Edward Hensley prided himself on being ordinary. A retired colonel with a back as straight as a rifle barrel, he spent his days drilling discipline into the soft youth who attended his summer camps and military school. Nothing pleased him more than a lad standing tall, saluting properly, and not mumbling when spoken to.
His wife, Margaret, was his opposite in every way—gentle where he was severe, patient where he was stubborn. She moved about their small kitchen that morning with her usual quiet rhythm: kettle whistling, bacon sizzling, and her husband's muttering drifting in from the sitting room about "good-for-nothing modern boys who wouldn't last a week in the service."
To the neighbours on Wisteria Street, the Hensleys were perfectly ordinary people. They had been married for forty years, lived in the same red-brick house with lace curtains in the windows, and never once caused a stir. But beneath that polished surface lay a secret—one neither of them had ever dared speak aloud to the world.
Their only daughter had not been ordinary at all.
Edward despised what she had become. She had gone off to a school whose very name he refused to utter, married a man Edward considered an eccentric fraud, and chosen a life filled with tricks and strangeness instead of the sound, respectable world her father prized. Margaret, though she missed her child terribly, had learned to keep her sorrow folded up inside, like an old letter pressed between the pages of a book.
It was, in every way, a morning like any other. Edward finished his breakfast briskly, buttoned his coat with military precision, and left in his Vauxhall Vectra for his winter camp. But as he turned out of Wisteria Street, his sharp eyes caught something peculiar: a tabby cat sitting very still on the corner, its gaze fixed on him. For the briefest moment he thought the creature was reading the road sign.
"Blasted nonsense," he muttered, shaking his head and driving on.
But strangeness seemed to follow him that day. At the traffic lights he spotted people in cloaks—bright cloaks, garish things of violet and emerald and gold—that made his jaw tighten. He despised that kind of behaviour, that flaunting of the unusual. By the time he reached his camp, his mood was black as thunder, and he poured it all upon the poor recruits. They marched until their legs buckled, saluted until their arms shook, and cursed their luck at having landed under Hensley's watch.
At lunch, Edward allowed himself a brief reprieve at his favourite café. But as he sipped his coffee, a snatch of conversation from the next table turned his blood to ice.
"You heard—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone," whispered a man in a violet cloak.
"Yes," said his companion in maroon, leaning closer. "And it was Ashenwald's boy—Lucian Ashenwald. That's the name."
Edward nearly choked on his drink. He left his coffee half-finished, dropped coins onto the saucer, and stumbled back to the camp. The recruits scarcely saw him the rest of the day, though the lucky ones muttered that the old colonel seemed possessed. Locked in his office, Edward repeated the same thought, over and over like a mantra.
It can't be them. It can't be them. It can't be them.
By evening, his nerves were frayed to bones. He drove home with clenched fists, his mind racing, and as he pulled into Wisteria Street, his stomach lurched. The same tabby cat was sitting there, tail flicking, eyes glinting in the lamplight—watching him. For one absurd instant he could have sworn it was waiting.
He stormed inside, boots heavy on the hall tiles. Margaret looked up from her knitting in surprise as Edward barked, without preamble:
"What's the name of the man your daughter married?"
Her needles stilled in her lap. She blinked at him, startled, then her expression softened into something almost hopeful. For years he had forbidden her to mention their daughter; now, at last, he was asking.
"Sodric Ashenwald," Margaret said gently. "A good man. With a fine old family history. She told me—"
But Edward cut her off, his voice harsh. "And the child? Do they have one?"
Margaret's face lit, as though she had been waiting for this question for years. "Yes, Edward. They do. He turned one just this autumn. Little Lucian." Her smile wavered wistfully. "We ought to visit him—our first grandchild. Such a dear boy, from what she's written."
Edward turned away. The name beat in his skull like a drum. Lucian. Lucian Ashenwald. The very name those cloaked strangers had whispered.
Margaret went on happily, imagining family reconciliations, but Edward heard nothing. At dinner he scarcely touched his food. Later, Margaret fell asleep quickly, her heart eased by the thought that her husband was softening at last.
But Edward lay rigid, eyes open to the dark, rolling restlessly from side to side. His wife dreamed peacefully beside him. He heard again the whispers in the café, the strange laughter of cloaked people, and saw again the cat's unblinking stare.
Outside Wisteria Street, the tabby cat still sat stiffly by the lamppost, amber eyes sharp and unblinking. She had not moved for hours, nor allowed herself a wink of sleep only watching everyone on the street. At last, as the clock struck midnight, she rose, her tail flicking, and padded across the frosted pavement.
