Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry had always known he was different. Not in the way the Dursleys said he was—a curse, a burden, an ill omen that no one else had wanted. No, he was different in a way he couldn’t quite explain, something that hummed just beneath his skin, coiling in his bones like an unseen presence.

For as long as he could remember, his aunt and uncle had told him the same story. His parents had died in a car accident, reckless and irresponsible, leaving him as an unwanted burden on the only family who would take him in.

“It’s a miracle you survived at all,” Aunt Petunia had once said, not with relief, but with resentment. “Most babies wouldn’t have.”

He never questioned it aloud—questioning meant trouble—but something deep inside him always resisted believing it. Something about the story didn’t sit right. The way his aunt’s mouth tightened when she spoke about it. The way his uncle lost his temper when he inquired more about his parents. It was as if they were lying, but they had told the lie so many times that even they had started to believe it.

But he had no proof.

No answers.

Until now.

---

The first time it happened, Harry thought he was hearing things.

"Oi! Boy! You can hear me, can’t you? Don’t ignore me!"

A voice. Not in the house. Not from outside.

In his head.

Harry clutched his blanket tighter, pressing himself against the thin mattress in his cupboard, trying to make himself small. Maybe if he was very quiet, the voice would go away.

"Oh for the love of—listen, child! You are not losing your mind. I am communicating through a psionic tether, a manifestation of arcane connectivity across spatial dimensions—"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Wha—wha’s a ‘tethur’?”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh. "...I am talking to you with magic."

Harry cracked one eye open. “Magic?”

"Yes. Magic. A fundamental force beyond mundane comprehension."

Harry frowned, his nose scrunching. “Mund… mundane comp… wha’?”

Another pause. "Magic is real."

Harry hesitated, his small fingers curling into his blanket. “The Dursleys say it’s bad.”

"Then they are misinformed. Or willfully ignorant."

Harry had no idea what that meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t good.

---

It took time to adjust, to believe. But the voice—Mordenkainen, as he called himself—was relentless.

He wasn’t nice. But he answered questions in a way no one ever had before. Harry had always known there was something wrong with the way his relatives spoke about him, the way they whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening.

The word ‘cursed’ had come up more than once.

After some time, he finally asked.

“They say I bring bad luck,” Harry muttered, curling up on his thin cot. “That I’m a bad thing. That I make bad stuff happen just by bein’ there.”

Mordenkainen was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice slow and even. "There is no such thing as an ‘ill omen’ tied to a person’s existence, boy. If misfortune follows you, it is not because of some inherent flaw in your being. Bad luck is merely probability, circumstance… or the actions of those who believe in it."

Harry’s small fingers clutched his blanket tighter. “So I’m not bad?”

"No. You are not cursed, I would have known if you were. You are not unlucky. You are merely… you."

Harry let out a small breath. His chest felt strange—tight, but not in a bad way.

The Dursleys were wrong.

He wasn’t some dark omen. He wasn’t unnatural. He wasn’t a burden the universe had placed upon them.

He was just a boy.

A boy with magic.

And for the first time in his life, he felt the spark of something new.

Hope.

---

There was a moment of silence before the voice spoke again, quieter this time, almost contemplative.

"Hah… I never thought I'd be grateful for an escape from Barovia, yet here we are."

Harry blinked. “Buh-roh-vee-ah?”

"Irrelevant for now. What matters is that I am here, and so are you. And since fate has brought me to your side, I shall do what I do best."

Harry frowned. “Wha’s that?”

Mordenkainen’s voice, for the first time, carried something that might have been amusement. Or maybe something deeper, steadier.

"I shall instruct you in the Arcane arts, boy. If I am to be tethered to your mind, I refuse to let you wallow in ignorance. From this moment forward, you are my apprentice."

Harry sat up straight, eyes wide. “’Prentis?”

"Yes. It will not be easy, nor will it be pleasant, but you will learn. And by the time I am finished with you, you will be more than just a boy with magic."

Harry swallowed, a strange, unfamiliar excitement bubbling in his chest. “…Okay.”

"Good. Now, listen carefully. Your first lesson begins now."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Harry Potter had learned in his six years of life, it was that waiting to be saved was pointless.

If you wanted something to change, you had to change it yourself.

And so, as he sat in his cupboard under the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he listened as the voice of the only teacher he had ever known spoke once again.

"Wake up, apprentice. We have much to do."

Harry sighed but grinned, already anticipating another lesson.

Because while most six-year-olds spent their days playing with toys, Harry Potter was learning magic.

