A/N
Hi all,
I'm finally back after my first attempt at writing with The Silver in the Shade. I took the time to actually learn how to write, and I think I've improved massively. A good friend of mine is a great writer and he taught me how to say more with a lot less, so I believe the pacing will be far better in this story.
For now, that version of The Silver in the Shade has been abandoned, and I will soon rip it apart and rewrite it to not be so drawn out and boring. Thank you all for your reviews on that story, it helped me greatly to see what I was doing wrong.
With that being said, please let me know what you think of this story and if you see any mistakes throughout (No beta currently). It's an idea that I haven't seen done before so it should be an interesting challenge.
Thanks for reading!
BZ
Chapter 1: Prologue
The Dark Lord stepped carelessly over the lifeless body of James Potter.
He would not deny that the man had been brave in his final moments. After all, anyone willing to look certain death in the eye couldn't be called anything else.
James had fought like a man with everything to lose. But in the end, it had done him no good. Against the most powerful wizard alive, no amount of courage or desperation could stop the inevitable. The prophecy would be undone tonight.
The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he ascended the stairs, his steps deliberate. Each echo in the narrow hallway brought him closer to the moment that would secure his immortality.
Just one door stood in his way.
With a lazy flick of his pale hand, the wooden door slammed open with a thunderous crash.
Lily Potter shot to her feet from where she had been kneeling beside a small cot. Her breath hitched, her eyes wide with horror as she stumbled toward him, arms outstretched in a desperate plea.
"Please," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Not Harry. Please."
Her words cracked through the air, thick with grief and terror – Voldemort felt disgust roil within him. Once, he had seen strength in this witch, a defiance in her eyes as she stood against his forces. Now, that strength had vanished leaving behind nothing but a weak, pitiful shell.
"Move aside, girl," Voldemort hissed, his voice more serpentine than man.
She didn't. Instead, she stepped closer, her voice heavy with a frantic desperation. "Take me instead," she sobbed. "Kill me! Please, just don't hurt—"
His patience vanished.
He had promised Severus he would give her the chance, and a chance he had given.
In a flash of poisonous green, the next plea on her lips was silenced. Her body crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Voldemort stepped over her soulless body as he had done with her husband's, his gaze already wandering to settle on the crib in the corner.
There he sat – the child of prophecy.
The excitement of victory coiled within him at the sight of the boy. For nearly two years he had hunted the Potters, driven by the threat to his reign, and now all that stood in his way sat before him, defenceless.
"Finally", he whispered, a smile curling his lips.
The baby stared up at him with confused green eyes, evidently too little to comprehend the situation at hand.
And if there was any doubt to the boy's identity, the bright blue onesie he wore stitched with his name put it to rest.
"Harry Potter, my supposed vanquisher…"
The bone white wand rose, aimed carefully between the baby's eyes. He savoured the moment, drawing out the inevitable.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The words slipped from his mouth like a final judgment, the deadly curse arcing from his wand in a blaze of green light. The same curse that had felled hundreds before him.
Satisfaction filled him as the forbidden curse struck the boy - but then, at the speed of a single heartbeat, everything changed.
The curse struck true, but the child did not fall. Instead, a piercing wail cut through the air, high and unnatural.
The Dark Lord faltered, his eyes widening as the room began to tremble, the crib rattling with an unholy energy.
Before he could comprehend what was happening, a brilliant flash of golden light erupted from the boy, expanding outward with a force that tore through the room like a wildfire. It was blinding, pure and powerful. And, for the first time in decades, Voldemort felt fear.
His wand shot up to defend himself, but it was too late. The wave of energy engulfed him, searing his body and mind - his soul even - until all that remained was pain.
And then, just as quickly as it began, the light vanished without a trace.
The room fell eerily silent, the air still humming with residual magic.
Voldemort staggered back, his breath shallow, his hand trembling as it clutched his wand. His vision cleared and red slits stared in disbelief.
The cot was empty.
The boy was gone.
