't forget our meager places in society and cause an upstart or something. I shot her a petty glare but, nonetheless, gave the woman what she desired.

"Bertrand's Disease. It means that my core is active but it doesn't have the ability to make any usable magic. It tries to make a feeble attempt to create magic when it can't which causes spontaneous outbursts from time to time."

That was what the Healers had said, at least. They were all so quick to label and judge, I thought as Suzie began giving her own response to my left, her voice dripping with misery.

Squib. That was what they called me.

But I knew that couldn't be right. I did have magic, I could feel it. It was there dancing beneath my skin. I could feel it bubble beneath the surface when it reacted. Sure, I couldn't use a wand, but I had something better. I had words. Words that could make things happen. Magic of some sort. It wasn't perfect but I was young yet. There was time.

"Alright, children! Let's stand and say our affirmation for today and you may go." I could see the displeasure, the resignation in the faces standing around me in my Vital Fuctions Therapy group. No one wanted to have to be here. None of us were...whole. But that wasn't right, was it? We were still people. We were different but we weren't any less worth a witch or wizard our same age. Why did our community, our families, believe that we were worth so little just because we didn't have magic like they did? Amelia Zabini met my eyes from my other side and there was such pain there that I almost couldn't bear to look. I knew what she wanted and so I slipped my hand into heres, giving her the much needed touch that she craved. We weren't friends and never would be, but we shared that sameness that our society rejected us for. That was enough to offer comfort to one another when we could. Amelia was a twin. Her brother Blaise had been born normal, perfect and magical. She had not. As one we all began speaking the pledge that we had to repeat at the end of every therapy meeting twice a week. A pledge designed to keep us lowly and down.

"I am a Squib, but that is not bad. I can be good. I can be useful and beneficial to my Wizarding World. I am a Squib but I am worthy."

Worthy. What a lark. Worthy enough for "my Wizarding World" to allow me to be a janitor, a cook, maybe a nanny or servant to a wealthy family, if I was lucky. Worthy enough to never be able to achieve more, to never be able to reach for higher education or make progress in life. I tasted bile on the back of my tongue as the words came out. I was only ten years old and I had already been counted out by my entire world.

~"Words are alive; cut them and they bleed." Ralph Waldo Emerson~

Mother and father were preparing for the big Ministry ball tonight but it wasn't happily. Even though we had all been invited, I was made to stay home with Gaimon, our elderly house elf. Tucked away where no one could see my parents' shame. It was just as well, though it left a bitter taste in my mouth. There would be a whole seperate ballroom for the progeny of the attendees but no one would speak to me. They would probably curse me for sport rather than actually give me the time of day. Rather than risk the embarassment and potential harassment, Lily and James had opted for socially pretending I didn't exist instead. I hated it and I hated them for it. What did it matter? What use did it do to scorn and show them my anger when it wouldn't make any difference? What would it change if I showed them how much their disappointment and disdain hurt? Nothing. It wouldn't change a thing. It was just one more peg, one more piece, added onto an ever growing structure built of hurt, sideways glances and the words, words, words. Words of anger, of tears. Words of if-only's and what-if's. Words that told me all of the things they wished I had been and could be. Everything they thought that I wasn't. I had been born into a world that didn't want me and so this structure had been building within my heart, gaining girth with every instance of ill treatment. I didn't know yet what it would become but soon, very soon, it would come to a head and I would see what it was that their disdain had borne inside of me.

I was suppose to be working on my ridiculous therapy homework. Take home worksheets that told me to accept the lot they had handed to me with a smile. Instead, I spent the evening inside the attic. Many years ago, I had found a grand, old dollhouse there. It was of victorian design and stood as tall as I did with the most exquisit rooms and life-like creations I had ever seen. It opened from the center and as soon as I had beheld it, I had begged to be able to keep the aged thing. My parents hadn't understood my fascination with the structure but I loved it. It was normal, like me. Magic-less, but still wonderous. Often, I liked to fantasize about living out my life in that house, the life that I had always dreamed I would have had if I had been born normal. Even if I had been born to Muggles. That dollhouse was more of a home to me than the entirety of Potter Manor or Godric's Hollow ever could be. It was my special place, just as the old, unused pantry had been when I was small. I would rather spend my time in an imaginary dream life than doing those ridiculous worksheets. What were they going to do if I didn't? Flunk me out of therapy? Unlikely.

The evening passed too quickly for my tastes. The times when my parents were absent was a bittersweet occurence. It was a pleasure to be have the run of the manor without havign to dodge their pitying and disappointed glances. They had gotten worst since the upcoming month should have been when my Hogwarts letter arrived. We all knew that it never would. So it was a keen delight to be able to avoid these speechless, somber confrontations, and yet...I knew that other families weren't like that. Other parents didn't feel about their children the way mine did about me. Other parents weren't ashamed to take their children out in public. Other families doted on their heirs. Instead, I was the dirty little secret of the Potter dynasty. I knew my father's relatives were pushing for them to have another baby. I knew that they had been trying. My mother would always come back from the apothecary flushed in delighted embarasment, bags laden with various fertility potions and vitamins. I wondered if they would send me away once the new baby came. I would doubtless be stripped of the title of heir, providing the new baby had normal magic. A "Squib" couldn't hold the Family Headship, not when there was a magical child that could. Pin pricks stung my eyes and I shoved them back furiously. I wasn't a Squib, though! The outbursts proved it, no matter what those brainless Healers said! I had magic, it was there! I just...couldn't use a wand. I had tried. Many times I had filched my parents and housekeeper's wands to try, to prove that I was just as capable as they were, but every time I had gotten nothing for my efforts. The wand had laid dead in my hand just like a normal piece of wood. Just a lifeless stick.

It was moments like those that I started to believe the things that they said about me.

It was in times like that one that I wondered...what it was like to have hope.

Was I suppose to have hope? Maybe that was reserved for magical children too.

A/N: I know, it's a little more slow going than my last Harry/Death, but you'll see Death in the next chapter, honest! :) Review please!