And today, he had a feeling it was going to be interesting.

"Magic is power, but only if used wisely. A fool who casts spells without thought is more dangerous to himself than to his enemies."

Harry nodded along as he scribbled notes in his spellbook, his messy handwriting filling the pages.

He had already learned Prestidigitation, the first spell Mordenkainen had taught him—small tricks, harmless illusions, minor manipulations.

But today, his teacher had something different in mind.

"You have learned to shape magic. Now, you must learn to shape your own destiny."

Harry blinked. "…That sounds important."

"It is. Tell me, what would be the most important thing to a Wizard?"

Harry thought about it. "Magic?"

"A reasonable assumption. Incorrect, but reasonable."

Harry scowled. Mordenkainen did this a lot—asking questions he already had the answer to but forcing Harry to figure it out himself.

It was frustrating. But it was also kind of fun.

"Then what is it?"

"Wealth."

Harry frowned. "Money?"

"Yes."

That… wasn't what he expected.

"Gold builds kingdoms. Gold funds armies. Gold buys power. And more importantly Gold buys Knowledge."

Mordenkainen's tone was calm, factual—not greedy, just realistic.

"Even a wizard as powerful as I once required coin to fund my research. Magic alone is not enough, apprentice. You must learn how to thrive."

And that was how Harry Potter, six years old, began his first business.

It started small.

At school, Dudley and his gang ran everything. If you wanted to sit in a certain place at lunch, you had to pay a tax. If you had a toy they wanted, you gave it up or regretted it later.

Harry had learned long ago that fighting them head-on was pointless.

But outsmarting them?

That was another matter entirely.

Using Prestidigitation, he did small tricks—just enough to make himself useful to the other kids. But didn't let others know it was magic.

Turning pencils different colors —1pence per color change, markers are costly.

Warming a seat in the winter  — 2 pennies, getting the hands to warm up is tough in winters

Making someone's notebook cover glitter — 3 pennies, glitter is costlier

To everyone else, it was just a trick of the light, a well-placed sleight of hand.

Only Harry knew the truth.

And Mordenkainen?

"Clever."

Harry grinned every time he heard that.

Because that single word meant he was doing something right.

Soon, Harry had a steady flow of coins coming in.

He never charged too much, never made himself too important, and never let anyone suspect that his tricks were anything but normal.

Even when the teachers praised his sleight of hand, he only ever smiled innocently and said, "Just a bit of practice, Miss!"

Mordenkainen's approval was silent but unmistakable.

"Deception is not always an act of cruelty, apprentice. Sometimes, it is a shield."

Harry understood.

Harry had inherited many things from his parents.

From his mother, Lily, he had gained his intellect and sharp wit.

From his father, James…

He had inherited the art of troublemaking.

The first time he truly stood up to Dudley, it hadn't been with fists—it had been with his mind.

Dudley and his gang had been bullying another kid, shoving him against the wall.

Harry simply hid behind them, behind a corner, and cast his only spell to make it seem like Dudley had soiled his pants and make it smell very bad.

"Hey Dudley. Mate you soiled your pants..." his gang mentioned, moving away from him, hands pinching their noses.

Dudley looked down confused, "NO I didn't—" and what greeted him was a patch of dark brown in his khaki shorts. Smelling horrendous.

The bullying forgotten, the kid dashed away. And so did Dudley's "friends".

His work done, Harry simply went off.
This incident didn't really blow up. Dudley was still bigger than a lot of the kids.

The next time?

Harry had enchanted a single piece of Dudley's food to change color mid-bite, making it look like mold had suddenly grown all over it.

Dudley had spat it out and refused to eat cafeteria food for a week.

Harry had barely contained his laughter.

"Out of the Lair of Strahd into the head of Nystul's spawn" Mordenkainen had commented dryly.

Harry just grinned. He did not recognize the names, but he couldn't care less.

Because for the first time, he was winning.

Mordenkainen, of course, had his own thoughts on Harry's antics.

"You remind me of an old Fool."

"That does not seem like praise."

*"One would assume so. But Nystul was a highly competent wizard, although he had a flair for pranks. Powerful enough to stand beside me as equals.".

"Seemed like you were friends."

"I despised him", Mordenkainen stated. "But I would be an even greater fool if I were to deny his skill..... Remember well apprentice 'Bravery without intelligence is recklessness. Intelligence without bravery is cowardice.' "

Harry had thought about that for a long time.

He refused to be either.

So, he did more than just pranks.