The one prophesied to be his downfall had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
(Scene Break)
"Please, Mum," a young boy whined, staring up at her with wide, pleading eyes. His wild black hair, so much like his father's, stuck up in every direction.
Sarah Potter gave an exasperated sigh.
If someone had told her in her Hogwarts days that she would be where she was now, she'd have laughed them out of the castle
She and her William had been an unlikely pairing. He was from a family of rich history and lineage and her, one that rose to prominence because of her Grandfather's ingenious academic work.
People had gossiped when William, heir to one of the most distinguished names in Wizarding Britain, chose to marry her. But the Potters were rather famous for ignoring convention.
It had been a whirlwind romance, and within the month of officially meeting, William had convinced his father to draw up a betrothal contract. It was impulsive and reckless, but they hadn't looked back.
Originally, they had planned to wait before starting a family. William had wanted to enjoy his career in professional duelling. But fate had different plans, as it often did. Everything changed that fateful Halloween night.
Even now, nearly a decade later, Sarah couldn't forget the events that took place.
31st October 1882, Godric's Hollow
Rain thudded heavily against the windows of their large Cottage; Not unusual for late October in England. Yet tonight, something felt different.
Sarah felt it in her bones, a foreboding she couldn't explain. It clung to her, a nagging weight at the back of her mind, refusing to let go.
Some believed that on All Hallows' Eve, the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Normally, she'd scoff at such superstitions. But tonight… tonight, something felt different.
"Come to bed, Sarah," William's voice called from downstairs, calm and reassuring. "Fretting won't help."
"I know…" she muttered, twisting a strand of her blonde hair anxiously as she stared out the window into the dark night. "But something feels wrong. I can't explain it."
It was irrational, she knew. Yet, the unease gnawed at her, and with each rumble of thunder, it deepened.
William's footsteps approached, his presence like a calming anchor. And when his hands rested on her shoulders, she exhaled, some of her anxiety loosening under his touch.
"I'm right here," he murmured, his warm breath tickling her ear. "Nothing's going to happen."
She wanted to believe him, but a part of her couldn't. Still, she smiled weakly as he teased, "We'll keep our wands by the bed. I'll protect you from all the scary ghosts."
Sarah scoffed, pushing him away. "I'm not scared, Potter", she muttered, but her voice lacked its usual bite, and she turned toward the staircase.
Thunder crackled above illuminating the darkness at the top of the landing. Sarah paused at the bottom briefly, unease coiling deep in the pit of her stomach.
Before she could stop herself, she turned, grabbed William's hand, and pulled him alongside her. "Shut it", she muttered against his echoing laughter.
But as they reached the middle of the hall, the laughter stopped. William's grip tightened on her hand. He came to an abrupt halt.
"William?" she whispered, her heart quickening as she caught the change in his expression. All warmth had drained from his face. His eyes were locked on the door to the spare room, and every muscle in his body was coiled as though ready to spring into action.
She followed his gaze, and that's when she felt it too. A pressure, subtle at first but growing with every heartbeat. It quickly swelled, coming to rival the saturation only felt in areas of great magic.
William's wand was out in a flash, his duelling instincts kicking in before she even thought to reach for hers.
The pressure reached a crescendo, almost unbearable. Then, with no warning, a brilliant flash of golden light erupted from under the door, flooding the hallway in a heavenly glow. Sarah shielded her eyes, heart hammering in her chest as the light fled as quickly as it had come.
Silence reigned, leaving an unmistakable presence of old magic hanging in the air.
Just when she let herself believe that it was over, a piercing wail shattered the silence, unmistakably the cry of a baby.
William's wand blurred forward, and the door swung open, revealing a scene that tore a gasp from the both of them.
A baby, no older than a year, sat in the middle of the room sobbing uncontrollably. His bright green eyes, wide with confusion, locked onto them. But what stole Sarah's breath was the vivid red scar on his forehead, shaped like one of the lightning bolts still crackling in the sky.
