Eternal Ties

The wind howled through the trees surrounding Godric’s Hollow, carrying with it the chill of an autumn night. Lord Voldemort stood before the small, quaint house, its stone walls silent and dark under the moonlight. This was where it would all end for the Potter family. The prophesied child was inside, no more than a helpless infant, unaware of the destiny that awaited him.

Voldemort’s lips curled into a sneer. He could hardly believe that the boy—this boy—was meant to be his downfall. But he had learned not to dismiss prophecies, not when so much depended on it. His wand rested lightly in his hand, poised for the final blow. 

But as he stood before the door, his mind wandered back to the moment that had amused him greatly, the night Severus Snape had come to him, begging for Lily Potter’s life.

He had been disgusted by Snape’s pathetic pleas. Pleas for a woman who wasn’t even worthy of such devotion. Lily Evans—so plain, so unremarkable. And Snape had groveled for her as if she were something precious. Fool. Snape had never known the pain of true loss, had never been marked by magic itself, blessed with a soulmate.

Snape had never felt the full ache of losing the one person who completed you in ways no other could. No, Voldemort thought coldly, Snape doesn’t know what it means to lose a soulmate.

Voldemort did.

His chest tightened with a familiar pain that he had long since learned to bury beneath his ambitions. But tonight, as he stood at the precipice of what he had to do, that ache seemed sharper, more pronounced. He had found his soulmate, so many years ago. So briefly. And then, as quickly as fate had granted him that piece of magic, it had ripped it away.

Even now, the loss of his soulmate felt like a wound that would never heal, no matter how many years passed. He had searched, relentlessly, for ways to fill that emptiness. His rise to power, his quest for immortality, his obsession with the Hallows—all of it had been born from that single loss. He had once believed that nothing could break him, but when his soulmate had been taken from him, he had known pain in its truest form.

But soon, all that would change.

Becoming the Master of Death was the only way. It was the path to reunion, the way to restore what had been stolen from him. This prophecy was just another step toward that goal. The death of the Potter child would solidify his power, bringing him one step closer to reclaiming what was rightfully his. His other half.

The old magic surrounding the house pulsed faintly in the air. The Potters had put their faith in protection spells, but it would be of no use. He was stronger. They had only delayed the inevitable. 

He took another step toward the door, his thoughts turning back to the bond that had been so brutally severed. The full weight of the loss pressed down on him, a constant, gnawing ache deep within his chest. He had lived with it for so long that it had become a part of him, shaping every choice, every desire. His soulmate was the one thing he couldn’t replace, couldn’t forget. 

And he would stop at nothing to get them back.

Even now, the thought of his soulmate was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it fueled his relentless pursuit of power. On the other, it reminded him of the one thing he had failed to protect. The one thing that had made him feel truly alive. The ache gnawed at him, sharper tonight, as if the final piece of the prophecy was mocking him. 

Soon, he told himself. Soon, all of this would be over. The Potter child would die, the prophecy would be void, and he would be one step closer to mastering death itself. His soulmate would return to him, and the emptiness that had haunted him for so long would finally be filled.

His fingers tightened around his wand. He could hear movement from inside the house. A baby’s cry, soft and insistent. 

With a quiet flick of his wrist, the door unlocked. It swung open, revealing the hallway within. 

James Potter was the first to face him. He rushed forward, wand raised, desperate to protect his family. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

The spell hit Potter before he could get a word out, his body crumpling to the ground. Voldemort stepped over the body without a second glance. James Potter was insignificant—just another man standing in his way.

It was the boy that mattered.

Lily Potter appeared in the doorway of the nursery, her green eyes wide with terror as she clutched her son to her chest. Voldemort’s lip curled in disdain. More begging, more pointless pleading, he thought. But this time, his mind flashed back to Snape—Snape, who had begged for this woman’s life as if it were something more than fleeting.

How little they all understood. Lily wasn’t Snape’s soulmate. She wasn’t bound to him by magic so powerful it transcended life and death. She was just a woman, and she would fall like all the others.

“Stand aside, foolish girl,” Voldemort hissed, his voice cold and final. “Stand aside now.”