He helped other kids stand up for themselves.

He showed them tricks—how to use words instead of fists, how to turn attention away from them and onto someone else.

The more he learned, the more he taught others.

And slowly but surely, Dudley's reign of terror weakened.

He wasn't a hero.

But he was something better.

He was clever.

When Harry turned seven, Mordenkainen introduced him to another lesson.

"You have learned how to thrive in a world that wishes to crush you. You have used your wit and magic to carve your own path. Now, it is time to take another step."

"A new spell?" Harry guessed.

"Not all spells sustain themselves. Some need something more."

And that was how Harry learned about spellcasting components—Verbal, Somatic, and Material.

He learned how some spells required movement, words, or objects.

Each new spell came, not as a new lesson, but a solution.

Dudley broke his glasses by mistake?

He learnt of material components. Collecting pieces and scraps of metal, he managed to learn his second spell Mending. Allowing him to make small fixes, helping him fix his glasses.

Studying at night, In the darkness?

He was told to forage for glow-in-dark moss or fireflies. Which he used to create Light of his own.

There were also some spells that Mordenkainen insisted on him learning.

"Mage Hand for reaching high places and True Strike to fend off foes who get too close. You will need them the most when you expect it the least."

Mordenkainen was not a gentle teacher.

He did not offer praise freely, nor did he make things easy.

When Harry failed, Mordenkainen simply said, "Try again."

And Harry did.

Again.

And again.

Until he got it right.

And when he finally understood the structure of magic, Mordenkainen said only one thing.

"Acceptable."

But to Harry, that meant everything.

Thus, his spellbook expanded. Now with 5 spells and even more knowledge of the Arcane.

Spell Name: Mending

Type: Cantrip (Fixing Magic)

What It Does: Fixes small broken things like torn paper, cracked glasses, and snapped shoelaces. Can't fix things if pieces are missing.

How I Learned It:
Dudley accidentally broke my glasses. Master Mord said magic has rules and that fixing things takes more than just willpower.

I had to collect scraps of metal from broken things and learn about Material Components before I could cast it. Scraps hold the essence of what was once whole.

Important Notes:
Needs scraps to work.
Doesn't fix missing parts.
Perfect for glasses, torn homework, and Aunt Petunia's favorite vase (before she notices).

Spell Name: Light

Type: Cantrip (Glow Magic)

What It Does: Makes something glow like a lantern when I touch it. Lasts until I stop it or after a while.

How I Learned It:
Needed light to study at night without getting caught. Master Mord told me to forage for glowing things—found fireflies and glow-in-the-dark moss. Had to understand light before I could make my own.

Important Notes:
Good for reading at night.
Glows until I stop it.
Can be cast on anything, even my hand.
Firefly-powered! (Not really, but I like to think so.)

Spell Name: Mage Hand

Type: Cantrip (Floating Magic Hand)

What It Does: Makes an invisible hand that can grab, pull, or push things from far away. Not strong, but useful!

How I Learned It:
Master Mord made me climb shelves to grab things. Failed (a lot). Said I needed to reach beyond my hands.

Then he taught me Mage Hand. Now, I don't need to climb anymore.

Important Notes:
Reaches up to 30 feet!
Can't lift heavy stuff (yet).
Great for grabbing books, snacks, and throwing things from a distance.

Spell Name: True Strike

Type: Cantrip (Aiming and Hitting Magic)

What It Does: Makes me see weak spots, letting me strike with better accuracy for a moment. And hit harder with a stick.

How I Learned It:
Master Mord insisted I learn it. Said "You will need it most when you expect it the least." He made me find a expensive looking stick from the scrap yard. He told me to concentrate my magic on it and then use it to hit something.

Tried it on a wooden post first. Missed. Then I focused, and suddenly, I struck it right in the middle, making a dent. I quickly ran from there.

Important Notes:
Shows weak spots. And makes me hit harder.
Only lasts for one strike.
Useful if I ever need to hit someone hard (hope not).

Chapter Text

At almost eight years old, Harry Potter was no longer just a boy in a cupboard.

He was a wizard in training.

Two years had passed since the day Mordenkainen's voice had first echoed in his mind. Two years of knowledge, discipline, and learning.

Magic was no longer just a mystery.

It was a language, a craft, a puzzle waiting to be unraveled.

And Harry?

He was determined to solve it.

But magic was one thing.

Living with the Dursleys was another.

At first, his life hadn't changed. Uncle Vernon still shouted, Dudley still bullied, and Aunt Petunia still stood aside. But then—under the suggestion of Mordenkainen—Harry started helping out.

