Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Saturday 31 October 1981
6 Primrose Lane, Godrics Hollow, Somerset, England
Lily Potter sat on the sofa in the living room of the cottage where she had, for all intents and purposes, been imprisoned for the last year. It was a very nice prison, and under different circumstances, she would probably have liked living here. The cottage was snug, its walls lined with family photographs and books, the garden beyond full of autumn colour. But it was still a prison despite what Dumbledore might say.
The silence pressed in around her, broken only by the faint pop and hiss of the fire. The wards outside hummed faintly in her bones, a reminder that even now, danger pressed close. She longed for the chatter of friends, the laughter of children, the simple joy of strolling into Diagon Alley. Instead, she had long days, endless caution, and the gnawing weight of the prophecy.
She could hear her husband upstairs putting little Harry to bed. A giggle, a whimper, James’s low murmur. The sound pulled at her heart. With a sigh, she rose, reaching for the bottle of wine. She knew she had been drinking too much recently; she knew James didn’t like it, but she didn’t really care. Ever since she had been told about the damned prophecy, she had been living in a nightmare.
She was only twenty-two, a new mother. She should have been enjoying playdates with friends and their children. Harry should have been playing with Neville, Susan, and Hannah, meeting baby Luna, not stuck here with only herself, James, and sometimes Sirius for company. She wondered briefly what Petunia would say if she could see her now; her sister would probably sneer, yet Lily knew that, beneath all the bitterness, even Petunia had never deserved to know this kind of fear.
James came down the stairs and caught sight of her glass. His lips thinned slightly before he placed his wand on the table at the foot of the stairs and sat beside her.
“He’s finally asleep.”
“Good. He barely had a nap today. I don’t know where he gets the energy.”
“I know. I swear sometimes,” James began, but was cut off mid-sentence as the wards shrieked before cutting off abruptly. Someone had ripped them down.
The sound was more than noise. It was a physical shudder through the house, like a giant’s hand ripping silk. Lily’s stomach plunged, every nerve screaming danger.
James shot off the sofa and ran to the door. “Lily! It’s him, quick, take Harry and run!” He snatched up his wand and yanked the door open.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated, glancing back up the stairs, a desperate plea in his eyes. Hold on, Lily. Protect him. Then he charged into the night, wand already blazing.
Lily was already moving. Wand in hand, she tore up the stairs. Behind her came the clash of spells, the splintering crash of wood, James’s furious shout. She knew, with a hollow certainty, that her husband was as good as dead.
She burst into Harry’s room. The noise had woken him; he was crying, tiny fists flailing. She grabbed him, turned on the spot. Nothing.
“Damn,” she breathed. Apparition was blocked.
Her eyes snapped to the chest of drawers. She yanked open the top drawer, pulled out the old stuffed toy hidden at the back, and touched it with her wand. She waited. Nothing.
The portkey failed.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
A scream, abruptly cut off, echoed up the stairs. James was gone. She closed her eyes for a brief second, pushing the pain down.
When she opened them again, they were full of determination. She kissed Harry’s forehead, then set him gently back in his crib. Her eyes flicked to the rune carved above the window. She touched her wand to it, and it glowed faintly.
Not even James had known the full number of enchantments and runic arrays she had worked into this room. They were desperate measures, half-planned in terror, layered enchantments that might conflict in ways she couldn’t predict. Reckless, yes, but if she was using them now, there was no choice left.
The air around her seemed to thicken as the runes woke. Ozone stung her nose. The floorboards trembled under her bare feet, as though the house itself was aware of the power coursing through its bones.
She took one last look at her son. “Mummy loves you so much,” she whispered. Then she strode to the centre of the room, wand raised.
The door blasted open. He stood there, nightmare made flesh. His presence sucked the warmth from the room, and the shadows deepened as though recoiling from him.
She had to make it count.
“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”
“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now!”
“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead!”
Voldemort laughed, a high, cold laugh that scraped across her skin, and raised his wand.
She timed it perfectly. The instant the Killing Curse leapt from his wand, she channelled all her power into the runes beneath the rug. The sickly green bolt was swallowed, its energy devoured by the array. The floor shook violently, light flaring in burning runes around them, the very air screaming with power.
And darkness took them both.
Sirius Black arrived twenty minutes later to find his best friend dead just inside the front door, and a crying baby at the edge of a yawning hole where the nursery had been.
He dropped to his knees, fingers trembling as they brushed James’s still hand. A sob caught in his throat. “Prongs,” he whispered brokenly.
The nursery was worse. A sphere three metres wide had been carved clean out of the house, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, everything within gone. The edges glowed faintly, as though scorched by otherworldly fire. Harry’s cries echoed through the hollowed-out ruin.
