The mage

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Godric's Hollow ~~ Night of October 31st 1981

In the heart of the English countryside, nestled among rolling greenery and mystery, lay the village of Godric's Hollow. A winding path, narrow as a well-kept secret, meandered through the village, lined with homes whispering tales both ancient and new. This path, like a golden thread woven through time, led wandering souls to a charming fountain at the village centre, bathed in a golden glow from the streetlights. Nearby, a church stood watch over Godric's Hollow, with a cemetery behind its walls, a garden of memories where each tombstone whispered forgotten epics, shrouded in the sacred twilight.

Godric's Hollow stood out from other hamlets dotting the British landscape, not for its architecture or ordinary church, but for the uniqueness of its residents. This village, woven into the fabric of the ordinary, harboured a rare coexistence: that of Muggles, souls devoid of magic, and wizards, whose lives unfolded in the shadows, hidden from the uninitiated. This discreet yet harmonious symbiosis was no accident. Wizards hadn't chosen this place whimsically; Godric's Hollow was shrouded in the mystery of the ages, said to be connected to the legend of a renowned wizard whose existence dated back a millennium. His story, interwoven with the threads of time, made this village more than just a place: a sanctuary of the extraordinary, veiled in the guise of the everyday.

But on that fateful night of October 31, 1981, Godric's Hollow became the scene of an event that would dramatically alter its history. Under the cover of a moonless darkness, a drama of extraordinary yet deeply tragic magnitude unfolded, destined to etch a new legend into the hearts and minds of wizards. What was once a whisper of the past, a story told by the fireside, was to be overshadowed by a much more poignant reality. The ancient legend, revered and passed down through ages, was to give way to a new tale marked by courage, loss, and a fragile hope born out of desolation.

In the winding streets of Godric's Hollow, under a star-studded sky, an enchanting and unusual spectacle took place. Creatures of all kinds, astonishing and sometimes hilarious, but rarely frightening, roamed with childlike joy. Pocket werewolves, miniature vampires, little hags, and budding zombies weaved between houses, each armed with a bag ready to be filled with sweet treasures. These fantastic beings were, of course, not real creatures of the night but rather the village children, wrapped in their costumes, revelling in the evening's chill on their annual quest for treats. And woe betide those who were found without goodies to offer! Behind each mask and under each hat hid a mischievous smile, lighting up Godric's Hollow with a quite different magic, that of innocence and childlike joy.

Among the throng of joyful children, their faces hidden behind fanciful masks, and the few benevolent parents overseeing them, few paid any mind to the sinister shadow that slithered slowly along the path. One child, dressed as a mummy, approached the hooded figure. The child's smiling face turned to terror, and they fled as if pursued by the devil himself. The wizard, allowed to be approached, watched the scene sceptically, pondering whether to rid himself of this unnecessary nuisance. He reconsidered and continued his inevitable path to a place many found empty or ignored. This space, seemingly vacant, held a charming house, its large square windows casting golden invitations into the night, while its chimney, like a sentinel, strove to sketch swirls of smoke in the starry sky. Yet, this scene of almost domestic tranquillity was veiled from all but the figure approaching with dark determination. A powerful spell, a magical veil, hid the house from passersby, revealing its existence only to those who truly knew how to look.

This sinister presence, moving with ghostly determination toward the concealed house, bore a name few dared whisper, fearing that merely uttering it might weave a curse around them. In a slow, almost ceremonial gesture, the shadow raised its hands, previously hidden in the depths of its robe, to reveal its face by gently lowering its hood. Moonlight, streaming through bare branches, fell upon a waxy-skinned face, illuminating features carved in silence and enigma. Hair, pitch black, was slicked back, adding a cold austerity to its appearance. But what truly captured the essence of terror, what chilled the blood of those who met its gaze, were its eyes. The whites had turned to a blood red, starkly contrasting with the deep amber of its irises, giving its stare a searing intensity, an abyss in which malice and power seemed to dance a macabre ballet.

"At last," the man whispered, his voice laden with dark satisfaction and a hint of disturbing triumph.

His fingers, slender and precise like those of a skilled musician, slipped inside his dark robe to draw out a wand of striking whiteness, stark against the surrounding darkness. With an ease that betrayed long-mastered skill, he aimed his wand at the inviting front door, now on the verge of becoming a threshold to a nightmare.

