Fragments of a Hollow Night
The night was suffocating—thick with smoke and crackling embers, dark magic clinging to the air like a lingering curse. The pale light of the moon struggled to cut through the gloom, illuminating the wreckage of Godric’s Hollow in fleeting glimpses. James Potter’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum, each step forward fueled by desperation rather than courage.
Every step he took was one of pure instinct, his eyes wide, scanning the wreckage of Godric’s Hollow as if he could will the rubble to part and reveal his children.
“Please… Merlin, please,” Lily whispered, clutching her wand in one trembling hand while the other gripped James’s arm like a lifeline. Her breath hitched with every word, as though speaking them aloud might solidify her worst fears. “What if they’re—”
“Don’t say it.” James’s voice was rough, almost harsh, as if he could push the possibility away by sheer force of will. “They’re alive. They have to be.”
The skeleton of their once-beautiful home loomed ahead, a shattered monument to a nightmare they could barely comprehend. The door hung crooked on its hinges, the windows blown out, leaving gaping wounds in the walls. Smoke curled lazily from the ruins, carrying with it the acrid stench of burned wood and dark magic.
Lily’s eyes were wide, frantic, scanning the smoke-filled surroundings. The thought of her boys, her babies—Harry and Charles—alone in there, in the midst of the devastation, made her stomach churn. “What if we’re too late?” she choked out, her breath ragged in the smoky air. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, as though it might escape at any moment.
“We’re not late,” James replied, though the words felt hollow, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. “They’re waiting for us. They’re alive.”
Lily nodded, though her stomach twisted with doubt. She wasn’t so sure anymore.
They moved forward, dodging jagged bits of debris as they passed the smoldering remnants of their home. Lily winced as they stepped over a burned beam, but she didn’t flinch—couldn’t, not when they were so close. Not when her children might be waiting.
They reached the nursery at last. The door hung limply on its hinges, a warped, ghostly version of the safe haven it had once been. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of James's wand. The air tasted of ash, thick and acrid, and the smell of dark magic was overpowering.
James stopped at the threshold, his breath catching in his throat. He knew the room was broken, but it was something else entirely to see it this way—charred wood, shredded curtains, the crib upturned. His mind screamed in denial, but his body moved without hesitation. He stepped forward, leading the way with his wand raised, heart hammering against his chest. Lily followed closely behind, her footsteps faltering, unwilling to let him face this alone.
And there, in the corner, they found her.
Dorea Potter nee Black, the family’s last connection to the Black lineage, lay crumpled in a protective arc over the wreckage of the crib. Her robes were scorched, her wand clutched tightly in one lifeless hand, her face frozen in defiance even in death. She had died protecting them.
“Dorea…” Lily’s knees gave out, and she sank beside James's aunt’s body, trembling fingers hovering above the woman’s still form.
James knelt beside her, his face pale and tight with grief. He reached out and gently closed Dorea’s eyes, his voice a choked whisper.“She gave everything,” he whispered, his voice strained. “Everything…”
A sound broke the suffocating silence—a soft, pitiful wail.
Charles.
James and Lily’s heads snapped toward the crib. They rushed forward, their hearts pounding, and found Charles lying amidst the wreckage. His tiny fists were clenched, his cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Relief washed over Lily as she scooped him into her arms, holding him close as she murmured his name.
“Charles,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “You’re safe. Oh, thank Merlin, you’re safe.”
But as Lily turned, her breath hitched. There, beside the crib, lay Harry.
His small body was still, unnaturally so, his face pale and almost serene. There was no mark, no scar to speak of, but something was wrong. Lily’s trembling fingers reached out, searching for a pulse, and found it—faint but steady. Her relief was short-lived as she felt the unnatural coldness of his skin.
“James,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “He’s alive, but… something’s wrong. His magic… it feels—” She stopped, unable to articulate the unfamiliar sensation.
James crouched beside her, his jaw tight as he reached out to touch Harry’s hand. His brows furrowed as he felt the same unnatural stillness, the faint hum of unstable energy just beneath the surface. It was unlike anything he’d felt before, and it made his stomach churn.
Lily’s gaze shifted to Charles, and her breath caught. A thin, lightning-shaped scar cut across his forehead, vivid against his soot-streaked skin. Her fingers brushed over it lightly, and the boy whimpered but did not pull away.
“James,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Charles… he has a scar. But Harry…” Her eyes returned to their other son, her chest tightening. “Harry doesn’t have anything. No marks. But his magic—it feels wrong.”
Before James could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps filled the room. They turned sharply, wands raised, as Albus Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, his expression heavy with sorrow.
“James. Lily,” he said quietly, his blue eyes scanning the scene. “You’ve found them.”
Lily’s voice cracked as she spoke, clutching Harry to her chest. “Professor… what’s wrong with him? Charles has a scar, but Harry…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “He’s cold. His magic—it doesn’t feel right.”
Dumbledore approached slowly, his gaze lingering on both boys,the faintest of glimmers of concern flickering in his eyes as he moved closer to the boys.He gazed at the scar on Charles's forehead and then moved towards Harry, his fingers brushing the child’s forehead where the scar should have been just like his brother. A flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.
“The Killing Curse,” he said softly, his voice tinged with awe and sorrow. “It rebounded, striking Voldemort instead. Charles bears the mark of the curse’s touch, but Harry…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Harry’s magic has been… disrupted. The curse left no physical mark, but it has intertwined with his magic in ways we do not yet understand.”