But she wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.

She screamed as the green light of the curse burst from his wand, and she crumpled to the floor, her arms still outstretched toward the child she had tried to protect.

Voldemort stepped forward, his gaze now locked on the child in the crib. The boy’s bright green eyes stared up at him, unknowing, unafraid. 

How could this boy be a threat?

He raised his wand, focusing on the prophecy. Once the child was dead, everything would be set in motion. His quest for immortality, for ultimate power—for the reunion with his lost soulmate—would finally be within reach.

Voldemort’s wand was poised, the familiar words ready to leave his lips, but something unexpected caught his attention. The boy in the crib, so small and insignificant, stared up at him with wide, curious eyes. They were startlingly bright, glowing in the dim light of the nursery.

Green.

A very particular shade of green.

For a moment, Voldemort froze, his breath catching in his throat. His hand trembled ever so slightly around his wand, a reaction he hadn't felt in years. Those eyes… He hadn’t seen that shade in so long, not since…

His mind was pulled back, unwillingly, to a time he had buried deep, to a pair of eyes that had once meant everything to him. Eyes filled with life and warmth—so much warmth that it had melted the walls around his frozen heart, if only for a fleeting moment. That exact shade of green had been the only thing that had ever broken through the cold, endless darkness inside him. He had never forgotten those eyes.

His soulmate.

A fierce ache surged through him, sharper than anything he had felt in years. His frozen heart seemed to stir, to remember the sensation of something other than ambition, other than cold fury. It was as if, for just a heartbeat, the emptiness that consumed him flickered with a trace of warmth, a ghost of the connection he had lost.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

Fury erupted within him, burning away the brief crack in his icy exterior. How dare this insignificant boy possess those same eyes! How dare he wear the very shade that belonged to the one person who had been taken from him! The thought twisted his rage into something darker, something deeply personal. 

The boy —this boy— was not worthy of those eyes. He was nothing. A mere child, prophesied to be his undoing. And yet here he lay, staring up at him with their eyes. His soulmate’s eyes.

The memory of that connection, the warmth it had once brought him, only fueled his anger. It had been a mistake to allow himself to feel anything back then. A weakness. And now, this child was mocking him—mocking his pain, his loss—with those same eyes, as though fate itself was laughing in his face.

Voldemort’s grip tightened on his wand, his fury surging. The ache in his heart was drowned out by the overwhelming need to obliterate the boy who dared to remind him of what he had lost. He would not allow this child, this pitiful creature, to echo the one thing that had ever mattered to him. 

No. The boy would die. And with his death, the last trace of that memory, that pain, would die as well.

He raised his wand again, eyes narrowing with cold determination.

“Avada Kedavra.”

And that was when everything went wrong.

The curse left his wand with its usual deadly power, but instead of striking the child, the magic seemed to recoil, as if something deep and ancient within the boy repelled it. The spell turned, spiraling back toward him with a force he couldn’t stop.

And then—there was nothing.

--

Sirius Black dismounted his motorbike with a sharp, uneasy breath, his heart hammering in his chest. The village of Godric's Hollow was eerily quiet, the air heavy with a darkness that seemed to press down on him. He hoped—prayed—that the news wasn't true. That the Potters were still alive, that this was all some kind of horrible misunderstanding.

But when he reached the edge of the property, dread coiled in his gut. The house was in ruins. The roof had collapsed, the walls scorched, and the front door hung loosely from its hinges. He stumbled forward, his legs suddenly weak beneath him. This couldn’t be happening. Not to James. Not to Lily.

His worst fears were confirmed the moment he stepped inside.

James lay motionless on the floor, his wand just inches from his hand. His glasses were askew, his eyes—once so full of life and mischief—were wide open, unseeing. Sirius felt the world fall away, a roar of grief drowning out everything else. 

“James… no…” His voice cracked, and he collapsed to his knees beside his best friend’s body, his shaking hands hovering over him. The reality was too much to bear. The weight of it crushed him, and a gut-wrenching scream tore from his throat. 

