In a small house in Britain, there lived a small British man called John Dunnery. He was unnoticeable, and nearly invisible. He was not a bad man, nor was he a good man. He neither liked nor disliked anything. He was positively neutral, absolutely bland, and boring. In other words, he was the perfect victim of anyone who wanted to kill him and stay undiscovered.

However, who would want to kill him? He had no opinions, no distinguishing characteristics, and he had never done anything important- for someone to kill him would be like someone deciding to destroy a portion of wall.

Of course, there are those who get very angry and ram their fists into the wall, knocking it down brick by brick, simply to vent their anger. There are those who kill merely for the pleasure it gives them. These people exist, and they can be everywhere. They could be watching you at this very moment, about to strike, but that would cause paranoia, and I assuredly would not want to give you that. Anyway, these people do not care about whom they kill, or why they kill them. They kill when they have nothing else to do, lacking any motive but boredom.

One of these people was Tom Riddle Jr., a.k.a. The Dark Lord, a.k.a. You-Know-Who, a.k.a. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort. On a chilly December night, shortly after being reincarnated, he entered Mr. Dunnery's house without trepidation. John was sitting in his chair by the fire, and jumped up when he saw the tall, ghostly pale man enter his house. He was sure that the door had been locked.

"Avada Kedavra." And his death was as unimportant and unnoticeable as his life had been. Without care or feeling for this man, Voldemort left, satisfied by his ruthless murder of the Muggle.

Nobody ever cared about John Dunnery. He was as transparent as a film of water. Nobody gave him a second thought. Not even his murderer.