Sirius lifted Harry out and carried him outside, his tears falling into the baby’s hair.
Hagrid loomed at the gate, lantern swinging. They argued in fierce whispers, Sirius desperate to keep Harry, Hagrid unyielding in Dumbledore’s name.
“He’s my godson!” Sirius hissed, eyes blazing.
“Dumbledore said I’m to take ’im, and that’s what I’ll do,” Hagrid rumbled, though his voice cracked with sympathy.
Sirius looked down at Harry, kissed his forehead, “I’ll find who did this, Harry. I swear it.” Reluctantly, he placed him in Hagrid’s arms, then turned away with a predator’s fury. He had one task left. Pettigrew.
Not a trace was ever found of Lily Potter or the Dark Lord Voldemort. Whatever had happened that night had obliterated them both.
Lily Potter became known as the Woman Who Vanquished.
Sirius Black was sent to Azkaban.
And Harry Potter was sent to a cupboard under the stairs for the next ten years.
Monday 31 October 1994
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland
Severus Snape wondered, not for the first or even the ten-thousandth time, what he was doing creeping around the school at two in the morning.
The castle at night was vast and silent, portraits slumbering in their frames, tapestries shifting faintly in the draught. His footsteps were muffled by old stone, but in his mind, every sound rang loud.
How had he let Lucius talk him into this? The plan was absurd, especially with Alastor Moody prowling the halls. Hadn’t Lucius learned anything from nearly being caught in that farce at the Quidditch World Cup final three months ago?
But Lucius was still furious over the fiasco two years ago. He hated being bested by Harry Potter.
Severus growled softly. That, in the end, was how Lucius had hooked him. Harry Fucking Potter. The boy who had cost him his love. The boy who had cost him his master. Everything, all of it, because of Harry Potter.
Everyone else thought the boy clever, friendly. Severus saw him for what he was: a carbon copy of his damned father.
He didn’t know the full scope of Lucius’s plans, and didn’t care to, but if it meant the end of the Potters, so much the better.
Disillusioned, he had been waiting in a pitch-dark corner of the Entrance Hall for ten minutes. The torches guttered faintly, the blue light of the Goblet flickering across the hall. Satisfied the coast was clear, he moved silently across the floor, robes whispering against the flagstones.
He struck the Goblet with a Confundus Charm, pulled a scrap of parchment from his pocket, and dropped it into the fire. The flames flared red, then settled back to blue.
It had worked.
A thin smile crossed his lips as he backed away, retreating to the dungeons. Now he only had to wait.
That evening
Harry Potter hated Halloween.
Being forced to celebrate on the anniversary of his parents’ deaths was torture. His friends understood and would gladly have joined him for a quiet meal in the kitchens. Hermione had even begun to arrange it. Until Professor McGonagall got wind and insisted that all students attend the feast this year.
Harry couldn’t even be angry at her. She had apologised, and Harry could tell she was being genuine. He had come to realise she genuinely cared for him. It had all started during the second year when first Justin and then Hermione had been petrified. He had sat there every evening, going through what they learned today or just reading books to them. About a week after Hermione, McGonagall had found him there reading Lord of the Rings to them, and she hadn’t said a word, just sat there and listened with him. That was when he realised she might actually give a damn.
For the last two years, he had managed to avoid the Halloween ‘celebration’. Not tonight. Tonight, the champions of the Triwizard Tournament were to be chosen, and everyone had to be present.
Bullshit, in Harry’s opinion. Who was going to miss a dozen third- and fourth-years?
The Great Hall was bright with candles, laughter and chatter rolling up to the enchanted ceiling. Students speculated in hushed voices, betting on who would be chosen. Plates clattered, pumpkin juice flowed, and beneath it all, Harry sat hunched, every sound grating.
He sat among his friends, Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Ginny, close at hand. Behind him, he knew Susan, Hannah, and Justin would be gathered. Beyond them, Luna, Padma, and Terry at Ravenclaw. He appreciated their support, but it didn’t change the fact: he didn’t want to be here.
His eyes drifted to the staff table. Madam Maxime and Professor Karkaroff flanked Dumbledore, deep in animated discussion. Ludo Bagman and Bartemius Crouch sat between Flitwick and Sprout. His gaze snagged on Snape. Even after more than three years, he didn’t know why the man loathed him. Snape turned away with a curl of disgust.
Harry realised Snape wasn’t the only one watching him.
At the far end, beside Professor Moody, sat a heavily made-up blonde woman in glasses. Neville had identified her earlier: Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet. She favoured the sensational. And she had been watching Harry all night. He could guess why. The last thing he would do is talk to a journalist about his mother, especially tonight.