The night was bitterly cold. Clouds drifted lazily across the sky, cloaking the moon in fleeting shadows. A thin powdering of snow lay over the rooftops and lawns, glinting faintly in the starlight.
A tall figure appeared at the far end of the street, his long robes whispering over the icy ground he was unlike any that cat has seen on the street. The old man's half-moon spectacles glinted faintly as he walked with unhurried steps, his eyes—bright but weary—taking in the sleeping row of houses.
He paused beneath a lamppost, drew from his robes a small, curious contraption of silver, and clicked it once. With a soft snap, the nearest lamp went out. He clicked it again, and another winked into darkness. One by one, the streetlamps extinguished until only moonlight remained, silver and pale over the frosted street. Satisfied, he tucked the instrument away and breathed a quiet sigh, his breath turning to mist in the air.
From the shadows came a faint rustle. The tabby cat padded forward, leaving neat pawprints in the snow. She stopped at his feet, and in the next instant, her form rippled and shifted. Where the cat had been stood a tall witch in emerald-green robes, her square spectacles glinting, her sharp eyes fixed on the old man.
"I should have known you would be here, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore gently, inclining his head in greeting.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked, her voice clipped but soft.
"My dear Professor," Dumbledore said, a twinkle at the corner of his eye, "I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly in all my life."
McGonagall pursed her lips, but her expression softened as she turned to glance down the silent street. "All day I've been watching. People are celebrating everywhere. Feasts, fireworks, owls flying in broad daylight… it's a miracle the Muggles haven't noticed. Even they must have, by now." She looked back at him, her brows knitting. "You're sure it's true, then? He's really gone?"
"It is true," said Dumbledore quietly. "Voldemort has gone."
Her shoulders eased, though she gave the name a disapproving sniff. "Well, the whole country seems to think so. And I suppose Hagrid told you I'd be here?" Dumbledore asked.
McGonagall's pursed lips deepened, though faintly. "Indeed. He said you'd be here."
McGonagall drew herself up at that, instead she pressed her lips together and murmured, "Well, I still say it's careless—foolish, even. Celebrating in the streets like this, at a time like this. If—if He really has gone, there will still be plenty of dark wizards about. It's bound to draw attention."
"They are foolish, perhaps," Dumbledore said kindly. "But can you blame them? Even in our world, Professor, it is not every day that something quite like this happens."
A faintest of cry echoed down the street, fragile against the winter's hush. Both turned. Out of the shadows came a woman with flowing auburn hair, her bright green eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"Please, Professor Dumbledore," the woman whispered, her voice trembling. "He is still so young… James and I swore to his parents we would protect him if fate ever tore them away."
McGonagall's stern expression softened. She stepped closer, her gaze flicking from the infant to the woman. "You honor your friends' memory, Lily," she said gently. "They would be glad to know you're here tonight."
Dumbledore looked at Lily, and asked, "How did you know you could find us here?"
"I asked Hagrid to know where you are taking Lucian." Lily replied with a lowered head. Embarrassed.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Lily but he didn't say anything, the lamplight flickering faintly in his eyes. "Hagrid is late, hmm."
"Wait, you entrusted Hagrid with this task." Professor McGonagall said strangely.
"I would entrust my life to Hagrid." Dumbledore replied calmly.
"I'm not saying he cannot be trusted but you can't deny he tends to slip up." Professor McGonagall said.
And then the rumble of a motor echoed at the far end of the alley, breaking through the still winter night. A massive figure, broad as two men and towering over them all, rode in on a flying motorbike… that descended gently to the cobblestones, snow crunching under its weight. The giant dismounted from the motorbike. Hagrid greeted Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. He looked confused at Lily's presence but greeted her anyway. In his arms was a bundle of blankets in which lay a baby.
The child was swaddled in soft blankets, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep. But from the dorsal side of his left hand to the shoulder, a jagged mark burned faintly under the moonlight—like a bolt of living lightning, colored red, black, and faint blue. Strange… yet not grotesque. Almost beautiful, like fire caught in a crystal of ice.
Hagrid's rough, trembling voice broke the silence.
"Headmaster… Professor… he didn't cry in the slightest. He's a tough one, tha' he is. Strong little lad."
McGonagall's eyes lingered on the strange mark. "But… Dumbledore, what is it? Surely you can tell?"
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on it. For a fleeting instant, something unreadable flickered across his eyes—fear, perhaps, or recognition. But his tone remained calm.