Wordlessly, without even a whisper of incantation, the man unleashed a crimson jet of light from his wand's tip. The magic, pure and focused, cut through the air with lightning speed, striking the door with the force of a celestial gong. The sturdy, welcoming wood offered no resistance; it shattered under the assault, disintegrating in a chaotic ballet of destruction.

The night's silence was shattered not just by the splintering door but by the ensuing cries. Voices filled with fear, surprise, and outrage rose into the night, a living testament to a sanctuary violated, a peace irreparably broken.

"Lily! Take Harry and run! It's him! Run! I'll hold him off."

A cold, satisfied smile spread across the evil wizard's lips, a shimmer of amusement tinting his merciless features at the thought that someone believed they could detain him. He crossed the threshold with scornful ease, stepping over the debris of the shattered door as if entering a domain rightfully his. His chilling calm was quickly challenged by the appearance of James Potter.

James stood tall, his untidy black hair lending him a rebellious charisma, his hazel eyes shining with a mix of defiance and surprise behind round glasses. His casual demeanour poorly concealed the moment's tension, highlighted by the absence of his wand, a detail the evil wizard noted with cruel pleasure.

Without hesitation, the dark mage cast a spell of bright green, the universal symbol of doom, towards James. The spell struck its target with lethal precision, leaving behind a silence more deafening than the confrontation's noise as the lifeless body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Without a second glance at his now lifeless victim, the wizard ascended the stairs, his expression hardening into a sneer of contemptuous regret. "If only he had chosen to join me," he thought, not with sadness, but with the coldness of one who considers others' failures a mere consequence of their choices.

As he ascended the stairs with dark determination, screams and curses erupted around him, emanating from the frames on the walls. Each portrait, a window to the past, seemed to come alive with its own life, echoing the indignation of those it depicted. "Monster! Scoundrel!" Insults rained down, but none seemed to reach the stone-hearted man provoking them.

When he met the gaze of Fleamont Potter's portrait, a mean smile stretched his lips. He knew this face well, the father of his latest victim, gone from dragon pox. That smile, already cold, turned into an expression of absolute cruelty. With a swift, confident motion, he slashed through the air with his wand, leaving a gaping tear in the canvas capturing the essence of the late Potter. Pieces of fabric fell to the floor, carrying with them the last echoes of outraged voices.

A heavy silence fell over the hallway, as if the souls captured in the portraits held their breath, terrified by the display of arbitrary power. A cold chuckle broke the quiet as the man resumed his climb, drawn to the trembling voice of a woman behind a nearby door. Each step he took seemed laden with threats, and the very air shivered in his wake, as if heralding the approach of an inevitable fate.

[From Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow, chapter 17]

[He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand . . . and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead. . . .

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl … stand aside, now."

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead —"

"This is my last warning —"

"Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy.… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please — I'll do anything —"

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all. . . .

The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all this time: He could stand, clutching the bars of his crib, and he looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing —

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face: He wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had seen that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he had never been able to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage —

"Avada Kedavra!"

And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped and screaming, but far away . . . far away. . . .]

In a twist of fate as spectacular as it was unthinkable, the wizard whose name was taboo disintegrated, leaving behind nothing but a mound of smoking ashes. From these remnants of terror, an ethereal shadow escaped, rising into the air with a piercing scream that seemed to carry away the echoes of a bygone reign of terror. The fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named occurred within the intimacy of a family drama, his final act of destruction witnessed only by a tearful child, marked on the forehead and already orphaned.

As silence fell on the scene of an unfinished tragedy, another figure appeared, starkly contrasting with the drama that had just unfolded. Small, chubby, with features oddly reminiscent of a rodent, this wizard seemed overwhelmed by the events. His wide eyes betrayed a mix of fear and disbelief at the still-warm pile of ashes. With almost comical hesitation in such a context, he seized the abandoned wand, a sinister relic of fallen power.

This wizard, far from heroic in appearance, was tormented by dilemmas. How would he now hide not only from the allies he had betrayed but also from the vengeance of the dark mage's followers, whose downfall he had inadvertently hastened? His hasty escape, wand in hand, was marked by an urgency tinged with cowardice, heralding a new and uncertain chapter in the wake of evil's defeat.

