Chapter Text

 - Year One: The Awakening -

31st October, 1979

The rain lashed against the windows of the office with relentless force, the droplets sliding down the glass as if trying to invade the warmth of the room. Inside, the soft crackling of the fireplace filled the space with a comforting heat, and the bed in the corner of the room seemed like an irresistible invitation to lose oneself under the covers.

But, for some reason, Albus Dumbledore couldn’t sleep.

The clock had long since passed two in the morning, and he felt the weight of the late hour in the weariness that had settled deep in his bones. With a quiet sigh, he stroked his long, silver beard, his eyes fixed on the darkness outside, where the occasional flash of lightning briefly illuminated the distant silhouettes of Hogwarts’ towers.

Youth had abandoned him long ago—so many decades that he had almost lost count at times. And with experience had come the uncomfortable knowledge that he would pay the price for a sleepless night. When the sun rose and the students filled the Great Hall to enjoy the Halloween holiday, he would be there, sipping a steaming cup of tea, trying to ignore the heaviness of his eyelids and the inevitable fatigue that would demand its toll.

However, at that moment, he only had the storm for company.

His gaze wandered around his office, filled with artifacts and items accumulated by various headmasters over the centuries. The Sorting Hat snored softly, asleep on a shelf. Then his eyes rested on Fawkes, his faithful phoenix, who slept peacefully on his perch. A few feathers had fallen, and he looked visibly frail. Fawkes was nearing his burning day; soon, he would be reborn. It was always a melancholy sight to see his companion wither before rising from the ashes, vibrant and full of life once more.

On his sleepless nights, he often reflected on a myriad of topics: sometimes, his academic research; other times, the challenges of running Hogwarts. There were also the matters of the Wizengamot and the ambitious, manipulative wizards he—with great patience and cunning—kept carefully in check.

But, for the past few years, one topic in particular had always found a way to dominate his thoughts, like a persistent shadow that could not be shaken: the ongoing wizarding war, led by Tom Riddle—or, as he now preferred to call himself, Voldemort. No one but himself and Tom knew his true name and miserable past, but that hardly mattered now.

Sighing, and without realizing it, his hand had already found the small glass jar beside him. He twisted the lid absentmindedly and popped a lemon drop into his mouth, letting it slide onto his tongue. The sharp, citrusy flavor exploded in his mouth, a welcome contrast to the bitterness of his thoughts. It was hard to face such dark matters without something to soothe the mind—and, if possible, the heart as well.

He remembered the last time he had seen Tom, before he had become the greatest terror of the modern wizarding world, before he had revealed himself as a cruel and bloodthirsty monster.

It was impossible to forget that strange encounter, filled with so many unspoken words.

Dumbledore had watched Tom from across the table with a calculating gaze, the serene afternoon sun streaming through the open windows of the room. It had been years since Riddle had been there, but the handsome, charismatic young man of yesteryear was different now. His face had lost much of its aristocratic beauty; he was paler—almost completely white—his eyes slightly reddened, as if reflecting something dark.

“How are your affairs, Tom?” Dumbledore had asked casually. “If I recall correctly, you’ve been missing for quite some time, a decade or more. Personal reasons, I imagine?”

Riddle had smiled, but Dumbledore recognized falseness when he saw it.

“Ah, nothing extraordinary, Professor. I decided to travel, to learn more about magic, explore ancient artifacts, and perfect spells around the world. I can confidently say that Greece has much to offer in that regard.”

A soft pop announced the arrival of a house-elf, who set down two cups of tea before disappearing again.

Dumbledore had watched him thoughtfully, running his fingers through his beard. “Indeed, many wizards try their luck hunting for relics and artifacts. I never imagined that would be a field of interest for you, however. Since you mention your travels, is there anything noteworthy you’d like to share?”

Riddle had taken a sip of tea, prolonging the pause before answering.

“I’d love to say I have something that might be useful to your academic research, Professor. I heard you recently discovered twelve new uses for dragon’s blood. Impressive, to say the least. But, unfortunately, I’m no expert in potions. Professor Slughorn was excellent at teaching and passed on much of the knowledge I have today on the subject, but my passion has always lain elsewhere.”

Dumbledore had nodded, not believing a word of it. He had never trusted Riddle, and now his suspicion was stronger than ever; his appearance and evasive behavior were unsettling. He had tried to probe the former student’s mind but found a barrier as solid and impenetrable as stone.

“That’s truly a shame,” Dumbledore had said lightly, masking his frustration. “I would have liked to hear more about your discoveries.”

Tom had tilted his head slightly upon noticing the attempt at Legilimency, a smile that didn’t reach his lips playing on his mouth.

“And how are things here?” he had asked casually. “It’s been years since our last conversation. Any students of particular note?”

“Ah, there are always promising talents,” Dumbledore had replied, resting his elbows on the table. “Every generation brings its own prodigies, just as it has since the time of the four founders. But I don’t believe you’ve come here merely to catch up on the latest bright minds at Hogwarts. So, in that case, what is the real reason for your visit, Tom?”

Dumbledore’s direct tone had made a muscle in Riddle’s jaw twitch, but he had quickly masked any sign of irritation.

“Straight to the point, as always, Professor. Very well. I’ve learned that Mr. Chaptole will be stepping down from the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I was wondering if there might be an opportunity for me to take his place. I have the necessary certifications and experience, should they be required.”

Dumbledore had understood immediately the hidden intentions behind the request.

During his years at Hogwarts, Tom had proven himself a master of manipulation, cloaked in a charming charisma that masked his true nature. Using his influence, he had gathered a select group of followers, who called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis. Ambitious, loyal, weak, and easily manipulated young wizards, who, when necessary, acted on Riddle’s indirect orders, always ready to execute his will without ever compromising his image. Tom, as always, kept his hands clean. He preferred to operate in the shadows.

Dumbledore pressed his lips together, his gaze distant.

It wasn’t something he was proud of—in fact, it was one of the most questionable practices he had ever adopted—but sometimes, he would probe the minds of certain students. Never invasively, never without reason. But when it came to Tom… with Tom, it was different. He needed to be sure. Letting him believe he still held some form of control was a dangerous game, but perhaps less dangerous than letting him act unsupervised.

The most alarming thing, however, was how no one had ever suspected the brilliant and disciplined Tom Riddle. The exemplary student, the impeccable Head Boy. Always courteous, always respectful. If Dumbledore hadn’t known what lay behind that perfect mask, he would have been fooled like everyone else.

And now, that man coveted a position of authority to mentor young minds.

Granting it would be a catastrophic mistake. Tom didn’t seek to serve, only to command. He saw further than anyone could predict, but always through the lens of his own ambition.

Dumbledore couldn’t allow it.

He feared—with every fiber of his being—what might happen if Tom Riddle got exactly what he wanted.

“I’m afraid that’s a proposal I must decline, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly.

Riddle had never been interested in the art of Magical Sensitivity, so despite maintaining an apparently unshakable expression at the refusal, he couldn’t hide the hatred in his magical aura as his plans were thwarted. Dumbledore sensed an overwhelming wave of anger and malice emanating from him, almost suffocating.

Despite this, Riddle kept his voice polite. “Professor, I wouldn’t ask for a high salary, nor would I demand luxurious accommodations. Just a chance. After all, it was you who assessed my NEWT scores. You know I’m qualified. Besides, you know me.”

“And it’s precisely because I know you that I cannot accept,” Dumbledore replied directly.

Riddle’s eyes burned with a red intensity, and his jaw tightened.

“Disappointing. I expected more consideration from a former professor. This is absurd.”

“It’s not a lack of consideration, Tom. It’s prudence. With that said, is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

For a moment, the silence in the office was almost palpable. Dumbledore felt Riddle’s anger reach a peak and kept his hand close to the wand hidden in his robes, ready for any reaction. He also released a hint of his own magical aura, making it palpable even to those with no sense of Magical Sensitivity.

“No,” Riddle said finally, letting out a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I think that’s all for today.”

He rose with almost theatrical elegance, adjusting the collar of his dark cloak before casting one last calculated look at Dumbledore.

“Until next time, Albus. No need to worry about me—I won’t disappear for long periods as I did before, so I’m certain you’ll hear much more about me in due time.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, maintaining the serene tone that seemed to irritate his former student.

“I hope it will be good news. It would be regrettable to hear otherwise.”

Riddle narrowed his reddish eyes and turned toward the Floo Network.

But before disappearing, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Ah, a word of advice… choose carefully who will fill that position,” Tom said coldly. “I have a feeling you’ll need far more than a dozen good Professors to handle the subject from now on.”

Dumbledore remained still, his expression unreadable. “Thank you for the advice, Tom. I’ll consider it carefully.”

With one last look that seemed to carry both a veiled threat and the promise of something inevitable, Riddle vanished into the Floo Network in a whirl of green flames.

