The thing about prophecies is that there's a hundred ways to interpret them. No one gets to know the tapestry Fate is weaving for certain.

That doesn't change for Albus Dumbledore.

Mere seconds after the explosion that destroys the Potter nursery, he stands in the smoking rubble, staring sadly at the body of Lily Potter. For a few seconds he allows himself to doubt himself. The cry of a baby shakes him out of that quickly and he turns to the crib in the middle of the rubble.

Twin pairs of green eyes stare up at him. The black haired child — Harry, he thinks — has a peculiar wound, already scarring, in the shape of the rune Sowilo. The redheaded child — what was her name, Elowen? — is less prophetic, he thinks, so quickly, knowing he has seconds before someone else shows up, he points his wand at Elowen and whispers a sleeping charm. As soon as the child is unconscious, Albus apparatus away, confident that she will remain asleep until morning. With any luck, Harry Potter will be proclaimed the defeater of Tom and his plans will continue unobstructed.