The night bled silence, broken only by the distant cry of wind through Godric's Hollow.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! GO! Run! I'll hold him off!"
The voice cracked under the weight of terror and defiance, shattering the fragile quiet of the cottage.
Harry Potter stirred awake in his cradle, eyelids fluttering like fragile wings. His tiny fists opened and closed, seeking comfort in a world that had suddenly grown loud and strange. He was one year old — far too young to understand words like danger, death, or fate. Yet, somehow, deep in the murky, unfocused awareness of his infant mind, he felt it: the wrongness in the air, the heavy dread clinging to the house like a shroud.
He knew two constants in his short life — Ma and Da. He did not yet comprehend what "parents" meant, but he understood warmth and laughter and love. He knew his mother's soft humming as she rocked him to sleep. He knew his father's loud laugh, the way it filled the small rooms like sunlight through glass.
And he liked others, too. The funny man with dark hair and bright, mischievous eyes — Sirius — who always tossed him into the air until he squealed, then caught him safely in strong arms.
There was another — shabbily dressed, gentle, and always carrying the smell of tea and old parchment. He smiled with tired kindness and whispered soft jokes to James when he thought Lily wasn't listening. Lately, though, he came less often. James always grew quiet after his letters arrived.
A timid man visited sometimes as well, appearing suddenly in the kitchen with a small pop that made Harry cry without fail. He never stayed at night. Harry disliked him and made his protests loudly known.
And there had been one more — an old man, strange even by Harry's budding standards. He wore shimmering robes and half-moon spectacles, and he had pressed a sweet into Harry's tiny hand, smiling gently. A milk toffee that had tasted like chocolate inside. Harry liked that memory. He didn't know why the old man dressed like he was at a costume party, but in the vague, wordless way of infants, he'd decided the man was… kind.
Tonight, though, none of those people were here. Only Ma, Da, and something else.
Something dark.
---
Downstairs, James Potter's breath came in ragged bursts as he raised his wand, planting himself between the door and the fragile safety of his family.
"You'll have to kill me first!" he shouted.
The door burst open.
---
Upstairs, Harry whimpered as his mother's frantic movements blurred around him. Lily Potter muttered incantations under her breath, hands trembling over the cradle.
"Salvio Hexi—"
The words cut off at the sound of a voice — cold, high, and terrible.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A thud echoed below.
"James!" Lily choked out, her voice breaking on the single syllable.
Harry began to cry, tiny fists balled, the unfamiliar sharpness of fear blooming in his chest. Lily scooped him up, pressing frantic kisses into his soft hair, whispering nonsense words meant to soothe them both.
"Shhh… Harry, Mama's here. C-come on, baby, keep quiet, please… Dada will be back, he will, we just have to—"
Her words faltered.
She turned.
A figure stood in the doorway.
The man was tall, robed in darkness, his face obscured beneath a hood. But Harry saw his eyes — cold, red, unblinking — and somewhere deep inside his small body, instinct screamed danger. He screamed too, high and thin.
"Stand aside, foolish girl," the voice hissed, harsh and clipped. "I have no reason to take your life. Let me put an end to this."
Lily stood her ground, body curved protectively around the cradle. "No! Not Harry, please! Take me instead — please!"
With a flick of his pale hand, she was hurled against the wall. She crumpled but staggered up again, desperate, defiant.
Harry wailed louder.
Voldemort raised his wand, the tip glowing with sickly green light.
Harry didn't understand why his mother hurt when the man moved his hand. He didn't understand the words. But he understood that this man — this strange cosplaying lunatic — wanted to hurt him.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Lily threw herself between the curse and her son.
Green light.
A scream cut short.
And silence.
---
Harry's forehead burned like fire. His ears rang with silence so deep it roared. He was aware only of falling, of shadows bending inward, of the terrible cold creeping beneath his skin.
And then, nothing.
---
When he woke again, the world smelled faintly of smoke and ash. Somewhere nearby, someone was sobbing — deep, broken sobs torn from a heart cracked open. Another voice, hoarse and low, whispered Lily's name over and over as though repetition could undo death.
Harry tried to cry but found he hadn't the strength. The sharp, throbbing pain in his forehead pulled him back into darkness.
