Prologue:
On October 31st, , a miracle occurred that would change the wizarding world forever. Witches and wizards ran cheering in the streets, for the tyrannical reign of Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named, was vanquished. How? No one was certain, but in the dim light of the Leaky Cauldron it was whispered, and in the words on the parchments tied to owls feet it was penned: a rumor of boy, wrapped in tragedy, a mere baby. Where countless powerful Magicians had failed, a child had dispelled their worst torment. It was said that on Halloween night Voldemort had gone to Grodric's Hollow and murdered the Potter's. It was whispered that James Potter had stood wandless in the doorway blocking the way, and that Lily Potter had died cradling her son, begging for mercy. And the boy, Harry James Potter, when cursed with the worst of the Unforgivables, had escaped with nothing more than a lightning shaped scar upon his brow. No one knew what happened to the boy afterward. It was said that friends of the family had shuttled him off somewhere safe, but nothing else was known.
Harry Potter, at that moment, had just fallen asleep in the sidecar of a flying motorcycle that was just passing over Bristol, and The Boy Who Lived would never hear a word of his fame, never have an inkling of his heritage, his legend until ten years later, on his eleventh birthday.