He let out a sigh of relief as the desserts vanished and Dumbledore rose. Harry barely listened. His thoughts were far away when the hall plunged into darkness.
The Goblet’s flames flared red.
“Viktor Krum,” it declared.
No surprise.
Moments later, “Fleur Delacour.”
Harry barely noticed the ripple of interest.
“One more name,” he thought grimly, “and I can go to bed.”
“Cedric Diggory.”
Harry exhaled in relief. Cedric was a good sort, a fine Quidditch player. Hogwarts could have done worse. Harry began to rise, and froze as another slip of parchment spat out of the Goblet.
Dumbledore caught it, his face tightening. “Harry Potter.”
The hall fell into stunned silence.
Dumbledore looked from the piece of parchment in his hand in shock. “Harry Potter.”
His eyes flew with everyone else’s to the small fourth-year student who sat at the Gryffindor table. He looked like he was in the middle of standing but had frozen halfway. Then his eyes moved very slowly to stare at Dumbledore. The look on his face was one of total incomprehension and shock. Dumbledore was aware that Minerva was at his side, whispering furiously. He had no idea what she was saying, though.
“Harry Potter,” he said again, louder this time.
Ron Weasley was shaking him, trying to jolt him back. Hermione Granger was on her feet next to him, saying something to him. Then Harry’s body seemed to move of its own accord. He stood, turned to face the school, and screamed.
A blast of energy tore from his chest, surging across the hall to hover three metres away, directly above the Hufflepuff table. Students shrieked and scrambled, climbing over tables to flee. Teachers’ wands snapped up. Older students cast shields instinctively. The chandeliers rattled, goblets trembled on the tables, and the air filled with the scent of burning magic.
The energy swelled. In moments, a three-metre sphere hung before them, devouring everything it touched. A section of the Hufflepuff table vanished inside.
And then, something began to take shape.
A wall. A ceiling. Splintered furniture.
Two figures.
Part of his brain was screaming at him that this was familiar. But the rest of him was too focused on what was happening. He could dimly hear teachers and prefects shouting at students to get further away. From the corner of his eye, he could see a steady stream of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins climbing over the Slytherin table and moving to the back of the Hall.
Two figures.
One smaller, hair streaming red. A wand angled downwards.
One taller, bald, clad in black. A wand levelled at her.
Recognition hit Dumbledore like a blow.
“It can’t be,” he whispered.
Beside him, McGonagall and Maxime stiffened. Prefects hustled students toward the exits. Moody barked orders, marshalling older years into defensive lines. Sparks of defensive spells shimmered as the air crackled with fear and readiness.
At that moment, there was a flash of light, and several things happened all at once.
The beam of energy coming from Harry abruptly disappeared. He fell backwards across the Gryffindor table. The Weasley Twins each lunged for him and grabbed him under the armpits, pulling him across the table to the floor on the other side.
The shorter figure, who had resolved into a red-headed woman, was hurled backwards, crashing across a shattered crib and the Ravenclaw table before coming to rest between Ravenclaw and Slytherin.
And the partial ceiling crashed down on the tall male figure, followed seconds later by the wall falling on top of that.
Everything was still and silent for a few seconds before the head girl got her wits together and started ordering children out of the hall as fast as they could go. That seemed to get everyone else moving. The shields all came down with Moody ordering all the casters to keep their wands up and remain vigilant.
Flitwick and Babbling raced to the fallen woman. McGonagall and Vector hurried to Harry. Dumbledore, Maxime, and Crouch moved toward the pile of rubble.
There was a groan from the red-headed woman, and she levered herself up. Her hair was over her face, but through the long red strands, Fillius Flitwick could see very familiar green eyes.
“Filius?” a voice asked, one he never thought to hear again.
“Lily?” he whispered, stunned.
Rubble shifted to his left. A figure clawed free. Black robes, pale skin—
—and the face of nightmares.
Dumbledore was dimly aware of the exchange going on to his right between Filius and the woman, but most of his attention was fixed on the moving pile of rubble in front of him. As the figure threw off the last of the debris, his eyes fell on the profile of a man whom he had truly hoped was dead.
Having just enough of his wits left to him, Dumbledore realised that if he was going to protect anyone tonight, he needed the figure focused on him.
“Good evening, Tom.” The calmness of his voice surprised even him.
Every eye in the hall swung between them.
The figure’s head snapped up. Red eyes burned boring into Dumbledore's blue ones.
“Dumbledore”, Tom Riddle, aka Lord Voldemort, hissed.