Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR. Recognisable parts taken from 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows'.
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The Girl Who Lived: Chapter One
He walked up to the cottage where they stayed, his black robes billowing around him, unable to contain his thin-lipped smile.
They had tried and tried to hide, thinking themselves out of his clutches. But he had found them at last, despite all the measures they had used to prevent him from getting to them.
Nobody could hide from him forever, for he was Lord Voldemort. Even if they hadn't made the whimpering Pettigrew the Secret Keeper, he would have tracked them down anyway.
But they had played right into his hands. Instead of sticking to Sirius Black, who – though he hated to admit it – was a powerful wizard who would have given him a tough fight, the Potters had chosen Pettigrew, the sniffling rat.
He would have preferred them making Black the Secret Keeper. He had duelled with Black four times, and Black had escaped with his life each time – heavily injured, but alive. And torturing Black till he revealed the location of the Potters would have gladdened him to no end. He despised Black at times. Black had everything that he, Lord Voldemort, wanted: the purest of blood running through his veins, heir to a bloodline which had existed since centuries, blessed with parents who had taught him the pureblood way of life, taught him that the rightful place of Muggles and Mudbloods was below purebloods.
But Black had thrown away all that he had; he had rejected Lord Voldemort's offer to join him. And torturing Black till he gave away the Potter's location would have been rather interesting. Even Bellatrix would have been happy. He could, perhaps, have left whatever remained of Black's tortured remains for her to finish off…
But the Potters, those trusting fools, had made Pettigrew the Secret Keeper. And they would pay for it with the life of their son – a fitting punishment for having dared conceive the boy prophesised to bring about his end. He almost laughed aloud at the thought: a little boy, born of a Mudblood, prophesised to end the greatest wizard of all times. The very idea of it was laughable.
He thought back to the Potters, then, his silent laughter giving way to grim annoyance mingled with growing eagerness. They would pay for having outwitted him thrice – three times he had tried to kill them, and three times they had survived. But fortunately for them, he intended to ensure that they would survive this time as well. He only wanted their son.
Harry Potter they had named him – a nasty common name, rather like his own name had been once. But his past did not matter anymore, for he was Lord Voldemort now, the wizard feared by one and all, not Tom Marvolo Riddle with the tainted blood of that filthy Muggle. He was the descendant of Salazar Slytherin, with nothing that related him to the father who had turned his back on his magical wife, to the mother who had run off with a Muggle despite the pure blood that ran through her veins. She hadn't done justice to the lineage she belonged to – of the great Salazar Slytherin. But he, Lord Voldemort, would be worthy of that honour, of being a descendant of that mighty wizard, of using the power of his blood to rule not just Britain, but gradually, the entire world.
He slowed down his pace as he reached his destination, making less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge, and peered over it.
They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room: the tall black haired man in his glasses, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small, black-haired boy in his blue panamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small hands.
He stared at the boy for a long moment, almost smiling again as he perused the boy. He was a tiny little thing, with messy dark hair like his father's and vivid green eyes – noticeable from even this distance – that belonged to his Mudblood mother. There was nothing at all about the halfblood child that marked him as Lord Voldemort's enemy, as his vanquisher. Perhaps, he had put too much stock in the Prophecy. He was almost disappointed at all the effort he had put into personally arriving here to finish the boy, into giving him the honour of being killed at Lord Voldemort's own hands.
But then, he looked up at the boy's father, James Potter – the very James Potter, who had refused to join his Death Eater ranks, who had thrice duelled him and survived to tell the tale. The man, who, just like Sirius Black, had tarnished his pureblood heritage for the Mudblood girl.
A single curse from his wand would finish off Potter in a trice. But that wasn't really needed, was it? All Potter had to do, was hand over his son. Lord Voldemort did not want to spill pure blood, especially that of a wizard as skilled as Potter, who held increasing influence over the wizarding world, who was such an integral part of the old coot's Order of the Phoenix. Potter would, he hoped, go mad with grief over his son's death, making him more amenable to being Imperiused. One Imperious curse was all it would take to make Potter join his Death Eaters. And news of James Potter, renowned Auror, having joined Lord Voldemort, would weaken whatever little resistance was left in his detractors.