With a gravity that seemed to pull his very essence to the ground, he knelt beside the lifeless body of the one who had been his closest confidant, his unspoken love, and in the most secret corners of his heart, the one he had hoped to call his own. Tears, foreign to the face of a man accustomed to hiding his feelings behind a veil of indifference, flowed freely, perhaps the only time he allowed himself such vulnerability—a sight witnessed only by the child, innocent and lost in his own grief. In between sobs, he whispered the names that tore at his soul, a silent prayer for the loved ones he had just lost. As he continued to repeat the name of his beloved, he heard in the distance:

"James? Lily?"

The tangible, irrevocable reality of their absence forced him to turn away from Lily's lifeless body, his gaze lingering one last time on the still-crying child. The child's eyes, vivid reflections of his departed mother, were a mirror of unbearable pain for him. In a final sob, a silent farewell to what might have been, he chose the shadow of disappearance, vanishing in a barely perceptible whisper, just in time to escape the gaze of another wizard entering the room. This newcomer, carrying his own hopes and fears, was immediately recognized by the child, a beacon of familiarity in the storm of his sorrow. "Pa'foot! Pa'foot!"

In the tragic confines of the home, the steel-gray eyes of the wizard Sirius Black, framed by his wavy hair, were lit with tears mixed with joy and sorrow at the sight of the child proclaiming his name with innocence.

"My little Bambi, you're alive! Praise Merlin..." he exclaimed, his voice tinged with trembling relief.

With paternal care, he lifted the child from the bed, careful not to hurt him as he freed him from the confines of the bars. Holding the child against him, Sirius allowed his gaze to linger for a moment on Lily's lifeless body, his heart tightening under the weight of indescribable grief. Swallowing a sob that threatened to break the fragile dam of his composure, he left the room, each step echoing like a silent farewell.

Descending the stairs was an ordeal, each step bringing him closer to a reality he would have given anything to change. The lifeless body of James, his soul brother, laid out in eternal defeat, reignited a storm of wrenching emotions in his already tormented mind. A deep anger, fuelled by betrayal and loss, began to rumble within him, promising vengeance against Peter Pettigrew, the friend turned foe.

No sooner had he crossed the threshold than the deep voice of Rubeus Hagrid, a half-giant whose immense stature was matched only by the kindness of his soul, interrupted his turmoil. "Sirius! Are you alright? And Harry, and James, and Lily... How..."

Hope in Hagrid's eyes extinguished as soon as he saw Harry in Sirius's arms, understanding that the hoped-for family happiness had collapsed under the weight of immeasurable tragedy.

"I have to find Peter and make him pay, Hagrid. He must pay; I must make him pay!" Sirius seethed, his eyes brimming with affection for Harry. His voice broke as words were lost in a whirlwind of rage and grief.

Hagrid, watching Sirius with deep compassion, felt it was time to intervene, to divert the course of fate from the dire path it seemed to take. "Think of the little one before going after Peter! Headmaster Dumbledore can help, I'm sure."

These simple yet meaningful words struck Sirius, pulling him from his vengeful momentum. He nodded silently, a glimmer of reason returning to his gaze. "Hagrid is right, I must think of Harry first," he thought. "I will avenge Peter later, and... Remus? What will I tell him?"

Lost in thought, a loud crack brought him abruptly back to reality. A burst of flames appeared, and from this fiery apparition emerged an old man. He wore a blue robe sprinkled with golden stars that seemed to dance along the seams. His long white beard, as silky as sheep's wool, fell majestically. His blue eyes, usually twinkling with mischief behind half-moon glasses, were veiled by the weight of tragedy. Albus Dumbledore, the wise and powerful headmaster of Hogwarts, had arrived, bringing with him the gravity and wisdom needed to guide Sirius through this moment of profound desolation. "How are you, my boy?" the old man immediately asked.

Dumbledore's grave look left no doubt about his awareness of the tragic events that had unfolded that night. He was certain that the various protection and alert spells he had carefully placed around the Potter's home must have signalled the danger. But, caught up in the demands of his many responsibilities, including a long meeting with the International Confederation of Wizards, he had not been able to arrive in time to thwart the Potter's grim fate.

"James and Lily are dead, Professor, Peter betrayed them! You must believe me, I was just a pawn!" exclaimed Sirius, his distress palpable even as he held Harry close. "Who could have imagined Peter, our friend, would be the traitor? I thought I had devised the perfect plan... It's my fault..."

