The Vanishing Light
Prologue: The Vanishing Light
The night of Halloween, 1981, had arrived with a foreboding stillness, settling over Godric’s Hollow like a heavy veil. The village seemed to slumber beneath a blanket of mist, the kind that muffled sound and swallowed light. A full moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the small cottages that dotted the landscape.
One cottage, at the far end of the village, held an unusual quiet. It was the home of the Potters, hidden under the protection of the Fidelius Charm. Inside, the Potters’ infant son, Harry, slept soundly in his crib, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling as he dreamed. But tonight, he was not alone.
In the corner of the room, another crib held a sleeping baby, barely older than Harry. His dark hair was messy, sticking up in tufts just like his father’s. This was Aster Apollon Black, the long-lost son of Sirius Black, entrusted to the care of the Potters for the night. A decision born out of necessity and trust, and one that would mark the beginning of a legend.
---
Across the village, in the depths of the night, a figure materialized out of the shadows. His robes, blacker than the night itself, flowed around him as though they were alive. Lord Voldemort had arrived. His red, snake-like eyes gleamed with cruel intent, his face twisted with anticipation. This was the night the prophecy would be fulfilled. The night he would finally rid himself of the threat that loomed over his dark reign.
He had found them.
The Fidelius Charm was no longer a barrier—thanks to the treachery of Peter Pettigrew, Voldemort knew where the Potters were hiding. He had come for the child of prophecy. Harry Potter. The one destined to destroy him.
He moved with unnatural silence, his wand already drawn, the power of the Killing Curse simmering just beneath the surface. As he neared the front door of the cottage, he raised his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, the door exploded inward with a deafening crash.
The sound reverberated through the house, but there was no movement from the adults—none to greet him. They weren’t home. Voldemort had planned this well. The Potters, and even Sirius Black, were absent, perhaps lulled by a false sense of security in the enchantments that protected this place. But they had left the children behind, unaware that fate had other plans.
Voldemort stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on the staircase. The nursery was upstairs, just as Pettigrew had promised. A slow smile crept across his face as he ascended, his steps deliberate, each one drawing him closer to his goal.
---
In the nursery, Harry shifted in his sleep, a soft whimper escaping his lips. Beside him, Aster remained still, his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. The two infants, oblivious to the danger that crept ever closer, lay side by side, linked by a thread of fate neither of them could yet comprehend.
The door to the nursery creaked open, and Voldemort stood in the doorway, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the room. His eyes locked onto the crib, and for a moment, he paused, a fleeting hint of curiosity crossing his mind. Two children?
He moved closer, peering down at the babies. The one with the untamed black hair and emerald green eyes—that was Harry Potter, the boy he had come to kill. But the other... something about him was different. The child’s features were sharp, more defined than Harry’s, his hair even darker, his aura more... potent.
No matter. The prophecy had spoken of Harry Potter. The other child was irrelevant.
He raised his wand, the tip glowing a sickly green as the incantation of death formed on his lips. “Avada Kedavra.”
The curse shot through the air, a flash of green light illuminating the nursery. The spell was aimed at Harry, its power hungry to claim the life of the child prophesied to defeat him.
But then something inexplicable happened.
The spell never reached Harry.
Before the curse could strike, there was a sudden surge of energy—a ripple in the very fabric of magic itself. It wasn’t Harry who responded. It was Aster.
The dark-haired baby stirred, as if something deep within him had been awakened. His small hand clenched, and the air around him seemed to thrum with an unseen force. The Killing Curse, which had been destined for Harry, was diverted, pulled toward Aster instead. The green light struck the child, but instead of killing him, the magic recoiled with a violent burst.
The explosion of energy rocked the nursery, shattering the windows and sending Voldemort staggering backward. His body convulsed as the rebounded curse tore through him, ripping his soul from his physical form. He screamed, a high, terrible sound that echoed in the night, before his form disintegrated, leaving behind nothing but a pile of tattered robes and his wand.
As the dust settled, the room fell into an eerie silence.
Aster was gone.
Where the baby had once lain, there was nothing but the soft indentation of his tiny body in the blankets. He had vanished, disappeared as if plucked from the world by the very magic that had saved him.
Harry remained, unharmed save for a single, jagged scar that now marred his forehead—a lightning bolt, still smoking faintly from the curse that had nearly claimed his life.
---
It wasn’t until hours later that the Potters returned.
James, Lily, Sirius, and Albus Dumbledore appeared in a whirl of urgency, their faces etched with worry and exhaustion. They had been summoned by the charm that protected the house, alerted that something terrible had happened.
James was the first to step into the wreckage of the cottage, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Lily—Lily, where are they?”
Lily’s heart raced as she pushed past him, running up the stairs two at a time. Her mind screamed for her children—for Harry, for Aster—but fear clamped down on her throat, strangling her voice.
Sirius followed close behind, his face pale. “Aster,” he whispered, a prayer more than a question. “Where’s my son?”
Dumbledore, calm but grave, surveyed the scene as they all reached the nursery.
The sight that greeted them was worse than they could have imagined. The crib was in shambles, the walls scorched from the magic that had erupted within the room. The windows were blown out, shards of glass littering the floor.
And there, in the middle of the devastation, was Harry.
Lily rushed to his side, scooping him up into her arms. He was alive—thank Merlin, he was alive—but her relief was short-lived as she noticed the scar on his forehead. “James... his scar...”
James stepped closer, his eyes filled with concern. “What happened here?”
But Sirius was not listening. He was frantically searching the room, his heart pounding in his chest. “Aster?” His voice cracked, and the panic in his eyes was unmistakable. “Aster!”
There was no answer.
Dumbledore moved toward the pile of blackened robes in the corner. He bent down, lifting Voldemort’s wand in his hand, his expression grave. “He was here,” he said softly, his voice laced with a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Voldemort came for Harry.”
“But Harry is alive,” James said, his voice unsteady. “He’s alive. How?”
Dumbledore glanced at the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead, his eyes narrowing in thought. “It seems,” he began slowly, “that Harry has done what no one thought possible. He survived the Killing Curse.”
Lily clutched Harry tightly to her chest, tears streaming down her face. “But Aster... where is Aster?”
Sirius sank to his knees, his hands trembling as he stared at the empty space where his son had been. “He was here... he was supposed to be safe...”
Dumbledore’s expression darkened. “Aster Black is gone,” he said softly. “There is no trace of him.”
Sirius’s eyes blazed with desperation. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“There is no sign of him, not even a magical signature,” Dumbledore replied. “Whatever happened here... it has taken Aster with it.”
The weight of his words settled over the room like a shroud.
James, his voice thick with grief, whispered, “But Harry... you think he’s the one? The boy from the prophecy?”
Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “Harry Potter is the Boy Who Lived.”
Sirius’s gaze lingered on the empty crib, his heart shattered, as the world outside remained oblivious to the great secret that had vanished with the night.