Grief and guilt crashed over him in waves. It’s my fault. I convinced them to switch Secret Keepers. I trusted Peter. The fury in his chest burned hotter, consuming him with every passing second. He clenched his fists, a fresh surge of rage coursing through him. Peter—that rat, that traitor—had betrayed them. He had sold them out to Voldemort, led him straight to James and Lily.

Sirius was ready to explode. He would find Peter, and when he did, there would be no mercy. The desire for revenge was all-consuming, his vision blurred with fury. He was already halfway to his feet, ready to storm out and hunt Peter down, when a faint sound stopped him cold.

A cry. A baby’s cry.

He froze, his heart skipping a beat. Harry?

He spun toward the sound, eyes wide with disbelief, and there, descending the stairs, was Hagrid. The enormous man carefully cradled a small bundle in his arms.

“Harry…” Sirius whispered, the relief mixing with the confusion in his chest. His godson was alive. Against all odds, he had survived.

Sirius rushed forward, desperate to take the child. “Hagrid! Give him to me—I’ll take him. I’m his godfather, he belongs with me.”

Hagrid, his face lined with grief, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sirius. I got strict orders from Dumbledore. Harry’s to go to his aunt and uncle’s.”

Sirius blinked, momentarily stunned. “What? Hagrid, no. Let me take him. I can protect him—I’ll keep him safe!” His voice broke, pleading. He couldn’t bear to lose Harry too, not after everything.

But Hagrid, as gentle as he was, was unmovable. “I can’t, Sirius. Dumbledore’s orders.”

Sirius felt torn in two. The grief and fury still seethed inside him, the need for vengeance pulling him toward Peter, toward justice for James and Lily. But Harry—Harry—was right in front of him, alive, and in desperate need of protection.

His mind raced. He could go after Peter now, take his revenge, or he could stay with Harry. He glanced down at the boy in Hagrid’s arms. The baby’s tiny face was scrunched up in confusion, his bright green eyes—Lily’s eyes—wide with fear and loss. The sight of those eyes broke something inside him.

James had entrusted him with this. He was Harry’s godfather. James and Lily were gone, and Harry was all that was left of them. His responsibility. His family.

The rage in Sirius began to cool, replaced by something more powerful—concern. James and Lily were gone, but Harry needed him now. That was what mattered. The thirst for revenge could wait.

Sirius swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. “Alright,” he said, his voice rough. “We’ll go to Dumbledore—together.”

Hagrid looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing his intentions, before finally nodding. “Alright, Sirius. Let’s go.”

Sirius glanced back at James one last time, his heart heavy with grief and guilt. He would find Peter, he vowed silently. But for now, his godson needed him. He needed to make sure Harry was safe, whatever it took.

With a final look at the house that had once been filled with so much love and laughter, Sirius mounted his motorbike, and together with Hagrid, they left Godric’s Hollow behind, carrying the last hope of the Potters’ legacy with them.

The night air in Privet Drive was still and quiet, in stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling inside Sirius Black. As he dismounted from his motorbike, with baby Harry safely wrapped in his arms, he could see two figures standing in the shadows near Number Four. Albus Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were already waiting, their expressions unreadable in the dim streetlight.

Sirius barely took a moment to collect himself before storming toward them. “Dumbledore,” he said, his voice strained with barely contained fury. “It was Peter. Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper. He betrayed James and Lily. I never should have trusted him…”

Dumbledore’s sharp blue eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and understanding, though his face remained calm. “Peter Pettigrew?” he repeated softly, as if turning the name over in his mind. He glanced down at Harry, still nestled in Sirius’s arms. After a moment of silence, he sighed. “I see.”

Sirius’s hands tightened protectively around Harry. “He’s my godson, Albus. I’ll be taking him. I’m not letting him go to anyone else.”

