Harry Riddle and the Song of Death.

The sun rose on Private Drive to see it looking exactly like it had looked on that fateful day ten years ago. It saw the same neat gardens, the same prim, interchangeable houses, and the same fancy and spotless cars.

Nine Private Drive hadn't changed any more than its neighbors. In fact, the pictures on the wall were the only indication that any time had passed at all. Ten years ago, there had been a lot of pictures of what looked like an extremely large pink peach ball dressed in clothes that any self-respecting child should never wear. But Juarez Jefferson was no longer an infant, and the pictures now showed a gorilla-like child with blond hair going to the state fair with his parents, birthdays, Christmases, eating ice cream, hanging out with friends. There was no sign at all that there was another child in the house. There were only three chairs at the table, only one backpack hanging on the door, only three coats in the closet, only three pairs of shoes by the door.

Yet Harry Riddle was still there, lying asleep, though not for long.

"Up! Get up, you damned freak! UP!" Harry woke up on the first shrill note, wincing in pain. Blood began to trickle out of one of his ears as she finished screeching. His Aunt Susan rapped sharply on the door, before walking away. He could hear her putting a frying pan on the stove and bacon sizzling.

He sat up slowly, savoring the dream that he'd had. It'd been a memory, one of the ones from the womb. His first awareness. It was what he dreamed of the most. Darkness. Warmth. Safety. Love. A hand on him. His parents' soothing voices.

"Are you up yet, freak? You know that you have to be up in two minutes. And don't you dare let that bacon burn." Harry smiled. Aunt Susan always tried to control him by giving him an extra minute, limiting punishments, and other tricks. It might have worked if he was someone else, but Harry was intricately woven into the world and her magic. He was special, and he couldn't be tricked by such simple means.

Harry heard her walk away again and sighed. He had been with the Jeffersons for ten years, ten painful, miserable years. If it hadn't been for the memories that he watched every night in his sleep, he knew that he would have broken long ago, even with the help of the world.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound of Uncle Dave coming down the stairs echoed in Harry's ears. He hurriedly ran into the kitchen, not bothering to open the doors, instead running straight through them. He quickly took the burnt bacon off the stove, magicking it perfect, as well as toast, eggs, and Pop-Tarts. He put three plates on the table and backed away into a corner just as the Jeffersons entered.

Uncle Dave and Juarez sat down instantly, their weight making the chairs buckle. Aunt Susan poked around a bit, then, reassured that Harry hadn't broken, stained, cracked, or chipped anything, she sat down. Juarez, instead of eating, began counting presents.

His face fell. "Eighty-nine. That's three less than last year."

Harry, sensing a tantrum coming, prepared to grab the plates off the table, just in case Juarez decided to flip it again. The Jeffersons hated it when their food fell on the floor, and he always got punished for it. Perhaps Aunt Susan sensed this as well, for she quickly said "And we'll buy you eight more today, okay, sweetums? Eight more?"

Juarez started thinking. Harry could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears. It was amusing. "So I'll have ninety...ninety..." He said slowly. "Ninety-seven, sugarsweetie. Ninety-seven." Aunt Susan cooed. Harry wanted to roll his eyes. She called Juarez by the most ridiculous names, and nearly all of them had to do with something sweet. Why, Harry didn't know, as Juarez was far from sweet. The farthest thing from it, in fact. You'd have to be insane to call Juarez 'sweet.'

"I guess that'd be okay..." Juarez finally muttered. Aunt Susan beamed. "You're so sweet, sugarcube!"

Then again, the Jeffersons weren't exactly sane.