"Cooking, woodworking, tinkering, and lockpicking are all useful skills to know. Use this opportunity to learn and win their indifference."

Harry wasn't allowed much, but when Uncle Vernon and Dudley weren't around, he was expected to work.

So, he used it as an opportunity.

He learned to cook from Aunt Petunia—cutting vegetables, watching how she timed things perfectly, how she managed a kitchen.

He fixed small things around the house—chairs, curtains, even Vernon's old briefcase.

He wasn't stupid. He knew they didn't care about him.

But when he made himself useful, they were less cruel.

And in return, Harry learned something far more valuable than magic.

He learned people.

How they acted when they were comfortable.

How their behavior shifted when they wanted something.

How people lied without speaking.

He learned that sometimes, being invisible was power.

Because when people ignored him, he could observe them freely.

And observation was the key to understanding everything.

With this realization came the steady acknowledgment of his Master.

"You learn quickly. Perhaps it is time."

Late Night, Saturday — 10:00 PM

The Dursleys had gone out. They no longer locked Harry in his small room, which was a blessing, for tonight his Master had a new lesson in mind.

After years of learning cantrips, spellcasting principles, and magical theory, Mordenkainen finally deemed him ready.

"You have proven yourself capable, apprentice. It is time you learn your first true spell."

Harry's eyes lit up.

Mordenkainen did not say things lightly.

"This will not be as simple as your previous lessons. It is a spell of the First Circle—a true mark of a wizard."

Detect Magic.

Not just seeing magic—but understanding its presence, its essence, its patterns.

Harry spent 14 hours struggling with it.

Not because he didn't know the incantation. Mordenkainen made sure he understood it completely.

But because he hadn't yet grasped the full depth of magical perception.

"Look deeper, apprentice. Magic is not just something you see—it is something you feel."

The moment he understood, everything clicked.

And when he cast it successfully for the first time?

The world changed.

He saw threads of energy woven through the air.

He saw the lingering traces of spells cast long ago.

His own glasses, worn and mended a dozen times, glowed with residual magic.

For the first time, Harry could truly see magic for what it was.

"This is the Weave, my apprentice. All magic originates from it, throughout planes and existences. Although magic may manifest in different forms, it has the same origin. We, as Wizards, are seekers of knowledge and truth, we understand the Weave to use it. The more we comprehend of it, the more we can harness its power."

Harry nodded, already jotting down everything his master told him in his spellbook.

One Minute Later

The spell wore off, and Harry felt a sense of tiredness take over him. But Mordenkainen was not done with his lesson.

"Now that you have learned your first proper spell, it is time to test your limits. Cast it again."

"But I feel tired—" Even as he said that, he was already readying himself to cast it again, eager to see what happened.

This time, the spell was easier to recast, taking just about 10 hours of attempts. But as the spell ended, an unnatural exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed.

The last thing he heard before darkness took over was Mordenkainen remarking,

"Two spell slots. Already a First Circle Wizard at seven years of age? This will be interesting after all."

Sunday Morning, 9:00 AM

Harry awoke to Dudley banging on his door, telling him the Dursleys were going out again.

It took him about ten minutes to fully regain his senses and realize he was alone in the house.

He made himself breakfast and sat at the table, speaking to Mordenkainen as he ate.

His Master explained the toll that spellcasting took. Unlike cantrips, true spells draw upon the caster's willpower to enforce magic upon the world. The number of spells one could cast was mostly static in nature, and wizards called them Spell Slots.

The number of spell slots a wizard had defined their Circle.

Mordenkainen instructed Harry to save two pages in his book for tracking his spell slots, until it became second nature. Harry wrote First Circle Spell Slots and drew two hollow circles with his crayons.

"You will need to rest after using up all your slots to cast magic. It becomes easier as you learn more magic, allowing you to cast more and powerful spells. But as of now, you are a certified First Circle Wizard, rare for your age I must say."

He was a First Circle Wizard.

That was rare for someone his age.

Pride swelled in his chest, only to be quickly deflated by Mordenkainen's dry voice.

"Pride and overconfidence are the number one killers of wizards."

Harry scowled, but it stuck with him.

Then, curiosity took over.

"How powerful are you, Master?"

Mordenkainen chuckled.

"I have long since grown away from the Circle system of wizard ranking. But if I had to give a number? I would say I am a Wizard of the 50th Circle."

Harry froze.