Since Dumbledore had refused Tom’s offer for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position years ago, the Dark wizard had dedicated himself to darker and crueler methods of expanding his army. If he couldn’t influence young minds as a professor at Hogwarts, then he would use giants, werewolves, acromantulas, and even dementors to quench his thirst for blood and chaos. There were disturbing rumors that he was now turning murdered Muggles into Inferi, reanimated corpses that worked as dangerous slaves to bolster his front lines.

Cruel? Undoubtedly, but Dumbledore knew that, unfortunately, Voldemort surpassed Grindelwald in cruelty and disdain for life—which was no compliment.

It was why, in mid-1973, he had founded the Order of the Phoenix, a small secret group of witches and wizards willing to fight against the rise of darkness. At the time of its creation, many current members of the Order were still children, as were many of the current Death Eaters—Voldemort’s loyal followers. These children had grown up together, sharing corridors and classrooms; competing for the House Cup and Quidditch matches, before parting ways and choosing opposite sides in the war, where they swore death to one another, killing when they could.

“They’re still children…” Dumbledore reflected bitterly, as the path things had taken unfolded faster than he could prevent.

The thought weighed on him like a cold stone. He sank into his armchair and rubbed his tired eyes. Where had he lost control? Hogwarts, the prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry in Britain, which he loved so dearly, had once been a sanctuary where students dueled with tickling charms and laughter, but now those same students were divided, trading hexes and deadly curses. Backward, idiotic ideas of blood supremacy and purity had seeped like poison into the minds of the most manipulable and weak-hearted.

Even with new recruits joining the Order, the ratio was alarming: twenty Death Eaters for every member.

How could he protect all those innocents without more people getting hurt? How could he save the wizarding world from impending destruction and, most importantly, how could he stop a merciless madman like Voldemort?

The answer wasn’t clear. He thought of Molly Weasley—née Prewett—who had lost her brothers, Fabian and Gideon, in a deadly ambush. The searing pain of that loss still echoed within her, yet she fought on with the unyielding faith of a lioness. But she wasn’t the only one suffering. One by one, members of the Order were hunted down and eliminated. Killing one Death Eater seemed to bring three more in their place, hungry for blood and vengeance.

Dumbledore sighed deeply, popping another lemon drop into his mouth, knowing he would have to face the entire Order once more the following afternoon at a meeting and admit that he still didn’t have a definitive plan to end this chaos. The light in his life came from his former students, who still believed in a better future.

James and Lily had recently married, and he remembered the wedding with a gentle warmth in his heart.

The ceremony had been small but filled with love and hope, as if every corner of the venue shone with the promise of a bright future. Lily had invited her sister and brother-in-law to the wedding. However, even by Muggle standards, Petunia and Vernon Dursley seemed out of place. They lingered on the sidelines, stiff and visibly uncomfortable, as if the mere proximity to the magical world might contaminate them.

Dumbledore, ever polite, had tried to strike up a conversation with them but quickly realized his efforts were in vain. Vernon, his neck red and tightly squeezed into a ridiculously small tie, muttered monosyllabic responses, while Petunia kept her thin lips pressed into a disapproving line. They seemed determined to keep their distance, watching from afar as if the event were a spectacle they didn’t want but couldn’t avoid attending.

Still, the atmosphere was one of celebration. Minerva McGonagall was present, elegantly dressed for a woman of her age, her chest visibly puffed with pride as she witnessed two of her brightest students finally unite their lives. The rare smile she wore left no doubt about how much the moment meant to her—and he could have sworn he saw a tear escape her eyes.

Dumbledore, standing beside her, watched the couple with a serene yet attentive gaze. He could sense something special in the union of Lily and James—a rare harmony that, perhaps, only he, Minerva, and the Potters themselves could fully perceive. It was as if their auras danced together, intertwining in perfect harmony, creating something greater than themselves.

“Soulmate encounters always surprise me,” he mused, gazing out the window as heavy raindrops streaked down the glass.

Dumbledore smiled at the thought, his eyes twinkling as he lost himself in the memories of that celebration.

When James and Lily exchanged their vows, he had felt his old, weary heart fill with hope, like a grandfather watching his grandchildren find happiness. The love between those two was one of the reasons worth fighting for, a promise of a better world. He imagined future happy marriages among the younger members of the Order and dreamed of the day he would see a new generation of witches and wizards attending Hogwarts in times of peace, free from the dark shadows of their parents’ past and the madness of blood purity.

But it wasn’t that simple.

The smile that had touched his lips vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as Dumbledore returned to the present, where grim news and constant threats seemed to weigh even heavier on his already burdened mind. More massacres, more wizards and Muggles dead. Each day, the darkness deepened, and the feeling of helplessness became harder to ignore.

He knew he shouldn’t bear the burden of the war alone, but deep down, he felt there was something deeply personal about this battle. He had defeated Grindelwald before, a threat that had once seemed insurmountable.

“Why does everything feel so much harder now?” he wondered.

The answer was simple and bitter.

“Voldemort has no limits…”

And that lack of limits was what made the fight against him a race against time. Dumbledore knew, with a sinking feeling, that he would need to find a solution before it was too late.

“I’ve seen so many shadows—so much darkness… But this… this is different.”

His wisdom and life experience weighed heavily in moments like these because he knew what was likely to happen soon—that the story of more pain and suffering would repeat itself once again, as it always did, just like in the Global Wizarding War. But he couldn’t afford to falter or give up.

“Not yet…”

He knew the reality of the war was far from over. Only a miracle could change it, but even miracles seemed scarce. The Order was in tatters, with members missing, dead, their families constantly threatened.

Dumbledore glanced at his peculiar clock on the desk—enchanted not only to tell time but also to track the positions of the sun and moon. The dial revealed that the night was fading, and dawn was approaching with silent steps.

Perhaps it would be wiser to try to sleep, rather than let melancholy thoughts consume what remained of the night. If he continued like this, he wouldn’t be productive the next day. Besides, there was no need to make Halloween even more dreary than it already was with his lack of energy.

Letting out a soft sigh, he rose from his chair, feeling the protest of aged bones and tired muscles. Age had its subtle—and sometimes not so subtle—ways of reminding him of its presence, especially when he strayed from his routine.

As he took the final step toward the stairs leading to his bed, a bright red light caught his attention. He turned, startled, his eyes fixed on the glowing orb on a shelf in the office.

“It can’t be…” he murmured, incredulous, slowly descending the steps.

“What?” said one of the former headmasters, still drowsy, from his portrait.

“You may go back to sleep, Headmaster Vindictus,” said Dumbledore as he approached the orb.

Vindictus grumbled something and closed his eyes again. Dumbledore’s fingers encircled the glowing orb, thoughtful. Its true purpose had always been a well-kept secret among the headmasters. Only they knew its function, and they could never speak of its meaning, bound by ancient protective spells no longer fully understood.

“So, Albus, you are the chosen one?” asked Rowena Ravenclaw, appearing in her portrait with a keen gaze. As a founder, she had been the first headmistress of Hogwarts. Her portrait was by far the largest and most imposing, positioned at the center of the others.

Other portraits stirred, startled to see the orb in Dumbledore’s hands.

“The orb!”

“It will show the way, finally!”

“Is it possible?”

“I thought it was just a myth.”

“Silence! Let Albus think!” Rowena cut in, her presence commanding respect even from the oldest portraits.

Dumbledore stroked his beard, examining the orb as he murmured to himself.

“Fascinating… but why would it activate now?”

“Albus,” Rowena called, her tone grave, “The orb will show you the way, and the artifact awaits your choice. Take it; it is the key.”

“If I may ask, Founder Rowena, what am I to do with the artifact? I never imagined I would be the headmaster to deal with this.”

“None of us know for certain,” Rowena admitted. “When he created the secret, he made it clear that the chosen headmaster would have the answers when the time came… I believe you will know what to do.”

A thunderclap rumbled, shaking the ground and illuminating the office with a silvery light.

Without hesitation, Dumbledore slipped on his shoes, took the orb, and left, descending the stairs of his tower. Hogwarts slept under the storm.

The orb emitted a beam of light, guiding him through corridors and staircases until it led him to the dungeons, into a rarely used wing. On an ancient, weathered wall, a stone door appeared, adorned with green vines and two carved dragons. Dumbledore approached, and the orb glowed brighter. The dragons’ eyes on the door flickered with a vivid red, and the door creaked open heavily.

He entered the chamber. The room was austere, made entirely of polished dark gray stone, devoid of any decorative adornments, as if it sought to convey a straightforward and discreet message.

Lighting the space with Lumos, Dumbledore spotted a white marble pedestal at the center, adorned with dragons carved into its base. There, a simple silver ring rested on a dark green velvet cushion.

“A miracle… perhaps there is still a miracle,” he murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming.