He watched a door open, and the Mudblood entered, saying words he could not hear, her long dark-red hair falling over her face. Potter scooped up the boy and handed him to the woman, and then threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning.
His gaze followed the Mudblood and the child right until they went out of sight, wondering what had made Severus fall for the girl. There seemed nothing special about her – long red hair, the same green eyes as her son, a kindly face… She had nothing that seemed enough to attract a grumpy fellow like Severus. She was a powerful witch, despite her filthy ancestry, as he had noticed when he had faced her thrice. But he could see nothing in her that had made a man like Severus love her – not that, he, Lord Voldemort, knew anything about love. Love didn't exist. All that existed was power. Love was something that only fools like Dumbledore believed in.
But he would allow Severus the joy of obtaining the girl he foolishly thought he loved. He wouldn't kill the Mudblood girl unless he really had to. He had told Severus that he would keep her alive. And he intended to do so, unless she made things difficult and forced him to kill her. Lord Voldemort always rewarded his faithful followers. And she would be Severus' reward for having conveyed the Prophecy to him.
But the little boy in the Mudblood's arms – he would meet his death. Today would mark the end of Harry Potter, no matter what. And as he walked towards the house, he was certain that it wasn't Lord Voldemort, but Harry Potter's death that was walking into the little house.
He was over the threshold as Potter came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!" Potter shouted, his hazel eyes wide with terror.
"You think you can hold me off without even a wand, Potter?" Lord Voldemort asked him, his chuckle permeating through the silence, marred only by Potter's loud heartbeats and the sound of the Mudblood piling up furniture against the door – as if a few pieces of wood could stop a great wizard like him.
"I'll do what I can to stop you harming my family!" Potter spat at him, and the terror in his hazel eyes was replaced by a steely glint, a strange determination.
"All I want is your son, Potter," he replied, his voice as cold as Potter's was fiery. "I do not wish to spill blood, especially blood as pure as yours. Give me your son, and join my ranks, and you will get power greater than you had ever dreamt of—"
"I'd die than join a monster like you!" snarled Potter, his eyes blazing with rage.
"I give you another chance, Potter," he replied to the fool, his voice a cold whisper now. He wasn't used to giving people second chances – particularly foolish wizards like Potter. But Potter joining his ranks was something that would prove important to finish off whatever opposition he had left. So, he went on: "I only want your son. Give him to me, and you can live, with the power that comes with being one of my followers—"
"Fuck off, you bastard!" Potter swore, courageously adamant even when he was unarmed in the face of certain death. And it was that courage, despite how foolish it was, that made him raise his wand towards Potter. It wasn't every day that unarmed wizards stood up so bravely to face him. Some of his own Death Eaters wet their robes when he merely looked at them! Potter would make a good addition to his ranks, especially to rein in people like Lucius and Rodolphus who were acting above their expected station lately, thinking themselves invincible because of the grace he had bestowed on them.
So, he twirled his wand, his lips unmoving as he cast the spell – not the green Killing Curse, but a powerful Body Binding Spell that hit Potter right in chest, making him fall to the ground, while Lord Voldemort walked past him, up the stairs where his future nemesis lay awaiting his death.
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James lay on the floor, motionless, his glasses askew with the force of him having fallen down. But he could hear what was happening. He could hear Voldemort forcing the door open. And he knew that all that lay between his family and their deaths were a few chairs and boxes that he had heard Lily pile up against the door.
He had to wake up! He couldn't let them die! He tried to move, but he couldn't. He knew that Lily would never give in to Voldemort's demand of handing over Harry. But Voldemort's patience would last only this long till he would cave in and kill Lily. He had to save her before that. He had to save Harry.
He shut his eyes, remembering Mad Eye Moody's lessons during Auror training.
He didn't have his wand around. But he was still a wizard – one who was not brilliant, but considerably good at wandless magic. And if he tried long enough – like Mad Eye had taught them – he could surely throw off the Body Bind. He had never achieved doing that during training, he remembered, fear simmering in his gut. But he couldn't afford to fail now, for failure wouldn't subject him to something tolerable like Mad Eye's punishments, but to losing the two people who meant the world to him.
