November 13th 1971
Prologue: The Child in the Ruins
A chill clung to the air, thick with the scent of burnt wood, dried blood, and something worse—old magic, heavy and unshaken.
Adam Hale pulled his cloak tighter as he stepped over the threshold, wand raised. His boots crunched over shattered glass, fragments of a life that had been violently torn apart. The raid had already come and gone, leaving behind nothing but silence and scorched stone.
He didn't know who had lived here. He only knew why it had been destroyed.
Another attack. Another message from the growing forces of darkness, a name whispered more and more often these days—Voldemort.
But this one had been different.
"Sir," called one of the younger Aurors from across the room. "You need to see this."
Adam followed the voice into what had once been a grand chamber, now nothing but ruin. The remnants of shattered wards flickered weakly in the air—someone had tried to seal this place, to keep something inside.
At first, he saw nothing.
Then, he heard it.
A faint sound. Not quite a cry. Not quite a voice.
His wand snapped toward the noise. And there—half-buried beneath the wreckage of a collapsed bookshelf—lay a child.
Adam's breath caught. "Merlin's blood…"
The infant was small—no older than a few weeks—wrapped in emerald silk, her tiny fists clenched against the cold. Dark curls stuck to her forehead, and when her eyes flickered open, he felt his stomach drop.
She didn't look afraid.
She looked like she was waiting for something.
The other Auror hesitated. "Sir, I think we should—"
Adam didn't hear him. His gaze had dropped past the child, to the floor beneath her, where something had been carved into the stone.
A single name.
His stomach twisted.
Someone had hidden her here. Sealed her away.
A shift in the air sent an uneasy prickle down Adam's spine.
He exhaled sharply and bent down, lifting the infant carefully in his arms. She did not fuss. Did not cry.
Her gaze remained steady, calm where no child should be calm.
And the feeling in his gut deepened.
Whoever she was, she was important.
And dangerous.
Somewhere Far Away…
The wine glass shattered against the wall.
"She was here!" The man's voice was pure rage, his hands clenched into fists so tight they shook. "And now she's gone."
Across the dimly lit room, another figure lounged lazily in an ornate chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest.
A quiet chuckle. "All that effort," came the slow, measured reply, "and you still let it happen. The Dark Lord will be so very… disappointed."
The standing man turned sharply, breath ragged, teeth bared. His rage was barely contained, ready to spill over. The other only smirked, his posture unbothered, though something colder flickered beneath the amusement.
"You swore she would be safe." The words were not loud, but they carried weight, a simmering fury beneath the calm. "You were certain."
The standing man's breath hitched—whether in frustration or something else, it was impossible to tell.
"And yet, here we are," the one in the chair continued, his voice edged now with something sharper. "I should have handled it myself."
A muscle in the other man's jaw twitched.
"Tell me—what did you do?" he ground out.
"Why ask me?" The reply came with a quiet, humorless laugh. "You already know. I serve Him as best I can." The smirk was gone now, the amusement burned away by something colder. "Do you not do the same?"
No answer.
Silence.
The figure in the chair exhaled, shaking his head. His fingers traced the rim of his untouched glass, thoughtful. "Such a waste." A pause. "It isn't over yet. We find her first, or someone else will."
The standing man's hands curled into fists, then loosened. Without another word, he turned and strode out into the night, swallowed by the darkness.