He could do so much at just the First Circle. What did that even mean for someone on the 50th Circle?

Mordenkainen simply continued,

"Keep up your diligence, apprentice, and you might one day stand beside me as an equal."

That acknowledgment from his Master gave him a boost in confidence and anticipation for what the future held.

Spell Slots:

First Circle Spell Slots:

◯ ◯

Spell: Detect Magic

Type: First Circle True Spell
How to Cast it: Needs one First Circle Spell Slot, and has Verbal and Somatic Components

What It Does: Allows me to see and understand magic, including:

Detecting magical auras and identifying magic items.
Seeing traces of past spells and lingering enchantments. (My glasses were glowing with the Mending magic I had cast on them.)
Recognizing magical barriers, traps, or hidden runes. (I saw something on the house across the street. Weird, but Master said not to poke around lairs of other wizards until I am powerful enough.)

Important Notes:

Costs a spell slot—can't use it too much.

Lasts only a short time.

Drains energy if used too often. (Master said that I slept for half a day after using both of my spell slots, he also said that this would improve with time.)

Seeing magic doesn't mean I understand it (yet).

Chapter Text

--- Dungeons beneath Castle Ravenloft, Barovia, Domain of Strahd von Zarovich ---

It had been five years, eight months, two tendays, and six days since I had been captured by the Vampire Lord of Barovia.

I should have won.

I had more power, more experience. He had home advantage—but that should not have mattered. I had grown complacent, too used to standing above those I fought. And I had forgotten the one rule no wizard should ever forget:

Never charge blindly into an enemy's domain.

A lesson that had cost me nearly six years of my life.

I had tried to fight my way out, at first. Summoned storms, shattered the castle walls, tore apart reality itself in search of escape. But Barovia did not abide by the laws of the worlds I knew.

Strahd had enjoyed my struggles. Even now, he still visited to gloat.

"Brooding in your failures again, Archmage?"

I did not look up. I did not need to.

".....Strahd." My voice was hoarse from disuse. "Come to gloat again?"

"Oh, always." The vampire's voice was thick with amusement. "Though this time, I simply came to refill your water. You do love your little blessings, after all."

I heard the splash of liquid against stone and forced myself to move. Strahd enjoyed watching hope decay—it was why he never let me starve, never let me die.

"Create or Destroy Water, such an unimpressive spell, wouldn't you say? And yet, it's given me years of amusement."

He chuckled.

"Enjoy your imprisonment, Archmage Mordenkainen. I have new toys to play with."

And with that, he was gone.

I dragged myself forward, reaching for the water. It was always my only reprieve, my only weapon against this cursed land.

"Boccob." My voice was a whisper, almost lost in the void. "Bless this water. Grace your servant with your presence. Grant me Protection from Good and Evil."

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then—a flicker of power. A strand of divinity. Weaker than I had ever felt it, but there.

As I drank, a rare clarity washed over me, repelling the fog that threatened to consume my mind.

Not much longer.

Barovia had drained all divine magic in this land. I would need another way out.

The Paradoxical Ascension Ritual.

It was madness. A spell to pray to a future version of myself, forcing that reality into existence. A fool's gambit.

But if I remained here much longer, I would go mad again.

Ten Days Later

The blessing had long since faded. Hope was beginning to follow.

Then—I felt it.

A pull.

A whisper.

"…pr… te… t… h...m… ple…"

It was weak. Disjointed. But I recognized the signs of a summoning.

Someone is calling me.

I had no time to question who or why. I did not care. I reached out, gathering my strength—holding back just enough to keep my mind from shattering.

I pulled.

And I was pulled in turn.

Godric's Hollow—12:05 AM, November 1st, 1981

Sanity.

The moment I entered this world, I felt it—a clarity that had eluded me for nearly six years. The madness of Barovia was gone, washed away like ink in the rain.

For a single, fleeting moment, I reveled in the absence of the whispering dark.

Then I noticed something else.

The Weave here was different.

Not wrong. Not broken. Just… unfamiliar. It was raw, unshaped by logic or structure. Less like the careful threads of Oerth and more like a living thing, pulsing with intent.

It was disorienting, but it was a welcome change from the madness.

Time slowed. My Chronomancy already in effect.

A crib. A child.

Spells hurtling toward him.

The body of my summoner, cold and lifeless. The last traces of their magic still clinging to the air.

A final act. A sacrifice.

"Thank you for your sacrifice." I whispered, eyes locked on the child. "I never forget favors."

Then, I turned my attention to the oncoming spell.

