James and Lily had transformed their home into a Halloween masterpiece, decking it out with decorations that spilled from every corner, inside and out. It might have been a little over-the-top to some, but to them, it was perfect. They loved the eerie ambiance and took pride in creating a spooky wonderland for their family.
Outside, the house was cloaked in a misty haze, with enchanted fog creeping along the front yard, and eerie jack-o’-lanterns lining the walkway, their faces twisted into sinister grins that flickered with warm candlelight. A collection of ghoulish gravestones dotted the garden, each marked with witty epitaphs that would make any trick-or-treater pause for a second glance. Giant black bats flapped their wings from the eaves of the roof, and ghostly figures hovered near the windows, peering out at passersby.
Inside, the house was nothing short of a haunted haven. The staircase banister was wrapped thickly in layers of sticky cobwebs and tiny plastic spiders that seemed to scuttle as you passed by. The cobwebs stretched out and looped around each stair, transforming it into something that looked like a relic from a haunted manor. Red, black, and bone-white skulls lined the mantle of the living room, their hollow eyes staring out, casting shadows that danced with the light of flickering candles. Life-sized skeletons lounged in chairs, draped over tables, and leaned against the entrance to the hall, as if they’d come to life and chosen the Potters’ home as their resting place.
Pumpkins of all shapes and sizes were scattered throughout every room, some carved with eerie faces, others left unadorned but adding a cozy, autumnal touch. Some held candles, their inner glow adding warmth to the otherwise spooky decor, while others held mysterious, flickering lights that changed colors.
The entrance hall was decorated with candles floated freely in mid-air, casting a warm, ghostly glow. Lily had charmed them herself, and they hovered like stars, illuminating the hall in an ethereal light. The enchanted candles swayed slightly, as if caught in an unseen breeze, and gave the room an almost magical feel.
Even Harry’s nursery hadn’t been overlooked. Tiny, soft decorations filled the room—friendly-faced pumpkins, stuffed ghost dolls, and cheerful bats hung around, all chosen to make him giggle rather than frighten him. Strings of lights shaped like miniature jack-o’-lanterns and spiders wrapped around his crib, casting a gentle, comforting glow that let him feel part of the celebration in his own, safe way.
James and Lily’s Halloween setup was nothing short of a masterpiece. It was spooky yet warm, haunting yet homey, capturing the spirit of the season in a way that was utterly magical.
The only things missing from this Halloween scene were their closest friends, Remus and Sirius, who were due to arrive any moment for a cozy Halloween gathering. They’d planned a relaxed night together, ready to answer the door for trick-or-treaters, bake treats, and settle in to watch movies while Harry drifted off to sleep upstairs. It was simple but perfect, a quiet night surrounded by friends and the magic of Halloween.
Upstairs, Lily was in Harry’s nursery, gently rocking him and trying to lull him to sleep. But Harry was wide awake, his little hands reaching up to grab fistfuls of her fiery red hair, giggling at the way it glimmered in the dim nursery light. Lily smiled, pressing her cheek against his soft head, while her thumb traced soothing circles on his tiny back, just beneath his cozy pajamas covered in tiny pumpkins and skeletons. Despite his excitement, the gentle rocking and her touch slowly began to calm him.
Meanwhile, James was downstairs, making sure everything was ready for their friends’ arrival. He had transformed the living room into a warm haven, setting out a spread of snacks and drinks on the coffee table, and arranging extra blankets on the couch in case the October night got too chilly. Every detail was prepared with care, from the autumn-scented candles he’d lit to the stack of classic Halloween movies ready to play.
James glanced up at the clock, smiling at the thought of the evening to come—surrounded by friends, laughter, and the cozy warmth of a Halloween night at home.
A sharp knock came at the door, and James, assuming it was the first wave of trick-or-treaters, ran over, his excitement lightening his step. In his hurry, he left his wand lying on the coffee table, forgotten in the festive bustle. With a grin, he grabbed the bowl of sweets and swung the door open, expecting to see small children dressed as witches, wizards, or zombies on his doorstep. But instead, he came face to face with a nightmare.
Standing before him was Lord Voldemort, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the night, a sly and unsettling grin twisting his face. The mere sight of him sent an icy chill down James’s spine. He had prepared for many things that night—laughter, warmth, a safe evening with friends and family. But this was the one threat he had always dreaded, the one danger he could hardly bear to think about.
In an instant, the only thoughts running through James’s mind were of Lily and Harry, safe and unsuspecting upstairs. He could picture them exactly as he’d left them: Lily rocking Harry, who was likely still tugging at her hair, blissfully unaware of the terror looming just below.
He felt the urgency rise within him, a fierce desperation to protect them, to buy them even a few precious seconds.
“LILY, HE’S HERE! RUN!” he shouted up the stairs, his voice raw and desperate.
But Voldemort was ready. His wand was raised in a swift, practiced movement, and before James could react or reach for his own wand, the words slipped from Voldemort’s mouth with deadly precision.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A flash of green light filled the entryway, illuminating every cobweb, every shadow, before it vanished just as quickly. James felt nothing but a brief, intense cold, and then… silence. His body crumpled to the dark wooden floor, his glasses slipping from his face and landing just inches in front of his outstretched hand, as though even in his final moment, he had reached toward something he could no longer touch.
As he fell, a final thought clung to him—the image of Lily and Harry, safe and out of harm’s reach. He’d done everything he could, everything within his power, to give them a chance. And even in that last instant, as the darkness enveloped him, James Potter’s final, fierce wish was that they might live.
