Disclaimer: I really don't own the Harry Potter universe. How lovely of you all to think that of me though!
Rating: M for safety, for violence, for upcoming language, for grey moralities etc.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ..."
The most vivid memory Harry had of his parents detailed their deaths. Before that pivotal moment, he only had brief, colourful snippets, like his brain was a degraded memory board. A woman's face, scrunched up in perpetual laughter as her blazing red hair whipped around her head. A scruffy-haired man lifting him up into the sky, once, twice, three times. A melodious voice continually whispering in his ear, professing its love for him.
He vaguely remembered the place where he had lived: a little cottage far out into the wilderness, He'd known no company but that of his parents, the dogs and the occasional visit from Sirius and Remus, who could reasonably fit in the previous bracket, according to what his dad had said.
No-one but this select few ever entered the house; no travelling strangers or distant relatives of the small family stumbled across their little haven. So Harry remembered clearly when the man who breathed death arrived.
The dogs barked, and his parents' easy demeanours bled from their bodies. They pushed him back, behind them, forming a human barricade. The death-man brought a group of people with him, all masked and dressed in dark robes, and they swarmed into the house, spreading, blackening. His parents fought but were subdued, and Harry was caught up and bundled, no better than a pile of dirty laundry. Harry remembered his mother's roar, never a scream, demanding for them to let him go.
The man's clinical laugh made Harry snivel, drawing the red-eyed attention of the intruder. Despite himself, the boy stared up into those red eyes. He had never seen irises of that shade before.
'You must be Harry Potter,' the man said to him, lowering himself onto his haunches for a better view of Harry's face. Harry looked back, tears frozen by helpless wonderment. Even then, Harry could tell that there was something different about this man, that he viewed himself as a king and expected the world to follow. 'You're a brave little boy, aren't you?'
Harry didn't speak, not even as the man took his chin between cold fingers and tilted his head up further. 'Born as the seventh month dies to a family who has thrice defied me. I will mark you as my equal. So for that reason, I cannot let you live.'
Harry didn't understand, but he saw the knife, glinting as cruelly as the death-breather's eyes, pointing towards him. Now Harry moved, struggled, screamed, but someone held his head still as the knife came closer. The fine point slipped seamlessly into Harry's forehead, tugging at the flesh until there was a crude, red, lightning-bolt shaped scar dripping blood onto the howling child's face. The mother was shrieking now, the father bellowing and the dogs, startled into rage, flying at the intruders with teeth bared.
A gunshot fired, and Harry's favourite chocolate Labrador lay on its side, darkness pouring from the wound in its head, staining the floor, the carpet, everything. Harry could only cry so hard. He treated the first dog's death with the same tears as those for his new scar. The men of the room laughed and shot at the other dogs, bringing each down with a pitiful whine.
'Bring them over.' The leader jerked his head at Harry's parents, and they were indeed brought over, Harry's father managing to throw off his attackers twice, his mother fighting desperately with teeth and nails. But it was over soon. There were too many of them.
'The father is a bit too troublesome, I think.'
The death-breather had a gun too, and he aimed it now at Harry's father's head.
'NO!' Harry screamed, but he was quickly cut off by a gloved hand pressed to his mouth. His face red and aching, he watched in silent horror as his father was shot in the chest, the words "I love you" immortalised on his lips as he looked at his son for one last time.
'James!' was the mother's wounded cry. Her head lolled forward, shoulders trembling with the weight of her grief. 'Please. Please, you can kill me, but don't kill Harry. Not Harry, please.'
'The boy must die.'
'Please, not Harry. He did nothing to you. He's harmless. Spare him, spare Harry. Please.'
'All right, you may leave and take the boy with you.'
Harry's heart lifted. His arms were released, and he held them out to welcome his mother, who pulled him into her warm embrace. Those brilliant green eyes, the picture of his own, glistened with joy, sorrow, fear and relief before deadening suddenly as the familiar gunshot sounded once more.
'Mummy?' Harry breathed as she stuttered and gasped, slumping forward and showing the ragged mess of blood and hair on her back. 'Mummy!' The death-bringer's laugh was merciless as he shot her again, delighting in her son's horror.
And Lily Potter died in her child's arms.
There was no time for ceremony. Her body was dragged away to lie with her husband's, the first respectful gesture Harry had seen today. But that didn't last because now the death-bringer was standing before him, as tall and foreboding as Harry was weak and alone.
