Prologue
Harry
Potter
A boy almost fifteen years of age sat near an opened window, in the smallest bedroom in the house, staring into the distance. Every once and awhile he would lean back in his wooden chair and mumble something along the lines of "No… no…. that wouldn't work," and then go back to staring out into the darkening July sky.
The boy's name was Harry Potter and when the clock struck midnight Harry would be fifteen years of age. Usually the thought of another birthday would please him greatly, as his small group of friends often sent gifts, a rarity in his life. But not this year would he smile. He couldn't while there was so much wrong with the world. The thought of evil attacking that which he cared for deeply, looming above him and haunting each step, sent him into spells of heavy contemplation over what he could do about it. He leaned back once more and muttered, "That's just a dumb idea, Harry Potter."
It was only two months ago that the world he lived in most of the year had been free of a menace, vanquished to the great forests of Albania nearly thirteen years ago. But that darkness once more infiltrated the world of Wizards and Witches and it was in the darkest hour in thirteen years that something occurred to bring fourteen-year old Harry into the mess of things. He witnessed. It was with his own eyes and at the cost of some of his blood that he saw the perverse rebirth of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the greatest agent of Darkness and the greatest threat to the survival of the Wizarding World in almost a thousand years.
And when he spoke of it… almost no one believed him. No sooner had he uttered forth that which was true, had the newspapers apart of his world began printings lies. They wrote stories that portrayed Harry as an attention-seeking brat, ungrateful of his already near-idol status; they theorized that he was unstable and perhaps even mentally challenged (they cited his school test scores) and event went so far as to conclude that the whole story connected to Cedric Diggory, a young man who died by Voldemort's hand that unfortunate night in Harry's presence. They portrayed Harry Potter, their brightest hope among them as a murderer. Those who once looked to him and saw greatness, now believed every word said against him.
In all the darkness that had so quickly flooded him, there remained some light. An old man, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of the Magical School he attended, believed every word Harry said and in what was Harry's darkest hour, had confided in Harry that there would be resistance. That an Order adjourned when Voldemort first fell, would once more be called to action; that the Order would be filled with wizards and witches both intelligent and powerful and that the Order would serve as the last bastion of common sense in a world that had lost its way. It would be the only time that Harry Potter smiled in the next two months.
The hours waiting for Voldemort's first attack turned from hours to days, then to weeks – it was mid-July and yet no word of Voldemort save a spy and Dumbledore's manifested. As the time without a first strike from Voldemort grew longer, the patience of some members within the Order grew shorter. Distrust was beginning to ferment and soon heated arguments broke out. In the explosive discussions that followed, some were expelled, their minds erased of their membership to the Order. It would be grave for the Wizarding World – the seeds of the Order's destruction were planted and none knew it. Yet Harry felt it and it too plagued his mind, which tried to form words to express the cold he felt whenever he thought of the infighting and the Order.
He sighed, leaning back once more, this time in weariness. Just thinking about the whole ordeal was enough to cause a headache. This was how the days were spent, mostly. Early mornings, little eating, long showers and much thought and reading. By evening, he would feel all of it was in vain and head to bed. It would be the same this evening, except as he moved to leave his chair, a small glimmer of light caught his attention.
Looking out into the distance, a white light streaked across the now fully darkened sky at break-neck speed. Alarmed, Harry attempted to withdraw his wand from his pocket but no sooner had he touched it, had the light appeared directly in front of him, glowing brightly.
The sudden introduction of a bright light in such darkness blinded Harry as he fumbled to remain seated. Masking his eyes he slowly looked upon it, wand outstretched towards it and realized there was no harm here. It was a patronus, the last defense against dementors, dark creatures that served Voldemort, and it was perhaps the most cunning and sly way of delivering a message to anyone. It was Dumbledore's brilliance that came up with this method of communication and as Harry gazed upon the winged patronus, its shimmering beak opened and a strong voice – Dumbledore's voice - echoed forth and permeated throughout the room.
He is coming. Move quickly.
Harry wasted no time. He hopped up from his chair, and ran to his school trunk, throwing the lid open in one fluid motion. He did not expect this moment to come to pass but now was not the time for heavy thought. Harry withdrew his backpack and grabbing only that which held any value to him – a cloak, some books belonging to his parents and a photo-album – placed them inside. He haphazardly slung the backpack over his right shoulder a split second after he got the clasp shut and spun around.
Palming his wand, he felt something stain the air around him and as he moved towards the door, a catastrophic, thundering noise ripped through the air – it came from downstairs. The shattering of glass and the dull thud of something large hitting the wooden floor soon reverberated throughout the house and Harry was suddenly frightened, something he was not accustomed to in moments where fear had to be pushed to the back of the mind. It came sweeping forward though, in this moment and in it Harry realized that which was meant to protect him – the Dursley Household which carried his mother's magic – had failed. He knew that it truly failed the same night his blood could no longer repel the Dark Lord Voldemort but both he and Dumbledore trusted the defenses would hold so long as Voldemort himself never trespassed. In the fear, Harry lost something close to him – the last true remnant of his mother. Harry closed his eyes – it was as if she were dying all over again and soon the voices and her pleading from the night of her death filled his mind.
A sad lament filled with all that was good in the world echoed through the house, causing those who trespassed great trouble for a time. It was what Lily intended – and in it, it sought to give Harry even an extra second of time.
Harry grabbed the broom given to him by his Godfather, Sirius Black, once the voices stopped. Mounting it as if it were a steed and bringing his body low along the handle so he could move more quickly, Harry zipped forth from the Dursley Household at lightning speed.
The sounds inside faded and were soon replaced with shouts echoing along the drive as Harry pushed the broom to move well above the surrounding houses. Porch-lights, inside-lights and backyard-lights soon, one-by-one, turned on, up and down Privet Drive. People in bedroom attire poured out into the streets and Harry felt there was no good in it at all – the Muggles were now involved.