Chapter 1
I don’t want to die.
It was the last thought that crossed Harry Potter’s mind before the green light consumed him.
Death had always been there, an inevitable shadow looming over him, a fate he had accepted without question. Ever since he had learned of the prophecy, since he had understood that it had to be either him or Voldemort, he had never truly believed he would make it out of this war alive. He wasn’t the most talented wizard, nor the cleverest. Just a boy lucky enough to survive—until now.
And now, he knew the truth. His life had never been his own. A fragment of Voldemort’s soul had been inside him all along. He was never meant to survive. His fate had always been death.
And somehow, that knowledge had freed him. The certainty of it.
He had walked into the Forbidden Forest without resistance, without fighting the inevitable. He had lowered his wand and accepted his end. But now, in the final instant, terror struck him like a fist to the gut. The need to live surged through him, raw and desperate, crashing over him with the force of a tidal wave.
He wanted to live.
And how pathetic it was to realise it only now.
Ron would have laughed in disbelief, calling him stubborn as ever. Hermione would have closed her eyes, sighed, and said it was typical of him—to leave everything to the last moment.
But they would never say anything again.
Because he had left them. Left everyone behind.
He would never see Ron step out from his brothers’ shadows and carve his own path. Never watch Hermione change the world, become Minister for Magic, fight for the causes she believed in. He would never return to the Burrow to smell Mrs Weasley’s fresh-baked bread or sit by the fire for another game of wizard chess. Never know what it felt like to grow old, to build a life where he was more than just The Chosen One.
Harry Potter would become a name in the pages of A History of Magic. A face etched into statues and portraits.
But what about him? The boy who laughed until his stomach ached, who loved flying more than anything else in the world?
That Harry would be gone.
Fear tightened in his chest as darkness wrapped around him, pulling him into a deep, endless void. He felt life slipping away, an invisible thread snapping, as if he were nothing more than a memory being erased.
But then—something happened.
The darkness quivered. It pulsed around him like a living thing, breathing, whispering. The nothingness that should have swallowed him for eternity… hesitated. It split apart, torn open from within, revealing something beyond. Time did not just fold; it shattered, breaking into unseen fragments that swirled around him.
And then, he felt it.
A presence. Cold as ancient ice, but not cruel. Sad, perhaps. Almost… gentle. Something curled around his skin like a ghostly caress, a touch that mourned his very existence.
A voice rose—not in the air, but inside him. Soft as wind through a graveyard, yet deafening, a cry that vibrated through his bones.
"Go, and live, my poor child."
It was not a request. It was not a command.
It was sorrow.
Harry fell. Or flew. Or unraveled. The world splintered and reformed in the space of a heartbeat, a torrent of sensations and memories twisting inside his mind. Something was torn from him, like an anchor cut loose from a weight he had never realised he carried.
And then—silence.
But not the silence of death.
The silence of the world before the first dawn. The silence of something ancient and forgotten, waiting to wake.
Harry opened his eyes.
And then, he fainted.
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"Everybody, step back!"
Albus Dumbledore’s voice cracked through the air like thunder, carrying a sharp urgency that chilled the blood of every student on the pitch. The confused murmurs fell into an abrupt, absolute silence. In seconds, a shimmering blue barrier rose between them and the fallen creature on the grass.
The sky, which moments ago had been alive with the energy of the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin match, seemed to darken, as though the clouds themselves hesitated at the intruder’s presence. The wind turned colder.
"Do not approach." Dumbledore’s voice rang out again, quieter this time, but heavy with authority. "Fetch Healer Lestrange. Immediately."
Wand raised, every sense on high alert, he stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and whatever had fallen from the sky.
And then—he saw it.
Dumbledore almost faltered.
It was a boy.
Dark, messy hair spilled over a face pale as marble. Too young. Too thin. His skin so bloodless it had a sickly, almost translucent quality, as though the very life had been drained from him. His chest rose and fell in weak, shallow breaths—he was alive. But something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Dumbledore knelt, hands steady, though his eyes betrayed hesitation. He had seen horrors in his long life, witnessed magic at its darkest depths, yet something about this boy struck him in a way he could not name.