Smiling, he held the ring carefully, as if it were one of the most delicate artifacts he had ever touched. If what Armando Dippet—the former headmaster—had revealed to him when passing on the role was true, it was almost poetic that an object of such power and importance would disguise itself as an ordinary ring.

As soon as he returned to the office, he had barely had time to reposition the orb on its purple cushion upon which, for as long as the Headmaster could remember, it had always rested. Now, it was completely opaque, as if all the energy that once pulsed within it had drained away.

Before he could reflect on the meaning of it all, three firm knocks echoed through the door, cutting the silence like a sharp blade.

“Come in.”

Argus Filch, the castle caretaker, entered holding an old lantern, breathless and as surly as ever.

“Rubeus first apologizes for calling you at this hour, and second, he asked me to tell you—two centaurs are at his hut, wanting to speak with you. They said you should bring an object—an artifact or something—and that you’d know what it was.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. Two centaurs had crossed the Forbidden Forest to Hagrid’s hut just now? The night couldn’t get more intriguing.

“Thank you, Argus. I’ll go at once.”

Filch nodded silently and closed the door. Dumbledore slipped the ring into his robe pocket, donned his purple hat and cloak, and before leaving, cast one last glance at Rowena’s portrait. She simply smiled.

“Good luck, Albus.”

The little owl’s heart raced unevenly as it struggled to maintain its balance in the air. The strong wind, mixed with the torrential rain, battered its grey feathers, making the flight unstable and arduous. It was hungry, and it had been hunting for something to eat.

And that night, it was in luck.

Just below, a small rodent was rummaging through the soil in search of roots. In a swift motion, the owl dove toward the ground and, with deadly precision, seized its prey. Moments later, only the tail of the creature hung from its sharp beak, while the owl’s orange eyes glowed in the darkness.

With its stomach satisfied, it felt the storm continue to lash the world around it. The wind howled, and the thunder rumbled like a distant drum, but there was no time to waste. It was time to seek shelter. It found a sturdy branch high up in a tree that stood alone on the plateau. There, it settled, watching the agitated forest below. Its keen vision saw the treetops twisting in the wind, as if the entire woodland was dancing to the rhythm of the storm.

Suddenly, something strange happened.

High above the clouds, a beam of light cut through the sky with surprising violence, illuminating everything for an instant, like a bridge of light between the ground and the clouds in blue and red. The clap of thunder came immediately after, so loud it almost made the owl lose its balance. With a quick beat of its wings, it steadied itself, surprised by the intensity of the light which persisted for a moment, before fading away, returning the darkness to the night.

But then, something else appeared. From the point where the light had vanished, a glowing sphere emerged, shooting across the sky toward the owl. On instinct, it swerved, narrowly avoiding being hit, as the ball of light continued its mysterious journey through the heavens. It watched for a few seconds, curious, until finally, the sphere disappeared into the vastness of the night, leaving only the distant sound of the storm as company.

The well-kept stone streets of Godric’s Hollow were deserted on the rainy Halloween night. The rhythmic sound of the rain echoed on the pavements, mingling with the soft glow of the magical streetlights swaying in the wind.

The village, by nature, was quiet at night. Only the small local church remained open almost continuously, while the few pubs had long since closed. The last patrons, somewhat unsteady on their feet, had found their way home.

In the houses lining the street, the windows were dark, their curtains drawn, shielding the residents in a sleep lulled by the constant sound of the rain.

All except one.

From the second floor of a modest house, a yellowish light seeped through the gaps in the curtains, an anomaly in the stillness. It was the home of the Potters, a young couple who had recently settled there.

James Potter, after a long and delicate conversation with Lily, had convinced himself to leave the Potter manor where he had grown up. That large, imposing house no longer felt welcoming since his parents had passed away. The silence that was once filled with happy memories had become an empty echo, unbearable when it reminded him of the slow death that had consumed them daily due to dragon pox. The small house in Godric’s Hollow, humble in comparison, promised new beginnings. A home for his new family, where he and Lily could build something entirely their own.

The kitchen showed signs of recent activity—dishes piled in the sink and pans left carefully on the stove.

In the living room, the fireplace still glowed with embers, spreading a gentle warmth. In the cozy corner of the sofa, curled up on his own tail on a bed made of plush blankets, a ginger cat slept soundly.

In the dining room, the table remained set. Two plates of spaghetti sat half-eaten, abandoned and now completely cold. Beside them, empty red wine glasses and an open bottle, already less than half full. The white candles that had illuminated the meal were still burning, well spent.

That night, as on so many others even before they were married, James and Lily reaffirmed the love they felt for each other. Between laughter and knowing glances, the conversation took a special turn. They decided it was the right time—the time to take the next step, to start a family. To bring a new life into the world they shared together.

They were ready to have a child.

And that was why, in the silence of the first floor, the muffled sounds of passionate moans and the rhythmic echo of thuds against the walls escaped from upstairs.

Going up the stairs, there was a trail of clothes. First, button-up shirts and sweaters had been hastily discarded. Further up the hallway, shoes were tossed carelessly, and near the bedroom entrance, a pair of jeans and a long skirt lay forgotten on the floor.

In the suite, the couple was making love as they never had before.

Words of affection were exchanged with intensity as they breathed through their mouths, feeding on the lust of each other’s bodies, completely naked on the bed, between the white sheets.

Lily was beneath James, holding him tightly—her nails almost scratching his back—her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as he thrust into her warm, wet core.

James had his face buried in her silky red hair, savoring its characteristic rose scent.

“You enjoying this, love?” he asked, concerned if he was giving her what she needed.

“Yes... don’t—don’t stop,” she managed to say, running her fingers through his hair without scratching.

It had been a long time—longer than they usually took—since they had begun this passionate dance, and now they were approaching its final act.

James looked at her closed eyes, not stopping his movements against her core. He still couldn’t believe he had the girl of his dreams in his arms, that he could satisfy her so well, that he was so lucky she was his promised soulmate, the woman of his life. He felt like the most fulfilled and happiest man in the world.

He gently brushed his thumbs over her flushed cheeks; they were warm and soft as silk.

“Look at me, darling,” he asked gently. And she obeyed without hesitation.

Those almond-shaped green eyes, shining like emeralds, still had the power to send a shiver through his entire body whenever she looked at him that way—so intensely, so seductively—as if begging for more, for everything he could give. He felt special; she only looked at him like that, no one else.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I know,” he declared.

James ran his hands lovingly over her. He cupped her soft breasts, rubbing his fingers seductively over her already hardened nipples. Lily let out a soft moan, a sound that echoed gently in the room and filled him completely.

His hands then slid slowly, following the curves of her waist, until they finally settled on her bum, gripping it firmly. She arched her back slightly, letting out another moan, this time rougher and more intense, as if every touch of his took her deeper into that shared moment.

“Bloody hell, and the sexiest too,” he panted, smiling, feeling intoxicated by her beauty.

Lily let out a soft laugh at his heated compliments. She loved hearing those words from him, about how beautiful and seductive she was. What wife wouldn’t? Those words were music to her ears and warmed her heart.

“And you... are the strongest, sexiest, and—Ah!” She moaned and buried her face in his broad shoulder as he began to increase the pace of his thrusts.

“Don’t want you thinking too much,” he growled.

“But... I don’t need to think, it’s what you are,” she replied, kissing his cheek.

James let out a soft chuckle. She was impossibly cute even when he was bringing her close to orgasm.

“Can you open up more?” he asked.

Lily didn’t answer, just spread her legs wider, giving him more room. He responded with a passionate kiss.

“Good girl,” he praised, stopping the kiss as he needed to focus on not finishing right then.

She began to let out even more soft moans, muffling them by kissing the sensitive spot on his neck she knew would unravel him.

“I—I love you... so much... so much,” she murmured in his ear, her eyes closed.

James let out a satisfied groan. He loved when she said it like that.

“I’ve wanted you... for so long,” he whimpered, holding her more possessively, as if she might slip away. But she would never go far from him.

James felt Lily smile as she planted more kisses.

“You have me, love... I’m yours... No one else’s,” she whispered seductively, her breasts bouncing slightly with each movement.

James gasped. “Say it again—please, I want to hear it again.”

“I’m yours—Ah!”

He was reaching his limit, wanting to give it his all at the end. She was too, for the third time.

“I’m going to—I’m going to—” he murmured, unable to finish the sentence, feeling his climax reach a level of pleasure he had never experienced before.

“I want your child—Our child. Please,” she begged, tightening her embrace, breathing frantically.

Unable to hold back any longer, he thrust into her one last time, looking into her almond-shaped green eyes with passion as he released inside her, groaning loudly as he felt her insides clench around him. James saw stars and lost all sense of his body.

Lily rolled her eyes back, arching her back and quickly releasing her hold on him, gripping the bedsheets tightly as she let out a wild moan in her climax, her body spasming with pure satisfaction. She released a few more primal sounds, which James matched with his deeper timbre.