That night had etched itself into her memory. Almost ten years later, not a single day passed when she didn't feel gratitude to whatever force had brought Harry into their lives.
"You're just not old enough, Flea. They won't let you," came a familiar voice from her right, pulling her out of her thoughts.
At the table, Harry watched, amused, as his younger brother complained about life's great injustices. His hair was just as wild as Fleamont's, though his was darker. And there, on his forehead, was the faded scar - a constant reminder of that fateful night.
"But Harry gets to have a wand! How am I gonna try magic without a wand?!" Fleamont complained.
"You won't be doing any magic until you turn eleven, Fleamont," William said as he entered the room, clearly having overheard the conversation. "You'll just have to wait like the rest of us did."
Fleamont grumbled under his breath but said nothing more as he dropped into the seat beside Harry, sulking.
William gave Sarah a quick kiss on the cheek before taking his seat. As she watched the two of them eat together, Sarah couldn't help but marvel at how similar they looked. Harry wasn't theirs by blood, but the resemblance had become uncanny, more so with every year that passed. If she didn't know any better, she would without a doubt believe that Harry was biologically William's son.
"Your magic isn't stable yet, Flea," Harry explained. "You wouldn't be able to control it properly through a wand. That's right, isn't it Dad?."
"Exactly," William agreed. "You've been keeping up with your reading, I see. That's mentioned in Hogwarts: A History if I'm not mistaken?"
Harry beamed, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, there's so much about the castle, it's fascinating!"
"I'll be sure to tell Bathilda you said so next time I see her", William said with a smirk, drawing a laugh from Sarah.
Harry's cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he quickly returned to his food.
"I believe Bathilda has a daughter your age, shall I arrange a little meet-and-greet at her house?" William continued causing Harry to blush even deeper.
"Alright, enough," Sarah said, stepping in with a chuckle. "Finish up, all of you. We're heading to the Alley in half an hour."
(Scene Break)
"Alright, where to next?" Sarah asked the group, glancing down at the parchment in her hand. Diagon Alley was a whirl of life with witches and wizards darting between the shops, their voices blended into a symphony of excitement and magic.
An hour had passed since they had arrived to buy everything for Harry's first year at Hogwarts, and only a few items remained on the list.
"I think Fleamont wants to go and see the Goblins", Harry said with a straight face.
As expected, Fleamont's eyes widened in panic, his small hand gripping Sarah's robes. "Nuh uh, I don't!" His voice wavered as he shook his head fiercely. "I wanna go see the brooms!"
Harry chuckled, clearly pleased with his brother's predictable reaction.
"Harry, don't tease your brother," Sarah said, though a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. Beside her, William stifled a grin.
"How about we split up?" William suggested casually. "I'll take Fleamont to look at the brooms, and you can finish shopping with Harry."
Sarah raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious. She knew full well William was just as eager to check out the latest brooms as Fleamont. Still, it was a practical plan.
"Fine," she relented, sighing in mock exasperation. "But don't take too long. Meet us at Ollivander's by noon, and don't be late this time, William." She called after the pair as they scurried off.
William winked, already being pulled away by an eager Fleamont. "Wouldn't dream of it," he called over his shoulder as they disappeared into the crowd.
Sarah sighed softly, shaking her head with a small smile. "They're all the same," she muttered, more to herself than to Harry.
"Mum, come on - Flourish and Blotts next!" Harry exclaimed, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the busy bookstore, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
Though Harry and Fleamont shared the same messy black hair, their personalities were quite different. Fleamont, like his father, was obsessed with Quidditch, while Harry was captivated by magic. He devoured any book she gave him, and it had taken all of her restraint to keep him from the more advanced tomes in the library, many of which were left to her by her Grandfather. Harry's insatiable curiosity worried her; She knew too well how knowledge, especially at such a young age, could be both a gift and a danger.
As they entered Flourish and Blotts, Harry's eyes sparkled. His fingers drifted over the spines of old tomes, each book a new mystery to unravel. Sarah watched him fondly, though with a hint of concern.