And then, he saw them.
Blackened lines, twisting like poisoned roots, crawled up the child’s fingers, spiralling to his elbows before vanishing beneath the tattered sleeves of his shirt. His skin looked scorched from the inside out, as though something unnatural had taken root within him, pulsing erratically, corrupting everything it touched.
The air reeked of Dark Magic. Thick. Suffocating.
A heavy weight pressed against Dumbledore’s chest. This was no ordinary curse. No common hex. This was something older, something worse. Something that should not exist.
His pale blue eyes flickered with a mix of horror and something he hated to name—fascination.
"Merlin help us…" he murmured, unaware that he had spoken aloud.
"Albus! Albus! What is the meaning of this? Let me through at once!"
Headmaster Armando Dippet’s voice shattered his trance, pulling Dumbledore back from the abyss of his thoughts. He blinked, as though waking from a waking nightmare—but the scene before him remained unchanged. The boy was still there, crumpled on the grass, wrapped in that dreadful, suffocating aura.
With a distracted flick of his wand, Dumbledore lowered part of the barrier, allowing Dippet to step through.
"Something breached the castle’s wards," Dippet began, his voice edged with urgency. "I felt it the moment—what in Merlin’s name?"
He stopped short.
His gaze landed on the motionless boy, and for a moment, his wrinkled face turned as pale as parchment.
Dumbledore saw the precise instant realisation struck.
"Do not come any closer, Headmaster," Albus warned, his voice low, firm. "It could be dangerous."
But Dippet was already moving.
The older man, dressed in flowing dark robes that billowed in the rising wind, paid no heed to the caution in Dumbledore’s eyes. His silvered beard quivered slightly as he stepped forward, determined.
"By Merlin…" Dippet muttered, his expression hardening as he turned back to Dumbledore. "It’s just a child, Albus."
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. His blue eyes remained locked on the blackened veins curling up the boy’s arms, on the fingertips darkened by a magic that looked as though it were eating him from the inside out.
Not just a child.
"Headmaster—" Albus started, uncertain, but Dippet was already kneeling beside the boy.
Dumbledore watched, his stomach twisting, as the man hesitated—just briefly—before reaching out, as though rousing a sleeping son.
But that sleep was not natural.
Everything in Dumbledore screamed at him to stop, to wait, to think.
That was when Healer Lestrange arrived.
Her steps echoed sharply across the now-silent Quidditch pitch. Without hesitation, she drew her wand, and with Dippet’s aid, cast a levitation charm, lifting the boy gently from the ground.
Dumbledore remained behind as they carried the child inside. He had to calm the students, end the Quidditch match, ensure that panic did not spread. But a nagging dread rooted itself deep in his chest, refusing to budge.
As soon as he could, he followed them to the hospital wing.
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The ward had been emptied. Only one bed remained at the centre of the room. The windows were shut tight, as if the very walls of the infirmary sought to contain the unsettling presence that had arrived with the boy.
Dumbledore entered slowly. Candlelight flickered across the walls, casting uneasy shadows over Healer Lestrange as she stood beside the bed. Her blonde hair hung in disarray, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she wove complex incantations over the unconscious figure.
Dippet was there too. Seated in a chair, hands clasped tightly, his face lined with concern. But when he noticed Albus, he stood at once.
"Albus." Dippet greeted, his voice unusually grave.
"Headmaster," Albus acknowledged with a nod before turning to the boy on the bed. "Has Healer Lestrange learned anything?"
Dippet exhaled, looking away. "Only that he is severely dehydrated and suffering from magical exhaustion." His voice wavered with unease. "His body is covered in scratches. And other marks… some of them—terrible."
Dumbledore’s expression did not change, but something tightened in his chest.
"But Albus…" Dippet lowered his voice. As though even the walls should not hear. "There is something you need to see."
Dumbledore arched a brow, scrutinising the older man closely. Dippet was not easily shaken—yet here he stood, hesitant, reluctant to speak.
"What is she doing?" Albus asked instead, glancing at Healer Lestrange, who still murmured incantations.