McGonagall’s gaze was filled with sorrow as she looked at the child, her lips pressed into a thin line. “But, Sirius, what about the blood protection?” she asked softly, a note of urgency in her voice. “If Harry goes to live with his aunt—”

Sirius cut her off, his voice rising with frustration. “No.” He could feel the anger surging again, the very idea of Harry living with Petunia Dursley igniting a deep protective instinct. “You don’t know what Petunia was like, Minerva. Lily told me plenty. She hated magic. She hated Lily. I won’t let Harry grow up in a house where he’s despised.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened, but there was an edge of firmness in his voice as he spoke. “I understand your concerns, Sirius. But Harry’s safety must be our priority. I believe that by staying with his aunt, the blood wards—an ancient magic connected to Lily’s sacrifice—will protect him from those who may wish to harm him.”

Sirius shook his head furiously, holding Harry closer. “And I believe Harry is better off with people who actually love him. He’s my godson, Albus. James and Lily trusted me to take care of him. He’s staying with me.”

For a brief moment, Dumbledore and Sirius stared at each other, tension crackling between them. Dumbledore’s usual calm was met with Sirius’s fierce determination, a wall of protectiveness that would not be moved. Finally, Dumbledore nodded, though his eyes were distant, as if he were calculating something far deeper than what was being said.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You are Harry’s godfather, and you have that right.”

Relief washed over Sirius, though he still felt a lingering unease. He didn’t trust Dumbledore’s acceptance—it seemed too easy. But before he could dwell on it, Dumbledore stepped forward, his gaze softening as it fell on the baby in Sirius’s arms.

“Might I hold him for a moment?” Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle.

Sirius hesitated, his instincts screaming to keep Harry close, but the rational part of him knew that Dumbledore would never harm the child. Reluctantly, he handed Harry over, watching Dumbledore closely the entire time.

As Dumbledore cradled Harry in his arms, a flicker of something unreadable passed across his face. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as though feeling for something, some trace of the magic he had expected to find—the blood wards that would confirm his theory. But instead of the protective blood magic, he sensed something entirely different.

Something ancient. Something far more powerful than he had anticipated.

A jolt of recognition shot through him, causing his breath to catch. It was not the familiar echo of Lily’s sacrifice, but a magic that was far older, far deeper—a magic tied not to family or blood, but to the very essence of one’s soul.

Dumbledore’s hand trembled slightly as the realization hit him. He had felt this kind of magic once before, long ago, when he had been a much younger man. It was soul magic, the rare bond that existed between soulmates. His heart gave an almost imperceptible pang as the memory of a distant summer flashed before his eyes, a pair of bright, piercing eyes and a shared dream that had crumbled beneath the weight of ambition.

Grindelwald.

Dumbledore’s grip on Harry tightened, and he forced himself to focus. This wasn’t about his own past—this was about Harry. But the discovery left him unsettled. The child carried within him a force that Dumbledore had not expected to encounter, one that could change everything. 

He opened his eyes and looked down at the child’s innocent face. Soul magic. Somehow, impossibly, Harry was connected to it. But what did that mean? And why had Voldemort’s curse reacted so violently against the boy?

“Sirius,” Dumbledore began, his voice slightly strained as he handed Harry back to him. “You must be extraordinarily careful with Harry. There is… much more at play here than we realize. Protect him, as you’ve promised.”

Sirius frowned, the urgency in Dumbledore’s voice making him uneasy. “What are you saying, Albus? What did you feel?”

Dumbledore straightened, his face once again unreadable. “For now, it is only a theory. But I will need to investigate further. In the meantime, take Harry somewhere safe. Somewhere where he will be loved.”

Sirius didn’t need to be told twice. He took Harry back into his arms, holding him close as he mounted his motorbike again. His mind raced with everything that had happened that night—James and Lily, Peter’s betrayal, the strange shift in Dumbledore’s demeanor.

“Let’s go, Hagrid,” Sirius called, revving the engine.

As they prepared to leave, Dumbledore’s eyes lingered on Harry for just a moment longer, the weight of ancient magic and a past that would never truly leave him pressing down on his shoulders. As Sirius and Hagrid flew off into the night, Dumbledore was left standing in the quiet of Privet Drive, haunted by what he had sensed in the boy.

There were forces at work that went far beyond the prophecy. Forces that even Dumbledore, with all his wisdom, had not foreseen. And somewhere, deep within him, a memory stirred—a flicker of a bond long severed, but never entirely forgotten.