CHAPTER 4

The Events at Godric's Hollow

Harry hesitated. He was half-convinced that, for the moment, Voldemort wasn't intending any trick, but he dared not ask the question that burnt his tongue — why had he killed his parents? — for fear that it would anger the dangerous man. Instead he decided to begin with a comparatively unimportant question:

"Sir… what does the Philosopher's Stone do? What's its story?"

"Ah… Intelligent question, boy. You must always know as much as possible about what you are trying to protect, it is an important rule to any wizard with half a brain. Well. The Philosopher's Stone is a magical crystal with which a wizard - such as Master Flamel - can perform extraordinary Transfigurations without even thinking about it. This is achieved by draining one's own magic and casting it into the stone; it is a delicate, dangerous process, hence why next to no one has managed to make a working Philosopher's Stone. I once had a fellow student who attempted it; he did it in too much of a hurry, and the magic vanished into the air when he tried to concentrate it into his still imperfect Stone. The boy ended up as a squib with no stone, which served him right, if you ask me. At any rate, the Stone's Transfigurations are amazing because of two things. First, they are permanent, unlike normal transfigurations, which must be sustained permanently by the caster, lest they fade after a day or two. Second, since they are permanent, you can transfigure living things without any risks. That is why I needed the Stone, you see: I - well, you - Transfigured a piece of rock into a new body for me, which my spirit lodged itself into."

"I see… And… Why… why did I… Professor Quirrell…"

The memory of the event was still devastating.

"Ah! Yes, of course", Voldemort answered. "Though that brings us dangerously close to that subject you don't want me to talk about just yet."

Harrys shivered. How did he know?

"There exists an unfortunate… magical incompatibility, I guess you could say… between us, because of a most unfortunate mistake I made eleven years ago. I was possessing Mr Quirrel at the time, so my magic was flowing through his body, itself weakened by the Unicorn Blood (and before you ask, yes, the unicorn blood's curse afflicted him, not me, fortunately enough). Your mere touch could have burnt me down, but since I was possessing him and had no body to be burnt, he suffered the effects instead."

Before Harry could ask, Voldemort added:

"And yes, I believe this annoying curse is still in effect. I must ask you to take all precautions not to come into contact with me. Alright, next question?"

"Professor Snape… Quirrell said he was not one of your minions…"

"No, indeed he isn't. You will have to understand that Dark Wizards are not necessarily unlawful, and vice-versa."

"But… he hates me, doesn't he?"

"Heavens, yes, he does, but it has nothing to do with me. Professor Snape and your father… James, was it? Yes, James… went to school together. Snape had… how shall I put it… a crush on your mother, …Lilly or something, and could not bear it when she chose James over him. A very silly matter, really. But you look amazingly like your father did at the same age, and that was enough to earn you Snape's antipathy."

It would feel odd to any child to hear about their own parents' school shenanigans. It felt even odder for Harry, who didn't know what his parents had looked like until this very year.

"Well, Potter? Is that all? I expected you to be rather more curious…"

" No no, I still have questions. I…"

"You are wondering why I killed your parents and tried to kill you eleven years ago. Of course you are; I'd be too, you know. A thing you must know is that I'd never kill a child, under normal circumstances. Even the child of my worst enemy, I would not harm… let alone a mere infant. I did kill more people than a Gryffindor could think possible… but always people who at least understood that there was a war and what it meant. Never the innocent and unaware. Another think: I have no longer any desire to kill you. Not only did I have serious doubts about it eleven years ago, and could I never bring myself to kill a bright young fellow like you; but this tactic proved ineffectual the first time I tried it, since it earned me nine long, incredibly boring years in a bloody Muggle zoo. Forgive me, did I trail off?… Well. There was a Prophecy — have you ever heard of prophecies, Harry? I see you haven't.

Prophecies are also, more correctly, known as Maledictions — they work like so: a powerful wizard speaks a prediction, and this prediction is almost guaranteed to come to be, whatever you may do to try to prevent it. Events will be contrived by the caster's magic to turn out in a way that would realize the prediction. The Ministry of Magic knew of the threat of Maledictions and created a Hall with powerful enchantments cast on it, so that all maledictions spoken within Britain would be recorded. However, some influent adepts of Malediction created rumors (enforcing them with False-Memory Charms if need be) that there existed a thing known as Prophecy, an unknown branch of Divination that could predict the future. Prophecies, they said, were spoken by gifted Seers; spoken in mysterious terms, they would not, allegedly, be remembered by the Seer (this was very convenient, because it was easy to act out and would convince the suspicious that the Seer wasn't involved with the contents of the prophecy itself); and prophecies would tell of an implacable future that was sufficiently in the works that nothing could be done to prevent it. Oh, it was genius, I'll admit it. The hoax worked so well that today, the Hall of Malediction is known as Hall of Prophecy, and those stupid Ministry clerks treat it with a religious deference instead of trying to track down the duplicitous Seers who pronounce the Maledictions.