Dippet ran a long, gnarled hand over his beard before sighing. "Trying to identify the magic on the boy’s arms."
Albus gave a slow nod. It was a futile effort—Dark Magic of that nature did not yield to simple identification spells.
Then, without another word, Dippet reached out and lifted the boy’s dark shirt.
And what Albus saw made his breath catch.
On the child’s waist, carved into his skin like a living brand, a black symbol gleamed beneath the flickering candlelight.
A symbol Dumbledore knew all too well.
The Deathly Hallows.
Grindelwald’s mark.
It pulsed—alive, hungry, festering beneath the boy’s flesh like an open wound that would never heal.
Dumbledore felt a shiver crawl down his spine. His face betrayed nothing, but inside, something cold and unnameable twisted in his gut. He knew that mark. Every witch and wizard who had lived under Grindelwald’s shadow knew it.
A seal of loyalty. A binding promise burned into the flesh of those who swore fealty.
And now, it was marked upon this boy.
Dippet stepped back, as though the full weight of the revelation had only now struck him. His face, once merely concerned, turned to pure, unfiltered horror.
"Albus… I believe we must call the Aurors."
His voice wavered, reluctant, almost as if he despised the words even as he spoke them.
He looked at the boy—at the mark—and for the first time, Dumbledore saw it in his eyes.
A fear that neither of them dared name.
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. His piercing gaze remained fixed upon the mark, his mind working at a feverish pace. He had expected something dark—the very air had been thick with the scent of Dark Magic from the moment he had first laid eyes on the boy, sprawled and motionless on the Quidditch pitch.
But this?
This was beyond what he had imagined.
If that mark was real... then this boy belonged to Grindelwald.
And yet—something didn’t fit.
Dumbledore observed him more closely. Even unconscious, the child seemed... fragile. There was something in the way he lay there, in the sharp angles of his starved body, in the cuts and bruises littering his skin. This was not the image of a devoted follower.
This was the image of someone who had fought. Someone who had suffered.
If he was part of Grindelwald’s army, why was he in this state?
"If we call the Aurors, he will be arrested."
Dippet frowned, clearly taken aback by the objection. "Albus..."
"And if he is a spy?" Dumbledore cut in, his voice colder than he had intended. "Or a victim?"
Dippet hesitated. He knew as well as anyone that, while some of Grindelwald’s followers wore his mark with pride, others bore it against their will.
Dumbledore turned back to the sleeping boy, his expression softening just a fraction, though his mind remained as sharp as a blade.
If this boy belonged to Grindelwald, then he knew something.
And Dumbledore needed to find out what.
"We will question him," he said at last, his voice steady. "I shall ask Horace to bring Veritaserum."
Dr Lestrange’s head snapped up, her wand stilling mid-air as she worked. The flickering glow of magic around the boy dimmed as she turned to face Albus.
"That is not safe, Professor." Her voice, usually calm and composed, was edged with steel. "His magic is unstable."
Her gaze flickered to the boy, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I still haven’t determined exactly what was done to him. Giving him such a strong potion in this state could make things far worse."
Dippet sighed, rubbing a weary hand across his face. His troubled eyes lingered on the boy, as if caught in an internal battle of conscience.
"We may have no other choice, Abby," he murmured.
The healer inhaled sharply, tension written in every line of her posture.
And then—Albus stepped closer.
His expression was gentle, his tone even, almost soothing. A faint smile curved his lips.
"I understand your concern for your patient," he said, his voice dropping into something warm, reassuring. Persuasive. "But think of the other students in the castle. We must keep them safe as well."
He inclined his head slightly, his presence suddenly more familiar, more understanding—but the intent behind his words was clear.
It was for the greater good.
Dra. Lestrange’s shoulders slackened just slightly, her gaze lowering. A trace of fire faded from her expression, replaced by something quieter—resignation.
Her eyes flickered back to the boy, and for a moment, her face was shadowed with something like pity.
"...Fine," she murmured at last, reluctant. "But we wait until he wakes. The boy needs rest before anything else."
Dumbledore nodded, his features as serene as ever.
"I would not have it any other way."
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