Come on, he thought, urging himself, urging the magic that dwelt in him, the magic that ran through his very veins, flowed through his very blood, as he desperately tried to channel it into negating the Body Bind.
He tried harder than he ever had, putting all his will and strength into it, until he finally sensed his magic swirling within him, responding to his desperate pleas, prickling at his hands, simmering in his toes, building up in the pit of his stomach and then rushing all over him, until finally, with the greatest effort that had ever cost him, he found the Body Bind lifting, almost like a huge weight being pulled off him.
He could move his fingers, he realised elatedly, he could move his limbs. And he got to his feet as hastily as he could, terror and hope making his heart hammer loudly in his ribcage, his mouth dry, his hands cold and simultaneously sweaty, his legs trembling as he sped up the staircase.
"Stand aside, you silly girl!" He could hear the high, cold voice above the sound of his own feet taking two stairs at a time.
"No…mercy…please, not Harry…not Harry…" Lily's pleas were interspersed with sobs, and though he didn't notice it, there was a lump in his own throat, tears pricking at his own eyes as he rapidly covered the distance between him and the monster and the pleading woman he loved so much.
His feet were loud as he finally reached the top of the stairs, echoing loudly in the sudden silence that fell in the nursery before him. And James hope the sound of his feet had alerted Voldemort, made him turn around to curse James – because that would give Lily a chance to escape with Harry, though he knew secretly that there was no way out; neither of them had a wand, and the window was barred and far too high for Lily to jump out with Harry, not that jumping off would save their lives – Voldemort would certainly follow them and finish off what he had come to do.
But James rushed towards the nursery door, he saw that Voldemort was standing with his back to him, evidently too engrossed in his aim of getting to Harry to notice the sound of James' feet.
And he lunged at the tall figure, desperate to throw him to the ground, fight him physically if need be, battle him to his last breath if it meant his wife and child would survive.
"AVADA—" James heard the dreaded word mid-way through his lunge. But he found that he had lunged at the correct time, for he made contact with Voldemort's tall, robed figure, tumbling to the floor with him, the fatal green spell deflecting away from its intended course and hitting the window sill.
He could hear Voldemort snarl in fury, and Lily's shrill cry of 'James!'. And he found that his Auror training made him far more agile than Voldemort, for he had barely fallen to the ground when he was up on his feet again, rushing towards the crib where Harry sat wide-eyed, staring at them all with naked curiosity, Lily's fearful hand grabbing hold of his arm as he looked around desperately for something—anything that would give Lily and Harry a way of escape, a way of fighting Voldemort and his deathly wand.
But he found nothing, Lily's sobs loud, his own vision blurry with moisture as Voldemort got to his feet, acutely furious, his wand held tightly in his thing, slender fingers; and raised at the three Potters.
"Courage," Voldemort snarled, though his eyes were blazing with a hint of eagerness, of hunger. "I value courage, Potter. And it takes a lot of gumption to stand up to Lord Voldemort. You will do wonders with the kind of courage that you possess. I give you a last chance: join me and give me your son, and your wife and you can live."
James stood silent, holding both his arms wide, as if to shield Lily and Harry from Voldemort. He knew, as well as Lily did, that once he refused Voldemort, the green jet of light would hit him in a trice.
He could feel Lily struggling against him, no doubt wanting to face Voldemort herself than live a life without him and Harry. She had told him once, as they lay entwined around each other one night, whispering how worried they were about the Prophecy, that she would rather die than remain alive long enough to watch Harry and him die.
But he couldn't let her do that. Lily had to survive, for Harry. Harry needed his mother. Lily would survive without him, for Harry would give her a reason to live. And Sirius would take care of them both. Padfoot could be reckless at times, but he loved Harry with all his heart; and the canine Animagus would die than let anyone harm Lily and his little godson.
"James…James…no…" Lily cried, as she tried to push him away from Voldemort, wanting to do something, anything at all, that would save her husband and son.
"Lily," James whispered, hoping that one word conveyed all that he wanted to say to her: how much he loved her, how sorry he was to die and leave her behind, how broken he was knowing that they wouldn't fulfil the things that they had dreamed together – having half a dozen little kids, dropping Harry to Platform 9 ¾, James rising up to Head of the Auror Department, Lily being a famous Potions Master, growing old and white together…
His heart hammered madly in his chest as he looked up to meet Voldemort's gaze, almost as if it knew this was the last time it would pump blood, the last few times it would beat.