There was a young witch, a few years older than your Mother and Father, called Sybill Trelawney. She thought herself an agent of good, and had read far too many novels. Unfortunately, she came from an old Wizarding family and had known from the most tender age the secret of Maledictions. She decided that this was just what she needed to win the Wizarding War on behalf of the light and kill me. As I said, her mind was more familiar with fairy tales and grand epics than with the practicalities of real life, and instead of "predicting" something like 'Tomorrow at 8 o'clock Voldemort shall die', she created an intricate narrative where a Chosen One — you, son of fighters of the light who were themselves heroes — would gain enough power to defeat me and be bound by fate to kill me. I could tell you the exact wording, but I don't think it would do much good. At any rate, Sybill Trelawney had never been a very powerful witch; I assumed that her Malediction would be easy to break, for instance by removing the carpet under the whole construction's fragile feet and killing the Chosen One myself before he came into his power. For obvious reasons, I heavily preferred not to die; it was a sacrifice to break my code and kill you, but it was one I did not really hesitate about doing. Oh, don't look at me like that. You knew I had killed people before, and you knew I had wanted to kill you. I am the Dark Lord, after all.

So on Halloween, I went to your parents' house in Godric's Hollow; first I encountered your father. I hoped he'd have been away that day; he was a bright young wizard, I did not want to have to kill such a promising fellow. I could easily have cast a Killing Curse at him right away, and that would have been faster and more practical; but I decided to offer him a duel. He did put me to the test, believe me; I had not overestimated him. Still, I was the most powerful of the two, and within five minutes I had him at wandpoint. I let him know that should he beg for mercy and give up his wand, he'd live; it would be enough to keep up appearances for me. I'd have arranged to get him another wand once the war was over, maybe making him a member of my government. He refused, andI begrudgingly killed him.

Then I climbed the stairs and looked for you, for the infant; to my surprise, your mother was standing in front of the crib. I did not want to harm her any more than her husband, that you must understand. She was a young mother, a good fighter and a talented potioneer; and I had had a certain level of acquaintance with her father Harold Evans. Yes, my boy, I do believe you were named after him. At any rate, I almost regretted killing James a few moments earlier, and I made an even more generous proposition to her; I admitted to only wanting to kill you, the child, and offered to let her live if she stood aside and let me kill the boy. At first, she seemed to accept my offer; she stepped aside and appeared to wait calmly for my grim business to be over. As I turned to you and began to concentrate to cast the curse, I only barely felt that something was off with her, upset as I already was. I turned barely in time to dodge a Bone-Breaking Hex she'd fired at me wandlessly, hoping to save you. Then I raised my wand in self-defence and - I could have Stupefied her and killed you then, it is something I still wish to this day that I had done, but I did not - I did not think things through - I only understood quite what I'd done until I had cast a Killing Curse at that proud woman who'd tried to protect you. I wished for a tiny fraction of a second that I had missed, I wished I could take the spell back, but my hopes were shattered as she fell down to the floor. I turned away from the product of my stupidity, eager to get this whole uncomfortable matter over with and go away, and faced the crib.

What I did not think off as I fired my second Curse at your sleeping form, my boy, was that by sacrificing herself for her son, Lily Potter had unwittingly performed an old magical ritual, by which the death of the mother protects the infant from her murderer. I knew of it, of course, but I (rightfully) did not think Lily did, and I had counted without it so completely that I did not recognize it when it was in front of my very nose (well, absence thereof, but that is another story). I blindly fired at you, and the Killing Curse rebounded — rebounded on me. Although my spirit was protected by other ancient rituals I had performed, my physical body was destroyed, leaving me powerless until I could get my hands on a willing wizarding victim who would let my soul lodge itself in their body to progressively regain my strength by having them drink Unicorn Blood for me or use the Philosopher's Stone or some other device on my behalf. You know the rest."