The air in Godric's Hollow hung heavy, still as a village before a monsoon, the quiet hiding the storm about to break. Inside the modest Potter cottage, James Potter stood in the doorway, his wand gripped tight, his jaw set. He knew the shadow coming for them—Voldemort, the Dark Lord, unstoppable. James was no match, but he'd fight to his last breath to buy Lily and Harry time. His heart pounded, love and defiance burning in his chest.
The front door exploded inward, splinters flying like festival fireworks gone wrong. James raised his wand, a spell on his lips, but a flash of green light cut him down, swift and merciless. He crumpled, his body still, his sacrifice a fleeting shield against the inevitable.
Upstairs, Lily Potter clutched baby Harry, her emerald eyes blazing with a mother's fierce love. Her red hair fell in tangles, her hands trembling as she whispered protective spells, each word a prayer poured into her son. The air crackled with magic, her voice steady despite the fear choking her. She knew there was no escape, but she'd give everything to keep Harry safe.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs, slow and heavy, a suffocating presence drawing closer. Voldemort was coming. Lily's spells grew frantic, her love weaving a shield no wand could break. The nursery door burst open, and there he stood—pale, serpentine, his red eyes gleaming with triumph. His wand rose, the air thick with dark intent.
Lily faced him, Harry pressed to her chest, her voice a final, desperate plea. "Be safe, my son." She closed her eyes, her love a beacon in the dark.
Voldemort's voice hissed, cold and final. "Avada Kedavra!"
Green light erupted, a curse meant to end a life. But in that instant, everything shifted.
Clark Kent's consciousness surged into being, a flood of memories—Smallville, Kara, the MCU—crashing into an infant's mind. He was Harry Potter now, barely a year old, yet his Kryptonian instincts roared to life. There was no time to think, no time to question. The Killing Curse streaked toward him, but his body acted before his mind could catch up.
Golden heat vision blazed from his tiny eyes, a torrent of raw, uncontrollable power. The beam met Voldemort's curse midair, shattering it in a burst of light. The force didn't stop—it tore through the Dark Lord, reducing his body to ash, his soul fragmenting into a mist of dark energy that screamed and fled. The house shook, walls cracking, the magic's rebound sending shockwaves that rattled the village.
Clark's infant body trembled, the effort draining him beyond what any child could endure. His Kryptonian power, so new, so vast, had saved him, but at a cost. His vision blurred, his tiny heart stuttering. He slipped into darkness, his consciousness fading into a forced hibernation, leaving Harry's body still but alive.
When the dust settled, the Potter cottage was a ruin, its walls scorched, its roof half-collapsed. Lily lay slumped by Harry's crib, her face pale, her magic spent. She breathed, faint but steady, saved by her love and the chaos of Clark's power. Harry sat in the wreckage, unharmed, his green eyes glowing faintly gold before dimming to normal. A lightning-shaped scar marked his forehead, a remnant of the shattered curse.
Minutes later, Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall arrived, their wands drawn, expecting death. The air hummed with residual magic, dark and strange. Dumbledore's blue eyes scanned the scene, his mind racing. Lily alive, James gone, Voldemort… vanished. No body, only a faint echo of dark power lingering like smoke.
"Extraordinary," Dumbledore murmured, kneeling by Harry. The boy's survival was impossible, yet here he was, staring back with an eerie calm. The headmaster's heart sank—he'd hoped the prophecy's child would live, but not like this, not with such destruction.
Lily needed care, her magical exhaustion severe. To shield her from the Wizarding World's frenzy, Dumbledore ordered her taken to a Muggle hospital, her memory gently altered to blur the night's horrors. She'd recover, but not as a target.
Harry was another matter. Fame would follow him, a beacon for danger. Dumbledore made his choice. "He must be hidden," he said, his voice grave. "Away from the spotlight, from expectation."
McGonagall's eyes narrowed, her lips tight. "The Dursleys, Albus? Are you certain?"
"They're his family," Dumbledore replied, though his tone held no warmth. "He'll grow up unknown, unburdened."
They left Harry on the doorstep of Number 4, Privet Drive, a blanket tucked around him, a letter for his aunt. Neither noticed the stars above, shifting unnaturally, as if the heavens themselves sensed a new force.
Deep within the Department of Mysteries, the Hall of Prophecy stirred. Dust swirled, and a crystal sphere, long dormant, flared with light. An ethereal voice echoed, like a temple chant carried on the wind, its words heavy with fate.
"A savior beyond this world… marked by fate, neither wizard nor mortal… shall walk the path of kings and conquerors… and in his wake, the greatest shall kneel."
The prophecy's glow faded, its words unheard by living ears. But its meaning burned clear. Clark Kent, now Harry Potter, had arrived in a world unprepared for him. His power, his will, had rewritten destiny itself.
The Boy Who Lived was no mere wizard. He was something more—a force that would shake this world and beyond.