The Boy Who Died

Prologue: Watching eyes

Fandom: Harry Potter

Rating: M

Warnings: Character Death, Torture, slight insanity, angst, blood, violence, creatures, slash, yaoi, AU

Summary: Harry Potter died that quiet night when the Dark Lord raided the Godric's Hollow. He was murdered, but not by Voldemort as all seems to think... What's going to happen to the Wizarding World when both the Dark Lord and the Savior come back and both of them are back with vengeance?

Beta: Contra Mundi

The night air was hot and stale, silence broken only by quiet rustling of the grass and the crickets hiding somewhere beneath the blades on the large front law of Godric's Hollow. The house was silent, the reassuring shimmering of the wards gone, broken but a few minutes ago. The Dead black windows of the house stared mutely at the peaceful neighborhood, awaiting the return of its inhabitants.

Somewhere inside, the stairs creaked. Old teak wood groaned yet again when the man climbed them, his palm sliding along the railing, pale fingers tracing invisible patterns, long fingernails tapping from time to time, causing the low sound to echo in the long staircase. When the man reached the second floor, he let his hand fall limp by his side, the other twirling his wand restlessly. The Pale shine of the lumos charm had long gone, put out when he had entered the house- he didn't need the light to see in the dim surroundings, his red eyes were more than enough for this simple task.

For a moment he stood still, like a hunting dog sniffing after his prey, then turned left and approached the door at the end of the corridor, dodging some toys scattered on the floor. The door was slightly ajar and needed only a small push to swing fully open. The room was medium-sized, walls lined with rows of colorful boxes, no doubt holding toys. In the far corner, near one of the windows, stood a white closet. The bright carpet with symmetrical patterns was even messier than the floor in the corridor, toys, pieces of clothing and a book or two, successfully turning it into an obstacle course. In front of the door the man was standing in, between two screened windows, there stood a crib with small side-table with a dim night-lamp on.

Inside the cradle lay a small boy, barely"a year old. He looked deathly pale in the weak light, black hair and long eyelashes in sharp contrast with his sickly skin with the net of blue veins underneath. The Petite body clad in red and gold rompers was covered in a blanket, shielding him from the chilly air of the July night. The baby lied on his back, small fists clenched under his chin, plump bluish lips half-open with a small bubble of drool in one corner of his mouth. The Baby's eyelids twitched from time to time, muscles in the corner of his right eye contracting when he dreamt, but his body remained immobile.

The tall man watched him for a long while. His face was set in a thoughtful scowl", eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He was recalling the errant verses of the prophecy which marked this small boy as the reason of his downfall. With a sight he raised his wand and whispered: 'Avada kedavra'.

And then he saw it. Before the curse could reach the boy, he opened his eyes. Green eyes so alike to the color of the killing curse, one could say they were housing death.

The man didn't even have the time to flinch when the light rebounded from the crib, slamming straight into his chest. He could feel his soul breaking and all the small pieces turning to dust. Years of experience, hardship, hatred and madness - it all disappeared, changing his soul, destroying it. With the last of his power he flung himself towards the only host that was close enough. His crippled soul, now younger, that of a 17 year old boy, latched onto the child in the cradle. Using the connection through the lightning shaped scar, the very one he inflicted just seconds before, he submerged himself into the boy.

Their souls connected and melded together, the man's thoughts and feelings scattering like a flock of scared birds, lost in the child's mind. He gradually lost consciousness and become more and more of a passive onlooker, who could do nothing but observe. After few moments, even that was impossible for him. He went blind and was it so bad? He couldn't remember what he was supposed to see or think. He didn't even remember who he was and- the last conscious thought was lost as the man's soul broke apart, completely joining with the boy's.

That was the moment he disappeared from this world, his old body turned to no more than a pile of dust. Lord Voldemort was no more.

.

Screams echoed through the house as a frightened woman ran up the stairs and tore her way into the nursery. As she passed the door, she swayed on her feet, the horrid stench hitting her square in the face, making her stomach churn and roll uncomfortably. She saw the paint half-melted and darkened on the walls as if licked by an invisible flame, a burned hole in the middle of the floor with a pile of slivery grey ash inside, broken windows and the crib...

She ran forward and was soon looking down at the small boy, her eyes searching for any signs of life. For a moment, she thought him dead. His skin, normally very pale already, was now a whiter shade. But then his small lungs filled with air, delicate chest rising slowly. She half sobbed, and reached inside the crib to touch the skin of her son, the one they put all their hope on, the one little hero who saved them all... and then she froze, her fingers twitching centimeters above the blankets.

The boy opened his eyes and stared at her without blinking. Both eyes, one green one, the other crimson red, like the one of the monster they fought so hard to defeat, didn't move from her face, observing quietly, waiting for her to move, to say something, to make it better.

She stood like that for some time, not noticing when both her husband and mentor entered the nursery nor when they moved to stand beside he. Upon seeing the boy, whose eyes were still boring into the woman's, they too stood motionless, unable to say or do anything.

The old wizard, her mentor, moved,. He put his wrinkled hand on her shoulder and gently tugged her back. . At once she was encircled in her husband arms, his hand moving her head to rest upon his chest, trying to cover her eyes and make those mismatched ones disappear from her view. But she still could see them. She still saw them as the old wizard lifted his wand and pointed it at her only son. She saw them when, in the background noise of the wind, of the crickets' song, of the silence and of the breath leaving that chest she was so glad to find still moving few moments before, she heard the unmistakable words of the Killing Curse. She saw them watching her even when they were closed, even when the body in the cot slowly turned into ash of the same beautiful sparkling silver as the one on the floor. She saw them watching her even as both men tugged her from the room and down the stairs, from the house and far away from it, and from the cot and from the ash. But still she saw the eyes watching her. And she would for a long time.

And in the Godric's Hollow, in the nursery on the second floor at the end of the corridor on the left, near the small cot, the lamp was still lit at the side-table. The scorched curtains swayed in the wind and the cradle moved slightly from side to side, silver ash slipping through the bars. The house was silent, bar the crickets song in the front lawn.

That was the place where, Harry James Potter, the unknown hero, the unrecognized Savior of the Wizarding World, died.

A/n: Hope you liked it, R&R