Both reached their limits together, the force of their shared desire so strong that it made the lights in the room flicker wildly while the white sheets turned a light blue. Both felt their magical auras dancing joyfully, igniting like tall flames in a violent blaze, touching each other on another plane, as satisfied as possible, as united as spiritually possible.

They intertwined, completing each other in a passionate embrace.

James, feeling his strength fading, gently rested his head between Lily’s soft breasts. Both were utterly exhausted, yet silly smiles lingered on their faces.

Her chest was warm and damp with sweat, the love they had made so good that he almost thought of falling asleep right there, nestled in her comfort. James let out a muffled laugh as he remembered when they had lost their virginity together. He had joked that he could easily make those breasts his pillow, and he had been surprised when she took it seriously and said he could.

They remained in that position for a long moment, enjoying the tranquility and softness of the night. Lily lazily ran her fingers through his hair, while James rubbed his thumb over her shoulders. They kissed again—now a slow, gentle kiss, as if time had slowed down. When they parted, James turned to his side of the bed, and Lily snuggled as close to him as possible.

“It’s going to be a boy,” she said, her eyes shining with happiness.

James chuckled softly, amused. “How do you know? Is it because the sheets turned blue?”

Lily let out a little laugh. “You’re the one who changed the colour of the sheets.”

“Me?” James feigned surprise, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re always transfiguring something. Last time, who was it that changed the colour of my hair, Mr. Potter?” She raised a challenging eyebrow.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about, Mrs. Potter,” James replied, his voice smooth and seductive, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “But, for the record, I prefer your red hair to blonde.”

He gave her a charming smile, the kind that used to make the girls at school blush and swoon, but now, he reserved it solely for her.

And it made her feel even more special, powerful. She gave him a lingering kiss on his lips.

“It’s good, really,” she purred with a satisfied smile, resting her head on his chest again. “It matches better in photos with Pumpkin in my lap.”

“I can’t believe you named the cat Pumpkin.”

“He needed a name,” Lily shrugged.

“That’s a name Hagrid would’ve definitely come up with.”

“But he’s the one who gave me the idea!” she protested, looking up, a playful smile on her face.

James looked at her with a serious expression before both of them burst into laughter. Then, quietness filled the room, and the only sound was their calm breathing.

Lily, feeling the coolness of the night, wrapped herself in the blankets up to her shoulders, and James draped his arm around her, rubbing her shoulders lightly to warm her up.

“But what if it’s a girl?” he asked, his tone soft and thoughtful.

“Daddy’s little princess?” Lily teased.

James gave a mischievous grin. “Of course, I’ve already got the queen, might as well have the princess too.”

Lily let out another laugh, shaking her head. “Incredible, you never miss an opportunity.”

James shrugged. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I made it clear I fancied you in third year and have been chasing you since fifth.”

“I know...” Lily blushed slightly, hiding her cheeks in the sheets like an embarrassed schoolgirl, remembering the many times she’d turned red from James’s compliments and flirting.

James found it utterly adorable when she got shy and tried to hide her cheeks or face. Back in their Hogwarts days, she’d hide her cheeks in her scarf during winter, and he’d always loved those little details about her.

“But no—I don’t think it’ll be a girl,” Lily shook her head slowly. “It’s a mother’s intuition, I think. It’s going to be a little boy. You can mark my words.”

She smiled, feeling her heart warm at the thought of becoming a mother.

“If you say so, I believe you,” James replied affectionately. “Will I get to teach him how to ride a broom?”

“At what age are we talking?”

“If it were up to Sirius, I reckon he’d start looking at catalogues for child-sized brooms the moment he finds out you’re pregnant.”

“Oh, and you’d encourage that?” She looked at her husband suspiciously.

James pointed to himself innocently. “Never, my love.”

They laughed softly together. Lily kissed his chin and inhaled the scent of his cologne, a woody fragrance she’d grown accustomed to over the years.

“So, it’s Henry, right?” James asked.

They’d agreed their son would be named after James’s paternal grandfather, Henry Potter.

Lily frowned slightly, murmuring something to herself. Sometimes, she had the habit of talking to herself, another little quirk James found irresistibly endearing.

“God, I love this woman,” he thought, smiling.

“What is it?” James asked, stroking her shoulder with his thumb.

“What about Harry? He had that nickname, didn’t he? Your grandfather?”

“Harry?” James pulled back slightly, surprised.

“Yeah... Harry James Potter.”

“Wait, when did my name come into this?”

Lily looked at him with her bright green eyes. “I’ve always thought your name was lovely too.”

James chuckled softly. “But wouldn’t it be Henry Potter?”

“I don’t know... double-barrelled names sound nicer, and Harry suits better, don’t you think? And I know you’d be proud to have James in his name too,” she teased, poking his arm lightly.

“Alright, I’ll accept that... but only if, in case it’s a girl, you put your name in the middle.”

“Fine. But then it won’t be Heather Lily Potter... or people will think she’s opening a flower shop straight out of the cradle,” she replied.

“She’d definitely be the best in Herbology in her year,” James said, amused. “Alice would love having an apprentice.”

That made both of them laugh like silly teenagers.

After a few more affectionate words and the excitement of thinking about their future child, the euphoria settled, and the gentle silence of the night enveloped them. After sharing one last goodnight kiss, they fell asleep together, lulled by each other’s warmth, feeling complete in the company of the one they loved most.

Later that night, the rain continued its soft melody, tapping against the windows and filling the house with a soothing sound. It was then that a bright, white sphere of light appeared from the heavens like a shooting star, gliding silently through the front gate. In its translucent form, it passed through the front door without causing any disturbance.

Pumpkin remained fast asleep. The light, though intense, seemed unable to disturb him, as if its brightness didn’t exist for him. The sphere then began to float toward the second floor, ascending the stairs in absolute silence.

At the end of the hallway, the sphere stopped in front of a closed door—the couple’s suite. For a moment, the light remained still, as if waiting for the right moment, before slowly passing through the solid wood.

Inside the room, the darkness was momentarily banished. The sphere illuminated every corner, every detail, as if the midday sun had invaded the space. Yet, neither James nor Lily stirred. They continued to sleep soundly, entwined in the blue sheets and in a peaceful embrace.

The sphere floated toward Lily, who was still nestled against James’s chest, and, without warning, was absorbed into her, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. The light faded, and darkness reclaimed the room.

Lily, still asleep, was enveloped by a warm dream. In it, she and James were in a sunlit field, playing and laughing with a cheerful little boy who had messy black hair like his and emerald green eyes like hers.

23rd June, 1991 – almost 11 years later.

Harry stood in the Dursleys’ kitchen that morning, scrambling eggs. His clothes—oversized and awkward—were hand-me-downs from his cousin Dudley, who was three times his size and much louder. The sleeves hung over his hands as he stirred the eggs, and the heat rising from the frying pan made his face glisten slightly with sweat.

“How long is it going to take to make those blasted eggs?” grumbled Vernon, hidden behind his newspaper, not even bothering to look at Harry.

“They’re almost done, sir,” Harry replied in an automatic, emotionless tone.

It was the kind of response he’d learned to give to avoid trouble.

Dudley sat at the table next to his father, his face sulky. His expression wasn’t far from that of a bull about to charge, irritated by the “unfair” number of presents he’d received for his birthday.

“I still can’t believe I got fewer presents!” Dudley complained, crossing his arms and stomping his foot on the floor.

Harry had lost count of how many presents Dudley had received when the number passed thirty.

“Oh, my darling!” exclaimed Aunt Petunia in her overly sweet tone that she reserved for him. “We’ll buy more after we go to the zoo, alright?”

Harry rolled his eyes and made a face, but only because his back was turned and he knew he wouldn’t get scolded for it.

Dudley let out a grunt, as if pondering whether this emotional bribe would be enough.

“Yeah. I guess so,” he replied, as if he were doing them a favour.

“If you want, we can stop by that shop that sells video games, what do you think?” Vernon asked with a smile.

“Really? Can we go?” Dudley bounced in his chair.

Vernon laughed heartily. “Only if you pick the best games, otherwise it’s not worth it.”

“Brilliant! I already know ten off the top of my head!”

“Only ten?” his father teased, amused. “I was expecting at least twenty.”

“Let me grab the magazine, I can show you the coolest ones!”

Dudley then ran upstairs, as noisy as ever.

Vernon had a strange way of dealing with his son, acting like a doting fool while Petunia coddled him like a baby hippo. Harry had learned to keep a neutral face around this kind of treatment. If he showed any sign of unhappiness, he could end up locked in the cupboard or even beaten, depending on Vernon’s mood.

Today, Harry felt lucky. Vernon wouldn’t ruin Dudley’s birthday by remembering his existence too often.