---
When next he stirred, the pain was duller. He blinked blearily up at the ceiling. It was blackened in places, faintly shining where soot met starlight through a shattered window.
Bits of conversation drifted in and out.
"—no! Hagrid, I have to go! Take my motorcycle. Go to Dumbledore."
Harry knew that voice, though its usual warmth was stripped bare. Sirius.
"But Sirius, we need ta go together! Dumbledore's instructions! It's too dangerous, Sirius! Couldn' forgive meself if somethin' 'appened ta ya," came another voice, deeper, rougher — the one holding him now, arms massive and warm.
"Go, Hagrid… take Harry and just… go," Sirius rasped.
A loud crack — someone Disapparating.
Hagrid shifted Harry carefully against his chest, his enormous hand awkward yet gentle as he whispered, "S'alright, lil' one. S'alright now… yeh safe."
Harry whimpered softly, eyes closing, surrendering once again to exhaustion.
Outside, the ruins of the cottage lay silent beneath the soft fall of autumn leaves. Above, a single star blinked faintly behind ragged clouds, as though the night itself bore witness to the unraveling of a prophecy few yet understood.
Far away, shadows stirred.
--Years Later--
Harry Potter woke to the sight of wood.
Specifically, the dark, slanted planks of his cupboard ceiling, which creaked ominously whenever Uncle Vernon stomped around the landing above.
It was a familiar view, one that greeted him every morning like a particularly ugly old friend.
Still, for all its splinters and constant dust, the cupboard had one undeniable virtue — it was his. Not that he'd had any choice in the matter. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and immediately sent a heavy thump echoing through the cramped space as a book slid from his chest and hit the floorboards.
Harry blinked blearily, fumbled for his glasses, and squinted at the title.
It wasn't technically a textbook.
He called it: "Advanced Strategies in Annoying the Living Daylights out of Vernon Dursley."
He grinned to himself, brushing dust off the cover. He'd spent most of last night sketching up potential "research notes" for the next round of what he privately called The Dursley Games. His other works included such classics as How Many Times Can Dear Aunt Petunia Clean the Same Spot Before Screaming and the always thrilling Poke the Wild Dudley in the Bum.
Extreme sports, really.
Harry shoved the book back under a loose plank in the cupboard floor — his secret hiding spot. Not that he thought Dudley would ever find it. The fatty didn't have a single working brain cell to spare on thinking. Dudley's natural talents were limited to screaming, eating, and smashing things Harry liked.
Speaking of smashing… Harry paused, tilting his head, listening.
Silence.
Good. No thundering footsteps, no bellowing. Which meant the Dursleys were still asleep, and if he moved fast enough, he could escape before anyone thought to lock him inside again.
He ducked out of the cupboard, padded softly down the hallway, and freshened up quickly in the bathroom before anyone noticed he existed. The moment he opened the fridge, he executed what he liked to call The Grab-and-Go Protocol: two slices of bread, a swipe of butter, and he was gone.
As he slipped on his trainers by the door, he caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror.
A small boy stared back at him — skinny, sure, but not unhealthy anymore. Bright green eyes glinted behind round glasses, jet-black hair cropped close to his head in the "military cut" he'd spotted in one of Mrs. Figg's old brochures. His skin was pale but healthy enough, his shoulders straight despite the cupboard sleeping arrangements. A piece of bread hung from his mouth as he grinned at himself.
Looking good, Potter, he thought smugly, before slipping out the door into the early morning air.
---
There was an unspoken agreement between Harry and the Dursleys:
If he had to wander about, he had to do it early, before anyone sensible was awake to complain about "odd behaviour." And he had to be back before dark, so the neighbours wouldn't gossip and ruin Aunt Petunia's carefully cultivated image of Normality™.
Harry didn't mind. Early mornings meant freedom — and today, he had a destination.
Mrs. Arabella Figg's house sat just a few streets away, tucked behind an overgrown hedge that always smelled faintly of catnip. Harry grinned as he jogged up the pavement, bread clenched between his teeth, knowing full well she'd be expecting him.
