Broken promises
3rd September 1981. 2:01 pm.
"Incendio."
The whisper magnifies in volume with each ticking second. It travelled. It was echoing off the many glass displays and fancy items modelled within. Soon, it reaches a breaking point.
A scream is heard.
Chaos ensues in the narrow streets of Diagon Alley.
It is an event that will forever be remembered as the day families were separated—in more ways than one. The day is written in history books and remembered for many years. It was a fire—a mysterious one—one that even the most powerful of witches and wizards couldn't decipher—the Diagon Blaze.
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3rd September 1981. 2:39 pm. Room 151. St Mungo Hospital.
The monitor's slow beeps reached a halt.
Silence filled the room.
Dead.
He was dead.
A sob broke through. Then another. Then another. He collapsed onto the floor and let out a wail of despair.
His son was dead, and James Potter didn't know what to do.
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3rd September 1981. 3:01 pm. Examination room 13. St Mungo Hospital.
Observation.
They wanted to keep him for observation.
Precautionary. They said, just in case.
They also said he was fine, and a nurse even brought round discharge papers only to be taken by the media, which were out of their hands. They explained that in these circumstances, extra observation was needed. These circumstances. What circumstances?
When he asked, they laughed in his face, a high nasal sound that made him cringe and want to cover his ears.
"Why the fire, of course. The unknown cause is leading us to keep almost all affected patients overnight. Not to mention, your son now has asthma! Adjusting to an inhaler is a new experience, and we want to ensure everyone is well-informed. Especially with a child so young and a dose as strong as the one prescribed. It's a wonder the doctor examining your son upon birth didn't diagnose the asthma. It's very prominent. The smoke has only caused it to become worse." They had responded.
But Tom didn't believe them. Something felt wrong—very wrong. Why overnight?
There were millions of patients being brought in with far worse side effects than his son's asthma and coughing. They had discharged so many in a worse state than them.
It didn't sit right.
But as he watched his wife embrace his son tearfully and hold him tightly, Tom couldn't bring himself to argue further. Hadrian would be okay. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
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3rd September 1981. 3:25 pm. Corridor D. Pathway to observation rooms.
Harry Potter was dead.
There was a sentence Albus Dumbledore never thought he'd say until the end of his many plans—a sentence that had been uttered far too early.
A sharp curse to Death was sent.
A screaming breakdown took place.
A frantic burst of muttering took place.
All while 'comforting' a distraught James Potter who kept mumbling dead over and over before lamenting on how he would tell his wife. Expected. But not welcome. He had told him. Many times. To stay away from Diagon Alley. All days preferably, but this day the most. A well-thought-out excuse was made consisting of death eater attacks. James didn't listen. Of course, he didn't. However, Albus didn't anticipate the swift turning of James' ideals and a pleading speech begging him to 'fix this in any way needed.'
Remus, never one for rash thinking or silly jokes, had responded with a 'for all we care, you can steal a baby if you have to.' and a 'just fix this'. Remus, while bright, was never known for his tactical strategies or bright ideas in the order. Nor his jokes. But his idea of a joke left him thinking up a plan. A plan he found himself horrified thinking of. But a plan he couldn't bring himself to put a stop to. It was quite easy, honestly.
The simple task of borrowing and never returning.
A quick conversation with a highly loyal and extremist Light follower who happened to work at St Mungo was made.
A well-thought-out plan was created.
An enormous task was now being carried out as they spoke.
And all while still 'comforting' a distraught James Potter.
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3rd September 1981. Waiting room Z.
He was gone.
He was truly gone.
As Tom Riddle paced the small waiting room, he couldn't help but think of nothing else. He took a small sip of the bottled water the midwife had left. A sudden burst of anger took over.
His son was gone. And he would do everything to find him. No matter the cost.
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Interlude
September 3rd 1981. A day that would forever remain etched into the people's minds.
No history book ever mentioned it. This was on the orders of the ministry, which didn't want its flawed building structures and regulations discovered.
All history books but one.
A book had been destroyed on the orders of a particular, and a minister had burned all copies of it. Ironically—all but one.
A copy that had gotten into the hands of one Lyra Nott and her infant son Theodore.
A copy that she had rushed over to reveal to Severus Snape after spotting a peculiar name on the list of deaths.
Lyra Nott was found dead in the grounds of the forbidden forest the next day with a crying and inconsolable Theodore Nott next to her.
The history book was promptly scoffed at and handed over to Madam Prince to dispose of—a woman who shuddered at the thought of harming a precious book.
So now, in the depths of the astronomy tower, hidden behind a few fallen bricks, lies an old and battered history book.
A battered history book with a peculiar name still etched into its long list of deaths.
Harry Potter.
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October 31st 1981. The Potter's Residence in Godric Hollow.
"Lily, it's him! Take Harry and Run!"
The door blasted open. Glass shards flew everywhere, and several items crashed into the floor. James Potter stumbled back as the force of the wind slammed into him. The windows smashed, and their shards flew towards him and pierced his skin. He steadied his footing painfully after brushing off the glass and looked up to see the one person he dreaded.