Harry carefully held the frying pan, sliding the golden, steaming eggs onto his uncle’s plate, then his aunt’s, and finally Dudley’s, who was still upstairs. The salty smell of the eggs mixed with the aroma of the strong coffee Petunia had just served, creating a homely atmosphere that, for Harry, never seemed to include him. Vernon didn’t even glance up from his newspaper, which rustled softly under his thick fingers, as the plate was placed in front of him with a faint clink.

“Eggs again,” Vernon grumbled, not taking his eyes off the headlines. “I’m getting sick of them.”

Harry held back a sigh, feeling the familiar weight of ingratitude press on his shoulders. He knew the eggs were exactly how Vernon liked them—the yolk firm but not hard, and the whites slightly crispy at the edges. But compliments were as rare in the Dursley household as a sunny day in a British winter.

“Sorry, Uncle Vernon,” Harry murmured, retreating to the table.

At least he hadn’t been criticised about breakfast in a while. Harry had been cooking since he could reach the counter, and Petunia made sure he kept at it after years of punishments.

Harry sat in his usual spot and picked up a slice of dry bread from the centre of the table. The bread was hard, almost crunchy, and he chewed it slowly, trying to ignore the bland taste that seemed to stick to his palate. He was used to this kind of treatment—the dry bread and the feeling of invisibility—but it didn’t make the experience any less unpleasant. Meanwhile, the Dursleys continued with their usual breakfast, as if he weren’t even there. The sound of knives scraping against plates and the clinking of teacups filled the air, while Dudley chattered excitedly about a series of game titles Harry didn’t recognise and didn’t bother to understand.

“And there’s Zelda,” Dudley said, his mouth full of toast, “and Super Mario World, which is the best of all! And the—”

“Dudley, darling, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Petunia interrupted with an affectionate smile that vanished the moment her eyes landed on Harry.

When Dudley finally paused to breathe, Vernon seized the moment of silence and turned his heavy gaze to Harry.

“Try not to ruin everything today, boy,” he grumbled between sips of coffee. “We don’t want any of those... weird incidents.”

“But I don’t have control—”

“Don’t have control?” Vernon interrupted, raising his voice just enough to make Harry flinch slightly. “Well, you’d better learn to. I don’t want any trouble from you again, understand?”

Harry lowered his eyes, fixing them on the bread he still held in his hands.

“Yes, I understand, sir,” he murmured, nodding.

The table fell silent again, except for the sound of Dudley chewing noisily and the ticking of the clock on the wall, which seemed to mark every second of discomfort.

He knew what Vernon was talking about—the “weird” things that happened around him. Since he was five, these mysterious occurrences had been happening, things he seemed to do without meaning to, without knowing how.

There was the time at the dinner table when he wanted the water jug at the far end. No matter how much he asked, everyone ignored him. He reached out, and without understanding how, the jug slid through the air straight into his hand. That night, Vernon punished him with the belt for “doing freaky tricks.”

Another time, when he was six, he was tending to Aunt Petunia’s roses—a task he hated, as he always pricked himself on the thorns. Vernon was mowing the lawn nearby when, suddenly, as another thorn pierced his finger, the roses burst into flames right before his eyes. As a result, his aunt screamed at him for hours and, furious at the destruction of her beloved flowers, made Harry scrub the bathroom with a toothbrush for days, even though the floor was already spotless.

When he was nine, his aunt gave him a crude haircut—since he wasn’t worth a trip to the barber. But when he woke up the next morning, his hair was exactly as it had been before. The look on Petunia’s face when she saw him was almost comical—until he went a whole day without food.

There was a more recent memory, from last year, when Dudley and his gang had tormented him all day at school. At dinner, Harry grew angry at the way his cousin claimed to be almost a saint who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and suddenly, everyone was staring at him: Dudley’s hair had turned bright pink. It had been funny, but it earned him days of belt lashings until his hair returned to normal.

These were some of the more memorable episodes, at least the ones his aunt and uncle had witnessed. There were others, too, but those he’d learned to keep to himself.

Soon, everyone finished eating, and the house sprang into motion. The family was preparing for their trip to the zoo, followed by another round of present shopping for Dudley. His birthdays were always a big deal in that house.

As Harry headed to the car, a firm grip on his shoulder made him stop abruptly. He already knew what it was when he turned and faced Uncle Vernon’s threatening glare. The man’s moustache twitched slightly, which was never a good sign.

“Listen carefully, boy,” he growled, his voice low and laced with irritation. “I only let you come this time because Mrs Figg broke her leg. So, I’m stuck with you.”

Harry held back a sigh. Whenever the Dursleys went out, he was usually left with old Mrs Figg, a woman who loved cats and whose house perpetually smelled of boiled cabbage. She made him spend hours looking at photo albums filled with nearly identical cats. It was boring, but undoubtedly better than what awaited him now. Ironically, Mrs Figg’s accident was Dudley’s fault—he’d been racing down the street on his new bike days earlier and crashed straight into her garden fence.

Harry, however, knew that speaking up now wouldn’t do him any good.

“If you do anything strange,” Vernon continued, narrowing his eyes, “if you ruin the day, hurt Dudley, or cause me any sort of trouble... you’ll have me to deal with. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured, knowing any other response would only make things worse.

“Good. Now get in the car. Let’s go.”

The trip to the zoo could have been uneventful, if not for Dudley, who seemed to have endless energy to torment him. Every time he spotted a car of a specific colour, Dudley pinched or punched him in the arm, a “game” he’d invented to amuse himself on the way.

Vernon, watching through the rearview mirror, blamed Harry every time he saw Dudley hitting him, accusing him of “provoking his son” and ordering him to “take it in silence.”

With each groan of pain Harry let out, his uncle huffed impatiently and threatened him with punishments as soon as they got home.

Harry just turned to the window, trying to ignore the pinches and punches, as the streets of London rushed by on the other side of the glass, like a glimpse of a life he’d never have. If he could, he thought, he’d run far away from this place and never come back. Sometimes, he caught himself imagining what his life would be like if his parents were still alive and hadn’t died in that car crash.

Aunt Petunia had once told him that, when he was born, his parents had started drinking.

“Your father was a freak, and your mother, insufferable,” she’d say, especially on days when she was in a bad mood.

According to her, on Halloween, when he was just one year old, James had been driving drunk and, losing control of the car, crashed into a tree, killing them both.

“Did they love me? Or at least like me?” Harry sometimes wondered.

He didn’t even know their faces well, but on the nights he felt sad and lonely in his cupboard, he imagined what they might have looked like. Even if they had started drinking because of him, maybe his life would have been better if they were still alive.

When a red car passed by, Dudley pulled him out of his thoughts and back to harsh reality with another punch to his already sore shoulder, this time harder than before. Still, he suffered in silence, as his uncle had ordered, to avoid trouble.

They arrived at a large toy shop, where Dudley delighted in picking out new presents.

Harry kept his shoulders hunched and his hands hidden in the sleeves of his old coat, trying to blend in among the shelves and avoid the gaze of strangers.

“Wow, look at this action figure, Dad!” Dudley pointed to a box with a superhero.

“Incredibly well-made. Do you want it?” Vernon said, ignoring the outrageous price.

Without even answering, Dudley tossed the toy into the already half-full shopping cart.

While his cousin gorged himself on the latest gadgets, Harry spotted a set of miniature medieval figures from a tabletop RPG game called "Dungeons & Dragons.” He didn’t know anything about the game, but the small figures—especially a wizard with a long white beard and a knight in armour—caught his attention. The idea of having these characters in his cupboard to talk to and play with during long hours of punishment seemed almost comforting.

Lost in contemplation of the box, suddenly, the box began to levitate slightly, lifting off the shelf. Startled, Harry took a step back, accidentally bumping into a young shop assistant, causing the box to fall to the floor with a loud crash that drew the attention of several people nearby.

“S-sorry,” Harry stammered, his eyes wide with fear, expecting a reprimand.

The assistant looked at him in surprise, then offered a gentle smile.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll pick it up for you.”

“I’m really sorry—” Harry tried to say again.

However, at that moment, Harry saw his uncle stomping heavily toward him, his face red with anger. Vernon looked like a bull ready to charge.

“What have you done now, boy?” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain.

“N-nothing, I just dropped the box,” Harry replied, his voice trembling and his heart racing.

“Did you do something freaky?”

“No, sir,” Harry said, his eyes wide, trying to speak softly so it wouldn’t sound like a lie.

Vernon narrowed his eyes, choosing to believe him—for now, at least.

“Good. From now on, you’re staying by my side,” Vernon ordered.

He grabbed Harry by the arm and pulled him away from the assistant, who watched the scene in astonishment but remained silent, returning to her work.

Harry tried to free himself, but it was useless. He was dragged down the aisle of the shop, his uncle muttering about how he always “ruined everything.” Harry’s face burned with shame, and he saw Dudley, from a distance, taking one last look at the miniatures before following his father.