"Harry," she said softly as he picked up yet another thick tome, "don't rush. Some things are best learned slowly."
Harry looked up, confusion flickering across his face for just a moment, but he nodded, slipping the book back onto the shelf.
After an hour of browsing, they finally made their way to Ollivander's.
"Thank Merlin for shrinking charms," Sarah muttered as they rounded the corner.
Harry grinned sheepishly. "Might've gone a little overboard."
Ollivander's shop lay ahead, narrow and worn, yet humming with an air of mystery. The sign above the door, 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC, stood as a stark reminder to all of the knowledge and experience held within.
As they approached, Fleamont's excited voice drifted towards them, full of chatter about broom designs. William, clearly far less immersed, noticed them quickly. A smirk spread across his handsome face. "Don't be late, huh?"
Sarah rolled her eyes, knowing she'd never hear the end of it.
Just as Harry stepped forward to open the door, it swung inward with a soft chime.
A tall, regal woman emerged, her black hair gleaming like polished obsidian under the midday sun. Her sharp, aristocratic features were framed by an air of cold superiority, her steel-grey eyes flickering over the Potters with barely concealed disdain.
"Lord Potter. Lady Potter," she greeted them, her voice clipped and formal.
"Lady Black", William replied, his voice now guarded. His posture followed his tone and he shifted slightly in front of Harry, the movement almost imperceptible.
The women's gaze turned to the boy beside her. "This is Arcturus", she said, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. "My third".
Arcturus met Harry's gaze, his steel grey eyes locking onto Harry's bright green ones with an intended intensity. The silence stretched between them, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. But Harry didn't flinch. His posture remained calm, meeting Arcturus's stare without hesitation.
Lady Black's lips curled into a ghost of a smile, an act devoid of warmth. "Always a pleasure, Lord Potter," she said smoothly, though the words carried little sincerity.
"Likewise," William replied, stepping aside as the Blacks swept past them with a practiced elegance.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Fleamont broke the silence, his genuine confusion clear. "Why are they so serious?"
Harry snorted. "Stupid politics."
Sarah rolled her eyes at the simple, yet accurate response. "Come on, get inside before the mood gets any worse".
The bell chimed softly as they entered the shop. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of old wood and parchment. Towering stacks of wand boxes stretched to the ceiling itself without any discernible order.
From behind the counter, Ollivander emerged, his pale eyes gleaming with a quiet intensity. "Ah, Miss. Gamp," he greeted softly, his voice as calm and ancient as the shop itself. "Hazel wood, unicorn hair, ten and three-quarter inches. Excellent for healing and transfiguration, if I recall?"
Sarah smiled politely. "It's actually Potter now, Mr Ollivander," she corrected.
Ollivander tilted his head, not missing a beat. "Ah, forgive me. I find myself quite out of touch with all but the intricacies of wand lore". His attention flickered to where William stood, "Aspen, Thunderbird feather, thirteen inches, unyielding. A wand known to whisper of danger before it strikes".
Then, his attention shifted to Harry. The room seemed to still, the very air holding its breath.
"And now, young Mr. Potter," he murmured, his voice full of mystery. "Let's see what the fates have in store for you."
(Scene Break)
Time ticked by slowly, each second stretching into eternity as Harry stood, waiting for Ollivander to return. From behind the towering shelves, he could hear the occasional clunk of fallen boxes and the quiet rustle of paper, the only signs of the mysterious wandmaker at work.
Harry shifted on his feet, the excitement that had first bubbled within him now slowly giving way to impatience. He hadn't known what to expect from the famous Wandmaker, but the man's eccentricities were unsettling. The way those pale, moon-like eyes seemed to see through him made Harry feel exposed, as if he were being measured against some unknown standard.
Suddenly, the sound of a sharp clatter rang out, and Ollivander reappeared, a stack of wand boxes balanced precariously in his hands.