A curse. Laden with a soul fragment.

"Interesting."

I raised my hand.

"Dispel Magic. Dispel Curse."

The green light shattered—unwoven before it could land. The spell collapsed without ever touching the child.

I sensed the fragment—a tether of the caster's soul—lingering in the remains of the spell. With a flick of my wrist, I snuffed it out.

But something remained.

A mark.

Not a curse. Not a soul fragment. Something else entirely.

The Weave had taken what should have been erased and made it real.

I frowned, tracing the faint scar left behind.

"Even destroyed, fate remembers." I muttered. "The world demands a scar, a reminder. Hah. How poetic."

This world was going to be a problem.

Turning my attention to the caster himself. I saw the bald, almost snake-like visage of the man and the flocks of his hooded followers behind him.

Seeking to neutralise this, I turned my attention to the young infant. Using his magic as a focii, I cast the strongest spell I had slots left for—

"Disintegrate!"

Then I resumed time.

---2:01 AM, 1st November 1981, Godric's Hollow---

"Another loss to add to my long list of failures."

"Oh how I wished to hang up my mantle. Give up all the accolades, and just waste away at some quite place."

Dumbledore sees what remains of the Potter Home. All the Death Eaters that were sent to attack disintegrated with some sort of magic.

No.

Disintegration might be a disservice to the magic, they were transmuted to dust. And the source, believe it or not, was the little Potter infant, the only one to survive the whole ordeal.

The secret holder Sirius Black was arrested, and although not sent to Azkaban, was imprisoned in Hogwarts, under his own insistence. He did not believe Sirius had the brains to betray the Potters, but someone in his inner circle did. He believed it to be the now deceased Peter Pettigrew, by simple elimination. It was either him or Sirius.

He arrived to see his student-turned-ally, Severus, cradling the body of his sweetheart, looking despondent.

All his efforts to protect her in vain.

Another Failure.

An infant left without his parents.

Another Failure.

What is the purpose of Albus Dumbledore?

When you take away the hollow accolades and fancy titles, all that remains is a long list of Failures, and a trail of Bodies.

He picked up the child from the crib, transfiguring it into a holding basket for the baby.

Green eyes, glowing with intelligence like Lily, and with a hint of mischief from James.

"Harry Potter." He mouthed his name, reminiscing about the day the Potters told him about their child. And he made the unfortunate connection with the prophecy.

The Prophecy.

Oh how he wanted to burn it away.

Every time he tried to prevent one, it led to it just fulfilling itself on its own.

Almost poetic.

Dumbledore would have laughed if not for the morbidity surrounding each and every prophecy given to him.

Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he just surrendered himself to the prophecy. Blaming his failures and inability on an external stimuli. He would be lying if that didn't seem somewhat attractive.

"Maybe I will this time. The Boy who Lived. Has a nice ring to it, isn't that right little Harry?" He looked at the infant, who had now fallen asleep in his arms.

He made his way outside the Potter house.

"Dumbledore?" "Professor Dumbledore?"

"Minerva, Hagrid." He acknowledged the new arrivals.

"This....has been a night of tragedy, a night of loss. Fortunately the Dark Lord has been vanquished, his magic dispersed....." Eyes still on little Harry, how small he was.

"But the night has not been without losses.... The Longbottoms trapped in a Coma, The Potters lost to the whims of a madman. Two Infants without parents to look after them....."

He hands over Harry to Hagrid, conjuring a Letter.

"I have heard of Lily's sister having a home down in Little Whinging, Surrey. Hagrid drop him off there." "But Dumbledore—"

He interrupted Minerva, having an idea about what she was trying to say.

"Not now Minerva, the Castle is not safe for an infant. Two families were attacked tonight, two families which were guarded with all sorts of magics. The Hogwarts Castle will not be able to protect Little Harry, not until we have rounded up all loose corners there. We have already had a hard time protecting the muggle students, imagine what would happen to a Child who destroyed their lord..."

I took a deep breath, having said what I had to. I knew I had revealed information which should not have been revealed. But it was for a good cause, for the greater good.

And so, the Boy Who Lived was left in 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, with a shadow watching over him.

Dumbledore went and squashed the remainders of the Death Eaters at Hogwarts, with the help of Minerva, Sirius and the other Professors.

After all was said and done. And the Dark Lord's forces vanquished. Rumors and whispers spread of "A Boy who Lived".

The only survivor of an attack by the Dark Lord himself. A boy who vanquished the Dark Lord.

Harry Potter

Chapter Text