If Harry’s day wasn’t bad enough, it got even worse when he found out that Piers Polkiss, Dudley’s friend and usual accomplice in tormenting him, would be joining them on their trip to the zoo.

When they arrived, Dudley was so excited he seemed about to burst. He jumped out of the car as soon as the doors opened, barely waiting for his parents. Harry got out more slowly, keeping his distance, while Vernon and Petunia focused on spoiling Dudley with treats, ignoring his presence.

Dudley and Piers soon spotted an ice cream stand, decorated with vibrant colours that promised delicious desserts.

“What’ll it be today, lads?” asked the vendor, smiling.

“Chocolate! I want chocolate!” exclaimed Dudley, enthusiastically pointing at the menu.

“I’ll have one too!” Piers chimed in, casting a hopeful look at Vernon, who, smiling, pulled out a few pounds from his wallet.

“Two chocolate ice creams for these champions!” Vernon said, handing the money to the vendor with a grand gesture.

“Of course!” the vendor replied.

He glanced at Harry, who was watching the scene from a distance.

“And what about that other champion over there?” he said, nodding toward Harry.

Vernon, momentarily forgetting Harry’s presence, turned with a look of disdain.

“Oh, him? He doesn’t get anything. He’s lactose intolerant, you know?”

“We’ve got lactose-free ice lollies too,” the vendor said promptly.

“Oh, really?” Vernon grumbled. “Fine, give him the cheapest one.”

“Perfect, two ice creams and a fruit ice lolly,” the vendor replied, continuing to prepare the ice creams for Dudley and Piers with careful skill.

Harry stayed quiet, trying to be as invisible as possible, while Dudley and Piers enjoyed their ice creams, savouring every moment with satisfaction, while he nibbled on a lemon ice lolly that tasted like water.

“At least it’s refreshing,” he thought as he watched the elephants bathing.

The day was hot, and the zoo was packed with families. Children ran around, shouting excitedly, while Harry followed the Dursleys at a safe distance, aware that any misstep could earn him a scolding—or worse, being left behind.

They passed several animal exhibits, such as the big cats, with their lions, tigers, and panthers, and even marine animals with seals and penguins in large aquariums, with space to walk and lie on the ground or to swim. Harry found himself particularly fascinated by the sea otters for some reason; they seemed cute with the way they floated on their backs, and they also seemed more united, some sleeping holding hands so as not to get lost in the water, which was curious, to say the least.

When they reached the reptile house, Dudley and Piers couldn’t wait to see the snakes. The two crowded in front of a large enclosure, where a dark green python, speckled with black spots, lay lazily on a tree branch. The snake seemed utterly indifferent to the commotion of the visitors.

Before Harry could get closer to take a better look at the snake, Dudley and Piers started acting obnoxiously and noisily.

“What rubbish! It’s not even moving!” Dudley grumbled, banging loudly on the glass of the enclosure.

Harry felt his irritation grow as he watched Dudley’s expression. It was impressive how he could be unbearable even with animals. It had been the same with the turtle Uncle Vernon had bought him last summer; Dudley lost interest after just two days, leaving the poor creature in Aunt Petunia’s care, who fed it as if fattening it up for Christmas.

“Hey, stop that!” Harry protested, frowning at Dudley. “It’s sleeping.”

“I don’t care!” Dudley retorted, crossing his arms and scowling. “I want it to move now!”

“Is that all it does all day? Just sit there?” Piers sneered, leaning closer to the glass. “What’s so hard about moving a bit?”

Harry shot an annoyed look at the two.

“Maybe it’s tired of people banging on the glass and shouting all day.”

Dudley ignored the comment and gave the glass another hard knock, this time so forceful that the snake seemed to sway slightly inside the enclosure.

Harry sighed, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure if he was more annoyed by the boys’ rudeness or sad for the snake, who clearly didn’t deserve such treatment.

When Dudley and Piers finally moved away, Harry approached the glass, speaking softly.

“Sorry about them... I know what it’s like to be stuck somewhere you don’t like.”

To his surprise, the snake raised its head, and its deep, reptilian eyes focused on him.

“A Speaker! I am honoured by your presence, Speaker!” hissed the snake, its voice muffled by the glass.

Harry froze.

“You... can understand me?” he asked, leaning closer, trying not to look like a madman talking to a snake.

“Of course, you are a Speaker. What an honour,” replied the snake, tilting its head in an almost reverent gesture. “My name is Ssscheila... may I know yours, Speaker?”

“Harry—Harry Potter... Miss Ssscheila.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Speaker Potter,” her voice had a solemn tone.

“What does Speaker mean? Is that why I can understand you?”

Before Ssscheila could answer, Dudley shoved Harry hard, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Look, it moved! Do it again!” Dudley shouted, with selfish and ignorant enthusiasm, pressing both hands against the glass, ignoring the sign that warned against it.

Filled with anger from the miserable day, especially because of Dudley, Harry narrowed his eyes, a heat of fury building inside him. In an instant, the glass of the enclosure shattered with a loud crack, startling the three children.

The snake—seizing the opportunity—began to slither out. Dudley, horrified, stumbled and fell onto the damp floor, while Piers watched, his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water.

Still on the ground, Harry watched the snake slither first past Dudley and then past him, feeling a shiver run down his spine. But the snake didn’t look at him coldly; instead, its gaze seemed strangely grateful.

“Thank you for that, Harry Potter... Have a gracious day,” Ssscheila hissed, tilting her head in gratitude.

“Of course—I mean—You’re welcome. Have a good day too,” Harry replied, unable to hide his astonishment.

The snake gracefully slithered toward the zoo exit, spreading panic among the visitors, until it disappeared into the crowd without causing any harm. Harry looked at the broken glass, wishing with all his might that it wouldn’t be a problem... and, as if by magic, the glass repaired itself, intact, as if nothing had happened.

As Harry started to get up, he saw Dudley pale as wax.

“It almost bit me!” Dudley squealed, flailing in Aunt Petunia’s arms as she held him tightly, trying to calm him down.

“It’s alright, darling, Mummy’s here! The snake’s gone, it won’t hurt you anymore!” she repeated, her voice trembling with panic.

Harry barely had time to process the scene before a roar of fury erupted through the zoo.

“YOU!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, his skin red and his eyes blazing. “This was your fault, wasn’t it?!”

Harry felt his stomach drop. He’d been in trouble before, but never for something like this.

“It wasn’t! I—I swear!” he said desperately, the words tumbling out.

“Liar!” Vernon spat, his moustache quivering with indignation. “I know you, boy, you’re lying! You did another one of your—your freaky things, didn’t you?”

“But—”

“QUIET!” Vernon snarled, and Harry’s mouth snapped shut instantly.

His heart pounded in his chest. How could he explain this? The snake had called him a Speaker. And he... well, he had talked to it. But how could he tell someone like Uncle Vernon? How could he explain that talking to a snake wasn’t a “freaky thing”?

Before he could even try to formulate a response, Vernon grabbed him by the arm and yanked him so hard he nearly fell.

“I knew you’d ruin everything!” Vernon growled, dragging Harry out of the zoo. “Weird things always happen when you’re around!”

“But I didn’t do anything!” Harry protested, struggling to keep up with his uncle’s rapid strides. “I didn’t even touch the glass! It just disappeared, and the snake got out!”

“Didn’t touch it?” Vernon sneered, tightening his grip on Harry’s arm. “You don’t need to touch anything to do your freaky stuff, you little freak! You’re going to regret being born, boy!”

The rest of the outing was a blur. Harry was forced to follow the Dursleys to the car, where he shrunk into absolute silence, terrified of what might come next. He imagined, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that if Vernon deprived him of food for too long, he might faint from hunger, having only eaten a few dry pieces of bread that morning, and even being denied a cup of tea because it was a weekday—Harry was only allowed anything other than water on weekends. Dudley, though he hadn’t suffered so much as a scratch, spent the entire ride lamenting the “terrible fright” he’d had, while Aunt Petunia fussed over him and comforted him.

When they finally arrived home, Vernon dragged Harry to the cupboard under the stairs and locked him inside without a word. In the dark, cramped space, Harry felt a whirlwind of confusion and sadness, the loneliness growing with every second.

Lying on his side on the tiny bed, he hugged his knees to his chest, the way he always did when they locked him in there, seeking some comfort. He tried to understand that strange power, that inexplicable feeling of something inside him slipping out of his control.

“Why does this always happen to me?” he murmured to himself, miserable and confused, then let the tears fall silently.

A day had passed since the incident at the zoo. Harry had been kept locked in the cupboard, deprived of food and only allowed to use the bathroom when he begged. His aunt, with a cold and impassive expression, waited outside while he used the toilet, escorting him back to the cupboard as if he were an imminent threat.