Sirius's pain was evident, and Dumbledore, moved by such distress, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, a simple gesture filled with deep empathy. "I believe you, Sirius. You would never have betrayed the Potters... I regret that Peter was the one who betrayed us. I had placed so much hope in him... And Voldemort?" Dumbledore inquired, breaking the heavy silence.

At the mention of that name, a shiver ran through both men, but the silence that followed reminded them of the lack of reaction from the Death Eaters, thus confirming their master's defeat.

"He..." Sirius began, pausing with a lump in his throat. "I only found ashes. But Harry... he has a strange scar..."

"May I?" Dumbledore asked gently, nodding towards the child with kind eyes.

With a respectful hesitation, Sirius entrusted Harry to the old wizard, who took him in his arms with surprising ease for his age. In Dumbledore's secure arms, Harry, carefree, offered a radiant smile, his small hands joyfully reaching for Dumbledore's luminous white beard, catching the moonbeams in a play of shadow and light, perhaps symbolizing a new hope after this dark night.

Mesmerized by the softness of Dumbledore's beard, Harry forgot momentarily the tumult of the night. The headmaster of Hogwarts, with a benevolent smile, savoured this moment of childlike innocence. It was this love for the young and curious spirit that had driven him to become the headmaster of the famous school of witchcraft.

His gaze then fell on the unique scar marking young Harry's forehead. A shiver ran down his spine as he recognized the sinister shape, like a lightning bolt, a mark that scholars might confuse with the Sowilo rune. But Dumbledore knew this was not a mere runic coincidence. This mark was the vestige of a much darker spell, the Killing Curse, Avada Kedavra, the most unforgivable of all.

Could it be that he survived through the power of the prophecy? Marked by Tom, yes, but how? Dumbledore wondered, his mind swirling with hypotheses. He perceived in this scar a complex intertwining of magics, a struggle between life and death, an inexplicable protection enveloped in a foreboding aura.

The headmaster's face hardened at the thought of Tom Riddle, known as Lord Voldemort, and his dark experiments. Had he truly dared to fragment his soul, engaging in one of the darkest and forbidden magics to achieve immortality? The physical changes that Voldemort had undergone over the years – his former beauty devoured by the excessive use of dark magic, leaving him with a spectral, almost cadaverous appearance – were just external testimonies to the corruption of his soul.

Dumbledore held Harry a little closer, aware that the child, with his scar, might carry within him not only the key to Voldemort's defeat but also a mysterious and potentially dangerous connection to the dark wizard himself. In Dumbledore's blue eyes, a mixture of determination and concern was reflected.

The thought of guiding, perhaps even manipulating, Harry on a journey that would inevitably lead him to confront the deepest darkness had crossed Dumbledore's mind. However, when he met Harry's pure and confident gaze, any idea of manipulation evaporated like mist in the sun. How could he even consider burdening a child barely out of the innocence of his cradle with such responsibilities?

Dumbledore's face softened, a melancholic yet determined smile forming on his lips. No, he could not and should not use Harry as a pawn in this war against the forces of evil. Dumbledore had often found himself at the crossroads between the common good and the well-being of the individual, but in this moment, facing this innocent child, the choice seemed clear.

He made a promise to himself, there, under Harry's starry gaze, to protect the child with all the strength and wisdom he possessed. He would defend Harry not only as a symbol of hope for the wizarding world but also as the last remnant of a cherished and lost family. Dumbledore fondly remembered Henry Potter, a man of conviction and courage, and he saw in Harry not only his legacy but also a new chance to do things differently, to do things right.

It wouldn't be an easy road, he knew. The shadows of the past, buried secrets, and challenges ahead would weave a complex path for them all. But in this moment, Dumbledore committed to watching over Harry, to guiding him with love and honesty, and to preparing him, as gently as possible, for the trials and triumphs that lay ahead. In the old wizard's deep blue eyes, a new light lit up, one of unwavering dedication to a child burdened with a weight far too heavy for his age.

Harry's scar, with its potentially sinister implications, was an absolute priority for Dumbledore. His previous research on horcruxes, undertaken out of fear that Grindelwald, his lost love, might succumb to such an abomination, had revealed the horrifying truth: for Grindelwald, even in his quest for power, the soul was sacred, a sanctuary never to be violated. But what Dumbledore had never imagined was that Tom Riddle, later known as Voldemort, would cross that forbidden threshold.