He'd first been dumped on her doorstep two years ago when the Dursleys went on holiday. Back then, he'd hated the arrangement. Mrs. Figg was odd — soft-spoken, perpetually flustered, and with a house full of cats that seemed to judge him. Her entire living room smelled faintly like a mix of cabbage and carpet powder, and he'd spent the first day sulking into the worksheets school had given him for "summer enrichment."
Then came the cake.
Rich, gooey, chocolate cake, pulled warm from her oven. Harry had inhaled his slice in approximately four seconds. Mrs. Figg had stared at him like she wasn't sure whether to offer another slice or summon an ambulance.
From that moment on, Harry decided Mrs. Figg wasn't as mean as she tried to seem.
Since then, his visits had become frequent. She always tried to act as though he was bothering her, but she'd stopped pretending after the first month. She even let him help around the house — something she seemed absurdly grateful for — and, more importantly, she had books.
One day, while dusting her sitting room, he'd gotten curious about whether she really kept cabbages in her cupboards. So, naturally, he'd checked.
No cabbages.
Instead, he'd found a bag full of cat hair, a dog-eared book titled Kneazle-Rearing and Caring for Beginners by someone called Knozus Kimperley, and another, much older book with gilt-edged pages: A History of Magic, by Bathilda Bagshot.
Harry had opened it and been hooked.
When Mrs. Figg discovered him nose-deep in its introduction, she'd squeaked loudly enough to scare the cats and stumbled through an explanation about "antique book collections" and "silly superstitions."
Harry hadn't believed a word of it.
He'd begged her to let him borrow the books, but she'd refused, relenting only to let him read them inside her house — on the strict condition that he never, ever mention them to anyone.
Harry hadn't told a soul.
Now, he knew all about goblins, medieval witches pretending to burn, enchanted cauldrons, and flying broomsticks — even though none of it was "real." Allegedly.
But sometimes, late at night, when dreams of people doing strange things flickered behind his eyelids, Harry thought maybe… just maybe…
---
He knocked on Mrs. Figg's door.
"Oi, Mrs. Figg! Open up, please!"
There was a muffled crash, a yowl, and the sound of rapid shuffling inside before the door creaked open to reveal Mrs. Figg herself, slightly out of breath and looking frazzled.
"Harry! Boy, you're such a troublemaker! Come inside, hurry!" she hissed, glancing nervously up and down the street.
Harry blinked at her. "Alright, alright, I'm coming."
The first thing he noticed upon stepping inside was the smell.
Gone was the usual musty, cabbagey undertone. Instead, the air smelled… fresh.
Suspiciously fresh.
The second thing he noticed was that half the cats were sitting neatly in a row, watching him like a jury ready to pass sentence.
"Hello, Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, Tufty!" Harry greeted cheerfully, crouching down to scratch their favourite spots behind their ears. "How're you lot doing today, hmm?"
"They're fine," Mrs. Figg said quickly, bustling toward the kitchen. "Come, sit, eat properly! You're always wandering about with half a meal dangling from your mouth!"
Harry bit into his slice of bread defiantly as he stood up. "Aw, come on, Mrs. Figg, I didn't get the chance to finish it! You know how the Dursleys are."
He trailed off mid-step.
A tabby cat sat on the windowsill, its fur patterned with curious, symmetrical markings around its eyes. The cat was staring at him, unblinking.
"Oh-ho," Harry said, grinning. "New recruit, eh?"
He scooped the cat up despite Mrs. Figg's sharp intake of breath. "What's your name, little demon?" he cooed, tugging gently at its cheeks.
The cat's stare didn't waver.
"Oi, Mrs. Figg," Harry called over his shoulder, "this one's new, yeah? What'd you name it?"
Mrs. Figg froze. Her gaze darted from the cat to Harry, back to the cat again.
"H-Harry," she squeaked, wringing her hands. "Put the cat down. Now."
Startled by her tone, Harry dropped the tabby — gently, but still.
"Her name's, er… McNogalls," Mrs. Figg said too quickly. "She's, ah… very sick, poor thing. That's why I told you to… to put her down."
Harry narrowed his eyes at her, unconvinced, but said nothing. He plodded into the kitchen, still chewing his bread.
The tabby followed him, tail swishing deliberately.
Mrs. Figg sighed. It was going to be one of those mornings.