The next morning, Petunia—displaying her usual indifference—brought Harry some cold, nearly expired leftovers from the fridge. Beside the plate of food, she placed a glass of lukewarm water and, with a curt gesture, pushed it toward him. Vernon had already left for work, and Dudley was out playing with his friends in the street. Harry pounced on the food with voracity, his stomach growling in protest.

As he devoured every bite, his aunt began her usual monologue, spewing venom as she spoke about Harry’s mother and how “insufferable and bizarre” she and his father, James, had been, though she admitted she had barely known his father.

“I went to your parents’ wedding, you know?” she said, her nose in the air, as if this were some kind of heroic feat. “It was full of weird people. It looked more like a freak show than a proper wedding.”

Harry sometimes wondered what these people had done to be considered weird, but whenever he asked, his aunt never answered.

“Lily... well, she looked like she was forcing herself to be there. And your father! Goodness gracious! He hung around with three idiots—I suppose they must be his strange friends—one was short and had a rat-like face, simply disgusting, the other was the tallest of them and looked like he’d been run over by a bus, with the face of someone who hadn’t slept well in a month, clearly worn out, probably from spending so much time with your father, must have affected the poor man’s mind... the last one was always by his side, like a bodyguard. He was quite well-built, tall, with black hair and greyish eyes... a rather... robust man—not bad-looking, of course, but...”

She cleared her throat, her eyes drifting to some unpleasant thought.

Harry frowned, trying to understand where she was going with this.

“Now that I think about it,” Petunia continued, “he looked like a dog. And your father too, come to think of it!”

Harry couldn’t hold back this time. He looked up, his expression incredulous.

“A dog?”

“Yes—exactly! A dog, and a mangy one at that!” she exclaimed, pleased with her own conclusion. “That man who stood by your father’s side. There was something wild about him... he had a strong jaw and—and this ridiculous grin for anyone who looked his way! Can you believe he gave me one of those smiles? Pathetic! A man with such an aristocratic and strong bearing like that—it’s unacceptable, I’m sure he must be dangerous too...”

She drifted off into her thoughts again, staring at a fixed point in the room, imagining disturbing things, until she snapped back to reality.

“Uh—what I mean is, I never liked him. Too rebellious. I bet he hit people or was a womaniser... Yes, definitely! The type who dumps anyone the moment he gets bored. Any woman who got involved with a man like that would have problems, big ones!”

Harry just nodded, continuing to eat quickly and desperately. It was better not to know exactly what she was thinking; Aunt Petunia sometimes voiced some strange thoughts aloud.

“Well, enough about bizarre people,” Petunia spat venomously. “Vernon thinks you need to go without food for a while longer. What you did to our dear Dudley was unacceptable—completely unacceptable. I agree with him. But, since I’d rather you have the strength to do chores, you can eat. As long as you clean the kitchen afterward.”

Harry, his mouth full, just nodded, mumbling a “Yes, ma’am” between bites, trying to finish before she changed her mind. Her next words barely registered in his mind, as he could only think of finishing everything as quickly as possible, fearing she might take the plate away.

Less than a week until Harry’s eleventh birthday.

The incident at the zoo had become an almost forgotten topic at the Dursleys’ dinner table. However, Harry still felt its effects. Dudley and his gang were crueller than usual, chasing him around the house and the neighbourhood with their sadistic games, which usually involved shoving, punching, and pinching. When they couldn’t find him to torment, they amused themselves by jumping on the stairs above the cupboard where he slept, causing a muffled thud that made dust fall onto Harry’s makeshift mattress. He tried to hide in silence, pretending he didn’t exist.

That morning, Harry was, as always, preparing breakfast—delicious scrambled eggs that he was almost never allowed to eat. As he stirred the eggs in the frying pan, he heard the familiar sound of the mail being delivered through the letterbox.

“Go get the mail, boy,” Vernon ordered without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Yes, sir,” Harry obeyed.

As he picked up the letters from the floor, he quickly glanced through them—bills for water and electricity; a bank services advertisement; and a peculiar letter.

He stopped abruptly.

There was something very different about this piece of mail. The envelope was made of thick, yellowish parchment, with a red wax seal bearing an impressive crest featuring four distinct animals. The address, written in careful, handwritten script, immediately caught his attention:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Harry frowned, confused.

“School of Witchcraft? Is this some kind of fancy dress party invitation for Dudley?” was the first thought that came to his mind.

He turned the envelope over, and upon seeing the recipient, his heart leapt.

Addressed to Mr. Harry James Potter.

For a moment, he could hardly believe it. His eyes shone with surprise and excitement. A letter... for him. Someone, somewhere, knew who he was.

Harry stood still for a moment, holding the letter as if it were the most precious thing he had ever touched. He had never—in his entire life—received something addressed to him. Whenever letters or packages arrived, they were always for the Dursleys. He could barely believe his name was there, written so carefully by hand.

The sound of Vernon clearing his throat snapped him out of his trance.

“What’s taking so long, boy?” he grumbled, not looking up from the newspaper.

“Ah... nothing, sir, just looking at the bills.”

“Bring them here,” Vernon ordered.

“Of course.”

Harry hurried to pick up the rest of the letters from the floor and handed them over, except for his own. He clutched it tightly, trying not to draw attention. Vernon flipped through the letters, uninterested, while Harry, his heart racing, slowly returned to the kitchen, the letter still pressed against his chest.

He had to open it. He needed to know what it said.

Harry rushed to the pantry, the only place where he could have a bit of privacy. There, away from the Dursleys’ prying eyes, he carefully tore open the envelope and pulled out the thick parchment inside.

Harry’s eyes widened, his hands trembling with anticipation. A school of magic? Was this some kind of joke?

As he continued reading, the text explained that he had a guaranteed place, with a list of supplies he would need for his first year—various books with strange names he had never heard of. It also mentioned how he would get there, on the Hogwarts Express, and that everything would happen on September 1st at King’s Cross Station, Platform 9¾, which would take him to the school. He would spend the entire school year in a sort of boarding school in Scotland.

Boarding school. Scotland. Far away from the Dursleys.

It felt like a dream. Like going to Disney, kind of like when the Dursleys went and left him with Mrs. Figg, forcing him to listen to all the cool things there were to see. But now, imagine actually living and studying there? Having a place to stay far away from those three and maybe even a chance to change his life?

Alright, it was still a school, but it was in Scotland, and he had never really been anywhere beyond the outskirts of Surrey. That alone was pretty awesome.

Reading further, he discovered he would need a cauldron, potion ingredients, parchment, ink pots, quills, and even a wand... but where on earth would he get these things? And who would take him to the station? Vernon?

“He definitely wouldn’t take me, not even if they paid him,” he thought gloomily.

Before he could think of a solution, the pantry door swung open violently, revealing a scowling and suspicious Vernon Dursley.

“What are you doing in here?” he growled, narrowing his eyes as Harry tried to hide the letter, but Vernon saw it.

“That’s mine—” Harry began, desperately trying to shield the letter.

“Give that here!” Vernon was faster and snatched the letter from his hands, starting to read it.

As his eyes scanned the words, his face grew redder with anger and disbelief.

“Witchcraft? School of magic? What kind of nonsense is this?!” Vernon shouted, holding the letter as if it were a threat.

“I-I don’t know, it was in the mail and... Wait, no—don’t do that!” Harry tried to stop him.

Vernon tore the letter to pieces in front of Harry’s eyes, throwing the shreds to the ground.

“We’re not having any of that in this house! You’re not going anywhere!” he bellowed, furious.

“But that was mine!” Harry said loudly, indignant.

“Not anymore!” Vernon started muttering before grabbing the pieces and throwing them into the fireplace in the living room.

Harry felt a wave of despair and indignation. That letter was his, the first important thing he had ever received in his life. He wanted to scream, but he knew it wouldn’t help.

Vernon wouldn’t allow him to have anything that could bring him even a shred of happiness.

With no other choice, Harry retreated to the cupboard, his forced refuge, as anger and sadness grew inside him.

Feeling bitter, he spent the rest of the day in a state of mourning, as if a part of him had been forcibly taken away.

The next morning, however, another surprise awaited him: a new letter, identical to the previous one, slid through the front door. A similar scene unfolded, with Petunia discovering what had happened the day before and becoming enraged and indignant, calling it nonsense.

“What else can you expect from the son of two freaks?” Petunia snarled, her face twisted with alarm as she read the second letter.

“Can these... these things come here?” Vernon asked, visibly worried.

Petunia shook her head, her lips tight. “I don’t know. They came to talk to her that time—around the same age as him—but that was so long ago. Maybe not.”

“This is all your fault! It’s always your fault!” Vernon exploded, pointing a fat finger at Harry, his face growing even redder.