Voldemort stood in all his power, his red eyes ablaze and his back robes flowing menacingly behind him. He sneered at the pathetic man in front of him and found himself overtaken with a blind rage. His mind went blank, and suddenly, he found himself incapable of doing anything other than killing the family inhabiting this house. They had taken his son. And they would pay.
"This is your last chance, Potter." He spat with rage. "Hand over the child, and I spare you and your family. Failure to do so and I kill you all. Along with those retched idiots you call friends."
James gulped and stared at Voldemort's crimson-red eyes. Disgust filled him. How could he? How dare he? He didn't deserve a child. Why? Why could such monsters like him get perfect children while he and Lily would be left sobbing in agony at the deaths of theirs. It wasn't fair.
"No." he angrily stated, his voice surprisingly strong. "No. You won't get him. You don't deserve him! You're a MONSTER! You don't deserve anything!"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed in anger.
He released a cry of fury and snapped out his wand, pointing it directly at the man's chest. The bloody glass shards that lay discarded on the floor suddenly rose and once again pierced James' skin, but before the dark lord could do anything genuinely damaging, a jet-green light erupted from the corner of the room and hit James directly in the chest. He let out a cry of agony and fell back onto the floor as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. James Potter was dead.
"YOU BASTARD! You killed him!" A voice screamed. He saw Lily descending towards him, holding a crying baby in her arms. She glared at him with a vengeance and took out her wand, pointing at his chest.
"CRUCIO!"
Voldemort pushed it to the side and cast a spell directly at her, careful to miss the crying baby in her arms. Lily glared at him and hastily put up a sloppy shield. Too overwhelmed in anger and grief to think straight, she pointed at the Dark Lord before uttering two deadly words.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light rushed forward and forcefully hit her shield. With a loud banging noise, it rebounded and hit her directly in her chest. She landed on the floor with a thump. Lily Potter was also dead.
Voldemort watched as the woman collapsed to the ground next to her deceased husband, leaving a crying Harry falling on the floor next to her. Consciousness suddenly filled him, and he found himself staring at the two dead bodies in horror.
A loud wail interrupted his trance, and he hurriedly looked to his side to see a toddler crawling slowly towards him.
"Rian!" He rushed forward. Gently scooping the baby up, he held him against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his son's tiny stature and pulled him closer, whispering soothing nonsense into his ears.
"Well, well... isn't this a touching reunion." A cold voice spoke from behind him. He turned just in time to put up a shield to block the green light racing towards him.
"Dumbledore." Voldemort bit out spitefully. "What are you doing here?"
"She called me Tom," Dumbledore said grimly. He smiled at Voldemort consolingly and put on his grandfather's façade. "You won't get away with this, Tom. Not if I have anything to say about it. Put the child down. Don't you understand? This is for the best! He would be happy. He would be loved. Much more than he would ever be with you. "
Voldemort stumbled back in shock as if the words had wounded him significantly. He growled in rage: "You could have never been more wrong than you are right now. I love him—so much. I will do anything! Absolutely anything for my son! And don't you dare try to tell me otherwise?"
Dumbledore shook his head and stared at him sadly. "How can you be sure of that, Tom? Tell me. How can you be sure you're going to make him happy? Because, as far as I'm concerned, you'd end up breaking him. You'd end up breaking him, and despite their best abilities, no one could fix him. Tell me, Tom. Is that really what you want? You claim to love him. But do you?"
Voldemort let out a scream of rage. Disabling his shield, he fired various spells at Dumbledore, who simply cast up a shield and watched as various coloured lights stopped in front of him and were sent back. Now, it was his turn.
Dumbledore raised his wand and, with a fiery power, cast several killing curses—one after the other. A hurried shield was held for many seconds, but even the best couldn't protect themselves against the mighty killing curse.
He cast several more killing curses, weakening Voldemort's shield until one finally pushed through. The shield cracked and let out a high-pitched noise of glass breaking. The green light soared towards him, and Voldemort turned his back, shielding the baby and gently placing him on the floor. He screamed. The light hit him powerfully, and he collapsed to the floor on his knees. Instead of falling onto his side and collapsing, he started disintegrating. Black and red smoke took Voldemort's place and raced around Dumbledore before flying out the door. Dumbledore was so distracted by the smoke that he didn't even notice some of it breaking free and seeping into a large, bleeding, red lightning bolt scar carved into Harry's forehead.
Dumbledore looked around frantically. He fell to his knees with a thump suddenly drained and clutched his side. His fingers shook heavily, and his grip weakened. His wand fell slowly from his arms. A small drop of blood fell onto the carpet, and Dumbledore was wiping his nose desperately to stop the blood flow.
A wail suddenly broke the peaceful silence that had taken over the room. A chubby arm blocked his eyeline, and Dumbledore gasped, looking up.
He found himself staring into the mesmerising mix of emerald green.
And he knew precisely who they were.
One fake but real Harry Potter.