"Let's begin, shall we?" he murmured, pulling out a slim wand. "Hazel wood and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches. Perhaps you take after your mother…"
Harry reached for the wand eagerly, but before his fingers could even brush the wand, Ollivander snatched it back with a frown.
"No, not quite," he muttered, already returning the wand to its box. "Perhaps like your father, then…"
Harry shot a glance at his father, who merely shrugged, clearly used to Ollivander's ways, but that did little to quell the growing unease in his chest.
Wand after wand was handed to him - With each failure, Ollivander's frown deepened, and Harry's heart raced just a little bit faster.
Finally, Ollivander offered a pliable mahogany wand. There was a flicker of warmth, a glimmer of something.
"Well, give it a wave," Ollivander urged with a gesture.
Harry hesitated, his earlier impatience replaced by doubt. He took a steadying breath as he recalled the countless hours he'd spent reading about magic and tracing movements in the air with an imaginary wand. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said, swishing his wrist.
A sluggish warmth crept down his wand arm as, to everyone's surprise, a wand box lifted from the pile, wobbling but rising steadily.
It hovered shakily, following his wand as he moved it left and right. And just as a surge of triumph filled him, the wand box stalled in the air, trembled, then crashed back down with a thud.
He frowned at the wand. He had performed his first-ever spell flawlessly, then in the next moment, he hadn't.
Ollivander snatched the wand back, his frown deepening as he inspected it. "Close, but not quite," he whispered.
"Is there a problem?" William asked, stepping forward. "That was a fit, wasn't it?"
Ollivander hummed thoughtfully, letting a moment pass by before he seemingly made up his mind. He placed the wand gently back into its red box. "While you do hold a curious connection to that wand, it is not the one destined for you. It acknowledged you, but it did not choose you."
"Choose me?" Harry asked, his frustration bubbling just below the surface.
Ollivander met his impatient gaze with his endless, moonlit eyes. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter, it is not always clear why - Or, in this case, why not."
The process resumed. The stack of boxes around Harry grew taller, and with them, so did the nagging doubt.
Just as Harry was on the verge of losing hope, Ollivander paused. His hand hovered over an unassuming box, perched high on a dusty shelf.
"Ah," Ollivander whispered as he retrieved the box with deliberate care. "This one… is quite special - a most unusual combination." He lifted the dark wand from the box with a strange reverence. "Ebony. Dragon heartstring. Thirteen inches. Unyielding."
The moment Harry's fingers closed around the wand, it was as if the air in the room shifted. A surge of warmth rushed through him with such ferocity that it put the mahogany wand to shame. The tip of the wand glowed, crackling with an electric energy, sending a shower of silver sparks into the air.
Harry's eyes widened in awe.
Behind him, his mother clapped loudly, her smile bright with joy. Fleamont's eyes were saucer wide with excitement, and even William couldn't suppress his grin.
"Bravo!" Ollivander exclaimed, a rare enthusiasm in his voice. "I dare say you found your wand, Mr Potter."
Harry beamed. His heart raced as the wand thrummed in his hand, both in perfect synchrony with each other. He reluctantly placed the wand in Ollivander's outstretched hand.
"You said that it was an unusual pairing?" Harry asked, already missing the surge of warmth that the wand provided.
"Indeed it is," Ollivander replied, his voice steady with a clear note of caution to it. "This was one of my grandfather's more daring creations from his youth. Ebony is a wonder in most forms of martial magics. But it requires much: strength of character, resilience – It demands one that cannot be swayed."
"The dragon heartstring core is powerful, but temperamental. Its loyalty may be fickle, especially if disarmed in combat. Together, they create a formidable combination, but one that won't tolerate weakness."
Ollivander leaned forward slightly, "Few can truly wield such a combination, Mr. Potter. But I do not believe that will be a problem for you."
The words washed over him, feeling both profound and unsettling. "Why not?"
Ollivander smiled faintly, his pale eyes twinkling with hidden knowledge. "It is not often I see a wizard of your age wield such control on their first try. In fact, there has only been one other in all my years… and it just so happens that he did so just a few days before yourself…