James’s jaw tightened, his breath caught. His voice was low, shaking with barely controlled fear. "What does that mean for him?"
Dumbledore’s expression was grave. “It means his magic is unstable, unpredictable. It will need careful guidance, more so than most. And it means…” He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That there may now be a connection between Harry and Voldemort—a thread, faint but unbreakable.”
Lily’s breath caught. “A connection? He’s just a baby! He couldn’t—”
“I understand your fear,” Dumbledore said gently. “But this connection is not of his choosing. It is a consequence of the magic Voldemort wielded—a shadow that will follow him throughout his life.”
“What are you saying, Albus?” James demanded, his voice a mixture of anger and fear. “That my son is… what? Damaged? Dangerous?” He stepped between the older wizard and Harry, his protective instincts flaring even as uncertainty clawed at his heart. Lily looked at her youngest son, her tears falling freely now. “He’s not dangerous,” she whispered, almost pleading. “He’s not. He’s my baby.” Yet as she gazed at Harry, still so small and fragile in her arms, she couldn’t shake the way his presence felt… different.
Lily clutched Harry to her chest, her tears mingling with the soot smudging his tiny face. ‘He’s our son,’ she whispered, the tremor in her voice growing fiercer with each word. ‘Whatever this shadow is—whatever it takes—we’ll protect him. No one will take him from us.’”
Dumbledore nodded, but his gaze remained heavy.“Magic always leaves its mark,” he said softly. “And sometimes, that mark becomes a part of the person who bears it. Remember this, James and Lily. This connection, however faint it may seem now, will shape the course of his life—and yours.”
Lily’s arms tightened around both of her sons, her heart torn between fear and love. But no matter how hard they tried to push the fear away, it lingered in the corners of their minds. The unspoken thought between them—what if Harry's magic was dangerous? What if it made him like them, like Voldemort?
As they left the ruins of Godric’s Hollow, the faint scar on Charles’s forehead glimmered in the moonlight—a stark reminder of the night’s horrors. But the true mystery lay in Harry’s silence, in the quiet hum of unstable magic that pulsed within him, unseen but undeniably there.
The Potters clung to their sons, but unease lingered in their hearts, a question they dared not voice: how would Harry’s disrupted magic shape the future?
The once-united family now walked forward with a faint shadow of doubt between them. They were supposed to protect their children. But what if protecting them meant keeping Harry at arm’s length?
As the Potters carried their sons out of the ruins of their home, the magic arround Harry flared, pulsing faintly for a moment before fading. Neither James nor Lily noticed, but Dumbledore did. His expression darkened as he adjusted his half-moon glasses, his mind already racing with the implications. The Potters believed the danger had passed, but he knew better. The true battle… was only beginning.
Unseen by mortal eyes, an ancient presence observed the events of that fateful Halloween night.
Beyond the boundaries of time and space, it lingered — its essence interwoven with the fabric of existence. From its vantage point, it watched as choices were made, destinies altered, and lives forever marked by the forces of light and shadow.
The Watcher had seen this before — promises whispered in grief, in fear, in love. Promises that never lasted.
He stood unseen in the shadows, a silent observer as James and Lily Potter clutched their sons close — whispering their vows to protect, to nurture, to love.
“We’ll be there for them both,” James had promised, his voice breaking beneath the weight of dread.
“We’ll love them equally,” Lily had whispered, her fingers curling protectively around Harry’s tiny form. “No matter what.”
They meant it. The Watcher knew they did. But he also knew that grief had a way of changing people — twisting love into fear, and fear into distance.
Promises made in the heat of pain were often the first to falter when shadows stretched long enough to touch the heart.
The Watcher had seen it before — the way hope flickered in the aftermath of despair, only to wither beneath the weight of doubt.
He had seen the way Lily’s gaze lingered longer on Charles — her relief, her joy. How James’s fingers gripped Charles just a little tighter — as though the boy’s scar was a mark of victory, proof that one son had defied death itself.
And Harry...
Harry had no mark.
No scar to tell his story. No evidence that he had endured the same darkness. He was cold in his mother’s arms, quiet and still, yet humming with power that crackled beneath the surface — unstable, uncertain... and unknown.
The Watcher knew what this would mean.
He had seen this path before. One child held up as a symbol — The Boy Who Lived — showered in warmth, admiration, and endless protection. The other... a boy shadowed by whispers, suspicion, and doubt.
One cherished. One forgotten.
The Watcher wanted to believe things could be different this time — that the love in their voices would withstand the weight of fear. But he knew better.
In time, whispers would grow louder. Fear would spread like poison. And the promises they whispered tonight — the ones meant to keep both boys safe — would be the first to break.
Because magic leaves its mark...
And sometimes, the scars you can’t see are the most dangerous of all.
The Watcher closed his eyes, feeling the strands of fate shift and curl like smoke in the air. He could already see what was coming — a boy destined to carry the weight of his family’s doubts... a boy who would learn to stand alone.
And one day — when suspicion whispered too loudly and fear gnawed too deeply — they would forget that this was never Harry’s fault.
Fate had already shifted — and the path before them was paved in regret.
And with that final thought, the Watcher turned away — fading back into the shadows that stretched long across the broken walls of Godric’s Hollow.
The threads of fate had shifted — twisted and bent in ways that could no longer be undone.
The Potter family’s greatest tragedy was not what had happened that night. It was what would come next.