"No!" he boldly stated his answer, staring into the blazing eyes, knowing these were the last words he would ever utter.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" The spell came instantly, zooming right at him, hitting him right in the chest where his heart beat its last, and the last thing that James heard was Lily's loud shriek of his name.
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The force of the Curse made James' stagger into her, her heart skipping a beat, her limbs numb and helpless to stop him sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap.
"JAMES!" Lily's gut-wrenching cry rang out through the silence in the house.
She wanted nothing better than to sink down to the floor and gather James in her arms, nothing better than to rouse him, to follow him into the afterlife. She couldn't imagine a life without him… the man she loved, the father of the little child in the crib behind her.
But she couldn't do that—she couldn't dwell on the enormity of losing James… because if she did, she knew she would never find a way to fight the fiend who was out to murder her child.
It was Harry's soft sniffling that gave her courage, that gave strength to her trembling legs that seemed to have lost all their will to stand, that made her remain resolutely firm in standing between her child and his certain death.
"Girl," said Voldemort, and if she hadn't been facing the danger she presently was, she would have wondered how her heart had found the will and the strength to beat so rapidly when James was dead, when he had gone and left her behind, sacrificed his life for her.
She glared at Voldemort, through her tears, a part of her wanting to lunge at the wizard, to throttle the very life out of him for what he had done to James. But the mother in her kept her rooted to the spot, knowing the only way she would budge from in front of Harry was when she took her last breath.
"I give you a chance, too," hissed the evil wizard, his wand pointed at her. "Give me your son, and you can live."
"Mama!" she heard Harry whimpering, and she wondered if his young mind had grasped that something was wrong.
"Stand aside, girl," whispered Voldemort, and she knew that this was the last chance he was giving her – one she would never take.
"I love you, Harry," she whispered, her heart breaking at the realisation that her son wouldn't survive, and even on the remote chance that he did, she wouldn't be there to watch him grow up, to mother him like she had always wanted to, to love and protect him all through his childhood.
Her scalp stung as a sniffling Harry tugged at her long hair that trailed down to her waist. She knew that he was trying to stand up, holding on to her hair and the bars of his crib for support. And all she could do, was hope that he would remember that his parents gave their life for him, because they loved him.
"Never," she whispered her reply to Voldemort, just like James had, staring defiantly at the tall wizard though all she wanted was to look anywhere but at the red gleam in his orbs. But she was a Gryffindor, and a Potter, and she would die with pride and valour, like James had.
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
She saw the jet of light zoom towards her face before she heard the words, heard part of the house blow up with the force of the magic that the spell contained. And she had expected Harry's sudden frightened wails to be the last thing that she would hear.
But to her astonishment, she saw the curse rebound at Voldemort himself, the red gleam in his suddenly wide eyes turning green in the light of blazing green of the rebounding Killing Curse that sped towards him, and the tall wizard fell down to the floor and stirred no more.
Lily stood frozen for a moment, staring uncomprehendingly at Voldemort's fallen form, uncaring of the agonising pain in her forehead, the blood from the freshly-seared wound trickling down her skin.
She didn't care that the vilest wizard of all times lay down on the floor in a lifeless heap. She didn't even realise that she was the first person ever to survive the killing curse.
All she knew was that Harry was safe and alive, that she herself was safe and alive, while James lay dead.
She gathered a whimpering Harr in her arms, and slid to the floor, cradling James' lifeless head on her lap, while Harry tried to rouse his father, probably wanting him to show him the pretty lights that erupted from the end of his wand again.
"James…" she whispered, her vision blurred by the unending tears that brimmed and then slid down rapidly, her breathing constricted by the large lump in her throat.
"James…" she whispered again, pressing a kiss onto the cold, unresponsive lips of the man who had given his very life to save hers, before she fell into a swoon, oblivious to Harry's little hands shaking her, trying to wake up his mother.
And that was how Sirius Black found them later: his best friend dead on the floor, his unmoving wife beside him, her forehead smeared with blood, and his little godson crying loudly for his parents.