Harry swallowed hard, his heart racing. The deadly glares from both his aunt and uncle bore down on him, making him tremble. He knew that any wrong word could lead to more punishment, even though he had done nothing but receive an invitation that, in their eyes, was an outrage.

“And what do we do with this?” Petunia asked, holding the letter as if it were something toxic.

“I’ll burn this one too. Give it here.”

With a sharp motion, he crumpled the letter, his fat fingers turning white from the force. Then he marched to the fireplace and threw it into the flames, watching as the paper twisted and turned to ash.

“I knew something like this would happen,” Petunia said, her voice trembling with disgust. “There’s no use denying it, Vernon. This boy... he’s just like my sister. Always different, bizarre... abnormal.”

“Don’t even mention her! That’s already ruined my morning enough today!” Vernon huffed like an enraged elephant, his cheeks quivering.

He looked at Harry as if he were a problem rather than a child.

“I just wish we didn’t have to deal with this... damn you and that whole bloody world!” he exasperated.

Harry remained quiet, shrinking back as Vernon shouted at him, his breathing shallow, feeling smaller and smaller under the gaze of his aunt and uncle. Petunia’s comment, however, struck a chord. He had always known his aunt hated talking about his mother, but there she was, revealing more than he had ever heard before—a venom and disdain that went beyond her usual monologues.

“Son of two freaks,” Petunia repeated, now with more venom in her voice, “I always knew this would happen. Ever since they left him on our doorstep, we knew he was—that you were a... a problem. A problem like her and that James.”

Vernon grunted in agreement, still clutching the crumpled remains of the letter.

“And we’re not going to let this continue,” he growled. “This... this madness isn’t going to take over our house!”

Harry, still trembling, tried to speak. “I—I didn’t do anything. I just got the letter. I didn’t ask—”

“SHUT UP!” Vernon interrupted with an explosion of anger. “You were never supposed to receive this, never supposed to think about replying! Magic, witchcraft... These freaky things aren’t happening here! We’re going to put a stop to this, once and for all!”

Before Harry could react, Vernon stormed out of the room, huffing. Petunia, on the other hand, remained standing there, looking at him with a mix of disgust and... something else. Harry didn’t know what it was, but for the first time, he saw a faint trace of fear in her eyes.

For the rest of the day, Harry was kept under constant surveillance. Every time a shadow moved near the door, Petunia rushed to make sure it wasn’t another letter. Vernon spent the day muttering to himself about “curses” and “freaks.”

That night, as Harry tried to sleep in his cupboard, he heard the Dursleys whispering upstairs. He couldn’t catch the exact words, but it was clear they were worried. He closed his eyes, feeling a mix of frustration and anger at them for throwing away his second invitation. Something was happening. Someone cared enough about him to send two letters, so it had to mean something.

At least it meant something to him.

The next morning, the day of his birthday arrived, and as always, Harry would spend it in the silence of his cupboard, celebrating only with his two worn-out action figures that kept him company or the occasional passing spiders.

However, something inside him felt different.

Even without receiving a response, the idea that someone knew he existed—and cared enough to send a letter—was already a reason for joy. He hoped to receive another invitation on his birthday; that would be his gift.

As he prepared breakfast, Harry was strangely excited. He had never made scrambled eggs with such care. He woke up earlier than usual and set the table meticulously—which immediately caught his aunt and uncle’s attention. Vernon and Petunia exchanged suspicious glances. Something was wrong in their eyes. Even Dudley, who never missed an opportunity to torment him, was quieter than usual, as if a strange tension hung in the air.

Harry noticed that not having the Dursleys grumbling about him or complaining about something else was already a blessing. Vernon tried to read the newspaper, but his hand trembled slightly as he brought his teacup to his lips. Petunia, usually so authoritative, seemed shrunken and distracted. Dudley, though quieter than usual, tried in vain to engage his parents in conversation, only to be ignored or met with disinterested grunts.

Then the mail arrived.

The familiar sound of letters sliding through the letterbox made Harry’s heart race. He dropped everything and ran down the hallway, a flame of hope burning inside him.

“Let me get it, sir!” he said eagerly.

With quick hands, he gathered the stack of envelopes and began sifting through them. Credit card bill. A letter from Aunt Marge to Uncle Vernon. Supermarket flyers advertising absurd discounts on ham and bleach.

And nothing else.

The hope that had warmed his chest vanished in an instant.

No letter for him. No unusual envelope. No sign that someone, somewhere, still thought of him.

Harry felt a tightness in his chest.

“Maybe... maybe they’ve given up on me for not replying...”

The thought weighed on his mind like a stone. He stood there, frozen, holding the mail without really seeing it, as melancholy spread through him.

That glimpse of hope, that small ray of light in his dark life, had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Well?” Vernon grunted, with a curious and malicious look. “What do we have in the mail today?”

“Just the... usual—”

“HA!” Vernon exclaimed, slamming his hands on the table in celebration with a wicked smile. “I knew it—I knew they’d give up on you! I told you, didn’t I, dear?”

He shot a triumphant smile at Petunia.

Dudley, for some reason, celebrated along with his father.

“Who would care about him, right, Dad?” he laughed with his usual disdain.

“That’s what I thought too,” Vernon agreed, nodding contentedly. “At least now we can get back to normal.”

But Petunia didn’t seem to share Vernon’s relief or Dudley’s joke. She remained tense, her eyes fixed on Harry, as if anticipating something the others couldn’t see.

Dudley’s laughter echoed in Harry’s mind like a hammer, each laugh driving deeper into his already shattered soul. Vernon and Dudley were celebrating his misery, his insignificance. They were happy to see him suffer, happy to remind him that he didn’t matter to anyone.

Harry felt something inside him snap and scream to break free, like a caged animal growing louder every second. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t just pain. It was a primal rage, built up over years. It was the weight of an entire life being treated as nothing—and what hurt the most was that, deep down, he was starting to believe he was exactly that: nothing.

“I just wanted...” he said in a hoarse and weak voice, but he couldn’t finish what he was going to say, his eyes beginning to well up.

The words stuck in his throat as frustration, despair, and the feeling of being abandoned consumed him.

It wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.

Suddenly, Harry felt his fingers tingle, his entire body reacting to a rush of adrenaline, and with it, the anger exploded from within him—an intense fury that could no longer be contained, manifesting as a horizontal pulse of energy that touched the walls and made the house shake.

The lights in the house began to flicker uncontrollably. The fridge made a loud noise, turning on and off as if on the verge of breaking. The table trembled, rattling the plates and cutlery, and Harry felt his body vibrating with an energy he had never felt before.

“What the hell is going on?” Vernon shouted, rising from his chair, fear beginning to mix with his usual anger. “Stop crying and get to the cupboard... NOW!”

But Harry wasn’t listening anymore. Tears streamed down his face so intensely that he could barely breathe. His hands trembled, and he felt his heart beating irregularly. Years of contempt, humiliation, and invisibility were drowning him.

He felt like nothing more than a nuisance, a dead weight that should never have been born.

Petunia tried to intervene, her voice trembling with fear. “Vernon, stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

But it was too late. The energy pulsing inside him seemed ready to explode with even greater intensity. Harry fell to his knees on the floor, his glasses flying off his face to some corner of the house, his hands covering his face as he sobbed. The scream that came from his throat was a cry of pure agony, a scream that carried the pain of years of being treated as a burden, as something disposable. The force and the high-pitched, childish sound caused all the windows on the first floor to shatter into pieces, his aunt’s china cabinet turned into a disaster, and the windows and glasses couldn’t withstand the intense power being released from within him.

The entire house shook. The lights burst with a crack, and a current of energy formed around Harry, like a furious storm. The Dursleys’ pictures fell from the walls, their canvases cracking, the drawers opened violently, and papers, utensils, and objects from the living room and kitchen began to fly around the room, hurled violently, some requiring his aunt and cousin to dodge to avoid being hit.

Petunia screamed, pulling Dudley back, both terrified, not understanding what was happening.

Vernon, furious, tried to advance.

“Come here, you little brat!” he shouted, trying to reach Harry.

But the force around him was so powerful that Vernon could barely get close. Every step he took felt like he was being pushed back by an invisible wall. He was hit by a few objects in his path, the TV remote hitting the side of his forehead with enough force to make him clutch his head.

The sound of loud banging on the front door almost made it fall, but no one paid attention.

Harry, still sobbing and trembling, looked at Vernon with an intensity he had never shown before. His eyes, blazing with anger and pain, locked onto his uncle.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” Harry shouted, extending his arm and pointing at him.

In the next instant—Vernon, with one hand on his forehead and the other trying to reach him—was thrown across the room with supernatural force, slamming hard against the wall.

Then the front door of the house was blown open with a bang, and someone seemed to have entered, but Harry didn’t look. He didn’t care who it was. All he wanted, all he had ever wanted, was one thing that had been denied to him his entire life.

“I JUST WANTED A FAMILY!”