Dumbledore understood the gravity of the situation. If Harry's scar was indeed linked to a horcrux, the only known solution to eliminate such an artifact was to destroy the container that held it. This thought weighed heavily on his heart. How could he subject an innocent child to such a risk?

Lost in his thoughts, he absentmindedly hummed "The Cat Came Back," an old song from his childhood that reminded him of more carefree times. He briefly considered involving former students like Broderick or Saul, both of whom worked in the Department of Mysteries, but quickly thought better of it. No, he needed someone specialized, someone in whom he had absolute trust.

I will reach out to Elton, he finally concluded. Elton Elderberry, an expert in ancient and dark magics, would likely be best suited to help cleanse Harry's scar without harming the child. He knew the man was incredibly old, born in 1691, and secretly ran the Department of Mysteries, in addition to being the archivist of the Ministry of Magic, giving him access to one of the largest and oldest libraries in the world, as vast as Hogwarts'. Dumbledore knew the task would not be easy, and that every decision made from now on could have major repercussions. But his determination to protect Harry and undo the darkness Voldemort had left behind was unwavering. With this resolution in mind, he prepared to take the necessary steps to ensure not only Harry's safety but also the future of the wizarding world.

"Is he... is he in good health?" Sirius inquired, anxiety tinting his voice with urgency. "Please, tell me he's alright, headmaster."

"Ah, Sirius, if only I could give you a simple answer", sighed Albus Dumbledore, his blue eyes gazing deeply into those of his companions. "Harry's scar is marked by a terrible curse, most certainly a remnant of the evil inflicted by Voldemort. But there is a glimmer of hope, another benevolent force watches over him... the sacrifice of unconditional love... magic of the purest essence."

Sirius and Hagrid exchanged a stunned look before refocusing on Dumbledore.

"Love?" Sirius whispered his voice choked with emotion. "Oh... Lily... James..."

Tears welled up in Sirius' eyes once again, while Hagrid, with his natural kindness, enveloped him in a comforting embrace, offering silent support in this moment of grief.

"Now, we must make our way to the Ministry of Magic to report these developments", Dumbledore continued with resolve. "We may meet an old friend there, who, I hope, will provide us with some insights or at least a lead to follow."

"Professor, what about the house?" Hagrid worriedly inquired, gesturing toward the gutted home, its upper floor bearing the ravages of a poorly aimed spell, likely a consequence of Voldemort's defeat.

Where Harry's room once stood, only ruins and desolation remained, while the rest of the house, strangely preserved, continued to emanate a reassuring warmth, its windows lit with welcoming lights and the fireplace emitting a peaceful smoke, as if the walls refused to yield to the tragedy.

"We must secure and preserve it as it is, for now", Dumbledore explained with gravity in his voice. "This place has become a site of paramount importance, not only for investigations but also as a memorial of what transpired here. Protective enchantments will be put in place to prevent any unwanted intrusion."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shattered facade of the house, a silent witness to tragedy and courage. Drawing his wand from the arm not holding the child, Dumbledore set to work. The golden sparks from Dumbledore's wand danced in the night air, forming a protective dome around the Potter house. While magic wove its web of protection, Sirius, still concerned for Harry's well-being, suggested retrieving some belongings for the child.

Sirius' Summoning Charm, however, had an unexpected effect. Chaos ensued from within the house, accompanied by a dramatic and bewildered meowing. As the objects appeared, flying towards them at surprising speeds, a comical spectacle unfolded before their eyes.

The diaper bag, the baby bottle, the clothes, and especially the small broomstick – a gift from Sirius himself – arrived in a whirl through the air. But the highlight of the scene was the Potter's cat, firmly gripping the broomstick handle, its meows adding an absurd note to an already surreal situation.

The scene was so unexpected, so strangely joyful in the context of the tragic night, that even Dumbledore, despite the seriousness of the events, couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. Hagrid, on the other hand, couldn't contain his laughter, his booming laughter echoing in the crisp night air.

For a moment, the sombre atmosphere was lightened by this unexpected touch of humour, reminding everyone that even in the darkest moments, there was room for a bit of levity. With Harry's belongings now gathered – including a visibly confused but safe cat – the group was ready to leave the scene, carrying with them an unexpected memory of this tragic but now comical night.

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What I imagined concerning the cat scene :