"Not a curse," said Dumbledore quietly. "At least, not one that we can name. What it means…" He let the words trail away, his expression unreadable. After a pause, he added, "That, I think, is something we may never truly know."
Lily hurriedly came to Hagrid and gently snatched the child away from him and embraced him in a warm hug, she looked at the child and for her he was no different from her own.
The child stirred in Lily's hands, his tiny fingers clenching the cold air. His eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment, revealing a deep, stormy blue—so dark they seemed almost black in the shadows.
Minerva inhaled sharply. "He'll become a target. The entire world will come for him, if word spreads. Dumbledore… is this wise?"
Dumbledore looked down the alley, where the fog curled like sleeping serpents over frozen stone. "It is the only choice. His mother's family lives close, hidden in plain sight. They are simple folk, untouched by magic, but they will protect him. Blood ties will keep him safe where spells cannot."
Lily's eyes, moist yet brimming with maternal love, stayed fixed on the baby. At last, she lifted her head to Dumbledore. "Isn't it cruel to leave him here? Can't I nurture him as my own?… He and Harry are of the same age."
Lily Potter spoke with conviction and stubbornness, her voice trembling in the cold night air.
Dumbledore placed a hand on Lily's shoulder. "Cruel, perhaps. But necessary. I know you could nurture him better than anyone… but the world of magic would crush him before he could walk. He must grow as a boy, not a savior."
He stepped forward, gently reaching for the infant. Lily Potter hesitated, but with visible reluctance, placed the boy in his arms. The mark on the child's arm glimmered faintly beneath the folds of cloth. For a moment, the headmaster's expression softened, touched with sorrow and hope.
He whispered, so softly the others barely heard:
"Your story begins here, little one. May the path ahead not break you before you are ready."
Lily Potter followed closely, not letting the boy go without her gaze.
At the end of the alley stood a quiet street—Wisteria Street, lined with identical houses bathed in the orange glow of streetlamps. Frost clung to the hedges, and the gardens lay under a thin veil of snow. They walked in silence until they reached Number 9.
A tidy little home, with lace curtains and a small front garden, its path dusted with snow. Inside, faint light from a television flickered.
"They are good people," Dumbledore said quietly. "A retired soldier and his wife. They have lived their lives with discipline, with honor. And though they cannot understand what he is… they will love him as their own."
Both Minerva and Lily pressed their lips thin but nodded reluctantly. Hagrid sniffed loudly, pulling a huge spotted handkerchief the size of a towel from his coat. His breath steamed in the night.
"No, no, Hagrid. Don't cry. It is only for ten short years… then he will be among us again."
After consoling Hagrid for a moment, Dumbledore conjured a letter with a flick of his hand. It hovered for a moment before resting underneath the blanket.
Then, carefully, he laid the boy upon the doorstep, the snow crunching softly beneath the basket.
The baby stirred, his tiny fingers brushing the folded letter. For the briefest instant, his eyes opened again… stormy blue, wide and unblinking, carrying an otherworldly depth that seemed far too profound for an infant. His breath came out in soft white puffs against the cold.
Beside him, resting quietly against the doorstep, was a small, weathered briefcase. Its leather was dark and old, worn smooth by countless hands, yet its brass clasps gleamed as though untouched by time. No one paid attention to it, and only Dumbledore seemed to know it was not ordinary luggage—though the boy was far too young to understand.
Dumbledore, Minerva, Lily, and Hagrid stood in silence. The night air was still, heavy with secrets untold, their cloaks dusted faintly with falling snow.
From the look on Lily's face, Dumbledore could guess she had much to say, but she held her words for later. She knelt instead, placing a parting kiss on the baby's forehead as a single tear slipped down her cheek and froze on her skin. Everyone knew she did not want to leave him… but she could do nothing.
At last, Dumbledore turned away, his cloak whispering against the frosted cobblestones.
"Come," he said. "Let us leave him to the life he must begin. The world will need him soon enough. Also we shouldn't be late to the celebration."
And with a rustle of wings in the distance, the four figures disappeared into the snowy night, leaving the child behind.
On the doorstep of 9 Wisteria Street, Little Whinging, Surrey, under the pale silver of the winter moon,
The boy slept peacefully—unaware that fate itself had already chosen him.
The letter read: 'To Mr & Mrs Hensley'. And at the bottom right corner of the letter inscribed in bold letters was—a name…
'Lucian Ashenwald'.
The boy slept… unaware of the life awaiting him: a grandfather who would make him run until his lungs ached, a grandmother who would feed him until his stomach bulged, and—most of all—the quiet war of hate and love that defined their home.