It was a pathetic sight within the smallest bedroom of #4 Privet drive. The young man curled up in a ratty excuse of a bed could pull at even the coldest heartstrings. Harry Potter was miserable. It was just a week after the death of his classmate, Cedric Diggory, and he was drowning in guilt.

"Why? It should have been me. There was no reason to kill him."

The return of Voldemort paled in comparison to the death of an innocent. A death the had come to pass because of his own bloody nobility. If he'd just taken that thrice-damned cup, instead of insisting on a joint Hogwarts victory, the Cedric would still be alive and with his family. Harry'd known that someone was out for his blood. If he'd just used his head...

Fresh tears streamed from broken emerald eyes as another wave of regret encompassed his aching heart, sobs wracking his scrawny body.

No sleep would come tonight. Of that, he knew. It would be the same as every night since the third task. He'd cry into the early morning until his body finally shut down for a few hours.

He never noticed the glow that encompassed him. Never noticed the wind that whipped through his room. All he knew was the darkness as his mind slipped away.


The swirling black seemed to embrace him as he became aware. Sight was impossible. There was nothing to see. All he could do was float in the void of nothingness.

"What the fuck is this?" The voice seemed to come from everywhere. A growling, raspy baritone that held its share of pain.

"Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Harry Potter. What is this place?"

"You got me. How old are you kid?"

"Fourteen, almost fifteen."


"How did we get here?"

"No idea, kid. I remember Arctic terrain before...nothing. Pretty sure I was supposed to die, though."

That brought flashes of memory to the forefront. Images of a graveyard and a large, bubbling cauldron. Images of some kind of blue humanoid glowing with an otherworldly light. Images of a bushy-haired brunette with an impossibly beautiful smile. Images of the charred and mutilated remains of a little girl.

All of these and more played before them. All of these and more were shared by both consciousness. In a span of time that could have been anywhere from two seconds to thirty years, the pair learned every fact about each other.

"Damn, kid. And I thought my life was twisted."

"What happens now?"

"Not sure, but I have a theory."


Before the older entity could reply, a bright light flooded the void.


It was a strange sight within the smallest bedroom of #4 Privet drive. The young man that rose from the ratty excuse of a bed could send a chill of fear down the strongest spine. Harry Potter was pissed. Just a week after the death of his classmate, Cedric Diggory, and he was ready to kick some ass.

Looking around his room, he spotted an old cloth sack that had once held his cousin's collection of rare glass marbles. That phase had been one of the shortest in Dudley's not-so-long life. Harry remembered how the tub of arrogant lard had thrown every one of the little spheres in the trash after his first game.

Smiling crookedly, he picked up the bag. In a show of what some might call stupidity, he slipped the material over his head. Turning, the freshly hooded strode to his spindly little desk.

He pulled one of the rolls of parchment he kept handy for letters in front of himself. Inking his quill, he spared one glance at the small mirror that hung above the desk. A smile spread under the sack as a series of black, inky splotches appeared on the fabric and began flowing from image to image in a creepy synchronization. Still smiling, he bent over the parchment.

Rorschach's journal

June 31, 1995