The village of Godric's Hollow lay in silence, as if holding its breath. A storm brooded overhead, thunder rumbling far away, but no wind stirred the trees. The air was heavy, tense, unnatural.
Inside the small, hidden cottage at the edge of the lane, a family of three rested. James Potter, wand never far from his hand, sat slouched in an armchair, tired but vigilant. His wife, Lily, rocked their infant son in her arms, humming a lullaby. The baby—Harry—laughed and reached up at her with tiny hands, his bright green eyes so like hers.
They should have felt safe. The Fidelius Charm was strong. The secret was kept. But even the strongest walls can crumble when betrayal seeps in.
With a crack like thunder, he appeared.
Lord Voldemort. His form emerged from the shadows, tall, skeletal, pale as bone. His red eyes glowed with triumph. He had been hunting this moment for months. Tonight, the prophecy would be silenced. Tonight, the Potters would fall.
The wards screamed as they shattered. Windows rattled. The door burst open with a bang.
"Lily, take Harry!" James Potter shouted, already sprinting for the intruder. His wand flashed in the dim light.
A pale face sneered back at him. "Step aside, Potter. I have no quarrel with you. Hand me the child."
James's grip on his wand tightened. "Over my dead body."
"So be it," Voldemort said, almost lazily.
The curse came faster than lightning. Emerald light seared the room, and James Potter fell, his body crumpling to the floor. His glasses lay shattered beside him.
Upstairs, Lily froze at the sound of his fall. Tears streamed down her face as she set Harry in his crib. His cries filled the air, high and terrified. She kissed his forehead, whispering, "Be brave, my love."
The footsteps came, measured, inexorable. The nursery door slammed open.
Voldemort entered, wand raised, his voice cold as stone. "Stand aside, girl. This is not your night to die."
Lily spread her arms wide, shielding her son. "Not Harry… please, not Harry!"
"Move aside," Voldemort hissed, his patience fraying.
"I'll never let you have him."
The Dark Lord's face twisted with irritation. "Very well."
The Killing Curse struck her. Her body fell with a dull thud beside the crib.
Harry cried louder, small fists shaking in the air.
Voldemort looked down at him, contempt twisting his face. "This child? This is my supposed end? A joke."
He raised his wand, savoring the moment. "Avada Kedavra!"
Emerald light blazed. It struck—then rebounded.
The explosion tore the roof apart. Voldemort screamed, his body unraveling into smoke, into shadow, into nothingness. His wand flew from his grasp, clattering onto the wooden floor.
The cottage trembled, then stilled.
Harry Potter remained, crying amidst the ruin. Upon his brow, a scar burned like a lightning bolt—the mark of survival.
---
The silence did not last. Another figure arrived, not with thunder, but with a quiet ripple of power.
Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped into the ruins. His black coat fluttered faintly around him, though no wind stirred. He moved with a stillness that was both beautiful and terrifying.
Unlike Voldemort, his face retained its humanity—sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that gleamed with dangerous intelligence, and an ageless aura that bent the air around him. Though decades had passed since his birth, he looked scarcely older than twenty-five. His magic burned so fiercely that time itself recoiled from him.
His eyes swept the wreckage. He saw James sprawled across the floor, glasses broken. He saw Lily's body lying lifeless at the crib. And he saw the wand lying on the ground, blackened with the echo of curses.
Voldemort's wand.
Tom bent and picked it up, turning it between his long fingers. He studied it for a moment, his face unreadable, then slipped it into his coat. His gaze fell upon the crib.
Harry stared up at him, crying but unafraid.
Tom leaned down and lifted the child into his arms. The boy's cries stilled instantly. His green eyes blinked at the man holding him, curious and calm.
"You should be dead," Tom murmured, tracing the lightning scar with his eyes. "Yet here you are. Strong. Unbroken."
For the first time in years, his lips curved into a faint smile. "You will not be left to fate. You are mine now."
A shimmer of light caught his attention. Two figures appeared at the edge of the ruins—Albus Dumbledore, silver-bearded and grave, and Minerva McGonagall, her face pale and stern.
"Tom," Dumbledore said carefully, his blue eyes unreadable, "are you… taking this child?"
Tom met his gaze. He gave a single, deliberate nod, Harry secure in his arms.
McGonagall stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Albus—can it possibly be safe, that little boy in his hands?"
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Tom's retreating figure, his coat billowing as he carried both child and wand into the night. The Headmaster's voice was quiet, heavy with uncertainty.
"Maybe," he said at last. "Maybe."
And Tom vanished.
---
Ten Years Later
The mountains stood tall, cloaked in mist and forest, ancient and untamed. At their heart, hidden from ordinary eyes, was a wizarding town of timbered houses and cobbled streets. Owls roosted on rooftops, children chased enchanted toys through alleyways, and smoke curled lazily from chimneys.
At the edge of this village stood a wooden house. Modest, sturdy, its walls lined with books and strange artifacts—some benign, some dangerous. In one corner, a black wand rested on a shelf, silent and untouched for years.
Morning sunlight filtered into a small bedroom. On the bed, Harry stirred. His hair was as untidy as ever, sticking out in every direction. He reached for his crooked glasses, blinking against the light.
Outside the window, two birds perched on a branch, singing to one another. Harry smiled faintly at the sight before stretching with a yawn.
The door creaked open.
"Still dreaming, are we?"
The voice was calm, deep, tinged with amusement.
A man entered—Tom Riddle. His youthful face carried the elegance of a prince and the danger of a predator. Dark eyes softened only when they fell on the boy before him.
He sat at the edge of the bed, placing a firm but gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "Good morning, son. Time to wake."
Harry groaned and buried his face in the pillow. "Good morning, Dad… just two more minutes, please."
Tom chuckled softly. "Two minutes," he said, though the fondness in his tone suggested he would have given him more.
Harry peeked up, grinning sheepishly. "You always say that."
Tom raised a brow. "And yet, you always take five."
Harry laughed, and in that laugh was the innocence of childhood—a sound Tom had sworn the world would never take from him.
Downstairs, breakfast waited—warm bread, roasted eggs, and tea steeped with herbs from the forest. Tom sat across the table as Harry devoured his food with boyish hunger. On a nearby shelf, Voldemort's wand gleamed faintly, a reminder of a night long past, a symbol of a war not yet over.
The villagers outside used to greet Tom with wary respect when he passed, their eyes flicking to the boy at his side with curiosity. Few dared approach. Tom's presence was a shield no one wished to test.
But for Harry, he was simply "Dad"—the man who ruffled his hair when he stumbled through a spell, who corrected his wand grip with patient precision, who taught him truths of magic the world had long forgotten.
And though Harry did not yet know it, far away in the shadows of the world, the one who had failed to kill him stirred faintly once more.
The story was only just beginning.