'Behold,' the man announced to his jeering followers, 'as the prophecy dictated, my equal. A snivelling little runt gifted, it was said, with the power that "I know not". The prophecy was wrong, was a lie. See, I have even deigned to mark him, and yet he cowers and cries. I will defy this foolish prophecy once and for all and kill him.'
He raised his gun one last time, and Harry clamped his lips shut, trying not to cry anymore. His eyes were glued to the barrel as it aimed directly at his heart, but then it faltered, paused, before being slid back into its holster.
'No, I've changed my mind. I want it to be slow. I want to see the light leave his eyes. I want to feel the life pour out of his feeble little body.' He seized the boy by his neck, lifting him off of the ground with one hand.
Harry gurgled, attempted to kick out and disable his attacker, but ultimately failed. His neck throbbed around his larynx, too compressed to release sound or take in air, so he thrashed about as if he was silently drowning, until he was too weak to move. And yet the death-bringer continued to crush. His eyes fell to one of the dogs on the floor. From this position, it looked as if it was sleeping or playing dead.
Playing dead. The four-year-old could hardly believe this stroke of inspiration, but he quickly carried it out. He let his eyes fall shut and went completely limp in the man's grip. And yet the death-bringer continued to crush, making sure that every trace of life was choked from him. Harry couldn't manage much longer. Either the man released him now or he would die.
Finally satisfied, the man dropped the boy to the ground with little delicacy. Harry lay on his back, scarcely breathing, but alive. The man was talking, addressing someone, and the boy carefully listened.
'…have a son his age, do you not?' There was a satisfied hiss to the voice that made Harry want to shudder. Luckily, he was too weak to.
'Yes, my lord.' Harry didn't expect it to be a woman's voice, low and fearful.
'Check that the boy is dead,' the man ordered dismissively.
'Yes, my lord.'
Harry's heart froze. He would still die after all. The follower would pronounce him alive, and the death-man would really kill him this time. A staccato of footsteps, a warm hand at his brow, a pair of soft, grey eyes gazing at him through a mask.
'Ssh,' the woman whispered in the most hushed tones, stroking the boy's face before touching the shallow yet defiant pulse in his neck. Harry froze, but the woman didn't stand immediately and doom him with her next words. Instead, with a heaviness that only a parent could achieve, she said, 'He's dead, my lord.'
'Good. Now let us leave. I am finished with the Potters.'
'Can't we take the woman with us? Such a pretty corpse shouldn't be wasted.' Harry almost betrayed himself, wanting to jump up and attack, but settling for soundlessly clenching his teeth.
'Silence, Greyback! The Potters: gone from this earth, completely destroyed, that is what I want. Only then will I be truly triumphant, truly invincible.'
His followers filed out, the death-bringer the last to leave. With a chuckle, he fired one last shot. Harry flinched, but nothing hit him. The man left shortly afterwards, and Harry slowly opened his eyes. The door and the surrounding wall were on fire, and the flames were quickly spreading. Harry choked with no more tears left to cry, crawling over to the bodies of his parents.
He tried to speak to them, strangled howls never really unifying into words. He desperately pulled at them, trying to drag them from the blazing building as if they were still alive. Their dead weight made them impossible to lift and difficult to shift, and Harry managed a few inches before giving up. He looked up. The door was lost in the blaze now, its outline warping. Harry knew that he wouldn't be able to make it through.
Shuffling back, he lay between his parents' corpses, took his father's hand in his left and his mother's hand in his right, and waited for death as the fire blistered the tears off his face.
A crash exploded from behind him followed by an unfamiliar voice. 'James? Lily?'
Harry, with lungs full of smoke, struggled to get up, coughing and croaking.
''Arry! Get in 'ere, Sirius! 'Arry's in there!'
At the sound of his godfather's name, Harry faced the door. There was a giant in the frame, who, by the looks of it, had broken the door down. A smaller figure jumped through the flames, arms shielding his face, and ran the rest of the way.
'Harry!' Sirius pulled the boy into his arms. If he saw the dead Potters on the floor, he didn't say. 'Let's get you out of here.'
'But– Mum–'
'Ssh, I'm keeping you safe, Harry.'
Cradled in Sirius' arms, Harry Potter passed out. He would never be so safe again.