Voldemort stepped over James’s lifeless body without a second glance, his gaze fixed on the staircase ahead. James’s final wish—his desperate hope to protect his family—meant nothing to him. His footsteps were slow, unhurried, each one echoing in the stillness as he ascended the stairs of the Potters’ home. He could sense where they were hiding, feel the pull of the life he had come to snuff out. The nursery door at the end of the hall was shut, and behind it, he knew his prey waited.
As he neared the door, Voldemort’s long, bony fingers reached out, hovering just above the doorknob. His movements were deliberate, almost relishing the fear he knew must be brewing on the other side. He was a predator closing in, and there was no escaping him.
Inside the nursery, Lily clutched Harry tightly to her chest. Her heart raced as she heard the slow, steady footsteps approaching. She knew what it meant—that James was gone, and she and Harry were alone. Fear gripped her, sharp and paralyzing, yet a fierce determination simmered beneath it. She could feel Harry’s small hands clutching at her shirt, his cries growing louder, as though he sensed the darkness closing in.
Turning to face the door, Lily’s mind raced. Memories flashed before her—moments of laughter with James, the warmth of his arms around her, the joy they had felt holding Harry for the first time. She had always known that this threat loomed over them, but now that it was here, her only thought was how to protect her son, how to keep him safe even if it meant sacrificing herself.
The door swung open, and there he stood: Voldemort, his cold, serpentine eyes gleaming with malice as they locked onto her. His presence seemed to suck the air from the room, chilling it to the bone. Lily spun around to face him, holding Harry close before setting him down gently in his crib, her eyes never leaving Voldemort. She raised her wand, hand shaking, but her gaze fierce and unwavering.
Voldemort paused, a faint smirk curling on his lips as he took in her defiance. Her bravery was useless, and he knew it. She knew it, too. But as she looked into his hollow eyes, she felt a surge of strength. Even if she couldn’t save herself, she would do everything in her power to shield her son.
“Please,” she whispered, desperation breaking through, “please… not Harry. Take me instead.”
But Voldemort was unmoved. Her pleas meant nothing to him. She had no illusions about mercy or grace; this was a monster without empathy, and her words were falling on deaf ears.
Lily backed up, shielding Harry with her body. She tried to summon a spell, her voice breaking as she began to speak, “Expelli—” but her words were cut short. Voldemort’s curse struck her before she could finish, the flash of green light filling the nursery.
She felt a brief, biting cold, and then… nothing.
For the second time that night, the killing curse filled the Potters’ home. Lily fell, her body crumpling to the floor, her hand still outstretched as though reaching for her son one last time. Her final thoughts clung to Harry, her wish that he might somehow be spared, that he would live, carrying the memory of the love she had for him, a love stronger than death itself.
And in the stillness that followed, Harry was left alone, a lone survivor in the wake of the dark magic that had shattered his family.
Voldemort turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Harry, who sat crying in the crib, his tiny face streaked with tears, too young to understand the horror that had just unfolded. Voldemort felt no emotion as he looked down upon the infant, only a clinical resolve. There was no hesitation, no trace of remorse in his cold gaze. He was as removed from compassion as he was from life itself—a creature driven only by power, having torn away any remnants of humanity long ago.
Raising his wand, Voldemort spoke the words that had taken both of Harry’s parents from him, the deadly curse slipping through his dry, serpentine lips without a flicker of doubt.
“Avada Kedavra.”
The green light blazed from his wand, hurtling toward the small boy, the last obstacle in Voldemort’s twisted vision of his future. But something happened that Voldemort, in all his knowledge of the dark arts, could never have anticipated. As the curse made contact, instead of ending the child’s life, it rebounded. A violent surge of power shot back, slamming into Voldemort with an intensity that he had never known. He felt an agonizing force twist through him, tearing apart the very essence of his being.
Voldemort staggered, his vision splitting as the force of his own curse was reflected back at him. His soul, already fractured by years of dark magic and the creation of Horcruxes, was ripped apart once again, violently and mercilessly. He could feel pieces of himself disintegrating, his very essence splintering under the backlash. It was as if he was both dead and alive—neither fully present nor fully gone. His body was gone, rendered nothing but a faint wisp of consciousness, clinging to the world but forever altered.
In the crib, Harry lay seemingly untouched. The only sign of Voldemort’s failed curse was a thin, lightning-shaped scar that had just begun to mark his forehead, a strange reminder of the spell that had almost claimed his life. This scar, though small, was far more than a physical mark; it was a symbol of survival, and a tether to the dark magic that would follow him for years to come.
Voldemort did not die, not in the way mortals understand death. His soul had been so shattered by his own doing—by the unspeakable acts he’d committed, by his decision to split his soul into seven pieces to create Horcruxes—that death in the traditional sense was no longer possible for him. But he wasn’t whole, either. He became a shadow of himself, something barely existing, tethered to life by his scattered soul fragments, cursed to wander as little more than a formless spirit.
As the Potters’ home lay silent once more, Harry remained in his crib, miraculously alive, his cries softened now to quiet whimpers. Voldemort, having lost everything he had once been, was gone, his power diminished, his physical form destroyed. And in that quiet room, under the weight of unspeakable tragedy, a story that would reshape the wizarding world had begun—a story of a boy who had survived the Dark Lord’s curse, marked by fate with a scar that would bind him forever to the darkest wizard of his age.