It was a cold and dark night as the Dark Lord walked down the crowded street.
The children paid no mind to the man dressed in all black with his hood drawn over his pale face, it was Halloween after all.
Tall clouds hid the moonlight, or else the children's laughter would have turned to screams at the sight of his blood red eyes.
Moments passed, and he finally reached his destination: a small cottage hidden from the village by the most powerful of charms, but not from him.
Even to this very moment the irony of the situation threatened to evoke laughter, one that might have stopped all the commotion on All Hallow's Eve.
Through the window he could see the old man and woman, a child in each of their arms.
The Potters had eluded him for many years and their son and that mudblood wife of his had thrice defied him already.
It was a trend that tended to anger him more and more as their names passed through his closely guarded mind.
His only regret was that the son and mudblood would not die tonight, but they would meet their end soon enough.
He was at the door in seconds and blasted it off its hinges. Old as he was, the patriarch of the Potter family wasted no time in defending his family.
The woman had taken the children and fled upstairs, but he was in no hurry. None would leave tonight alive.
Charles Potter was powerful indeed, and tonight was no exception. He had long held the Wizengamot in check and even his most loyal Death Eaters cowered in fear of the old Light wizard.
But he was no Death Eather, he was Lord Voldemort: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Not a word was spoken between the two wizards and yet powerful magic engulfed the small home.
If a muggle would have been able to look inside the small, hidden cottage they would have assumed a fool had unleashed a pile of fireworks.
Flashes of light sped pass bouncing off shields or whizzing by the two men.
Neither were young, but they moved with the grace of one who knew power, and when to unleash it.
Their furious battle was drawing to close.
The Dark Lord loathed to admit it but the old Potter was forcing him to unleash all his power until at last the old man's wand was blasted away, splintered into pieces.
Charles was panting heavily, and still not a word had been spoken. He rose high on his knees and locked eyes with him defiantly.
He would not die a coward, and even the Dark Lord admired him in that moment, and at last broke the two men's silence.
"Avada Kedavra." A flash of green light filled the home and Charles Potter fell to the ground dead.
A stair case led him upstairs and to the right where two bed rooms filled the floor. He could hear the restlessness of the children and he entered the nursery, wand at the ready.
Dorea Potter nee Black waited for him, the two children behind her in a crib. One began crying at the sight of him, but the other stood, almost defiantly reminding him of the old man he had just slain.
"You will not take them." Her voice was firm and held no fear. There would be no begging tonight.
The woman born of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Black did not beg, nor did she cower, but she was no match for the Dark Lord.
"Move aside woman," he commanded, "You have no need to die tonight."
She seemed to stand even taller, as if gathering her magic to her. "You will have to kill me."
"Move aside woman!"
"No!"
"Avada Kedavra!" She fell much harder than her husband, but she was dead nonetheless.
The Dark Lord turned his attention to the very reason he had come tonight. The Potter children.
The smaller of the two, barely a year old, had stopped crying as the older brother grabbed his hand. He could feel the power, and the undeniable strength of the older boy.
Yes, Harry Potter was to die tonight, for there was no doubt in his mind that he was the one the prophecy spoke of.
Lord Voldemort pointed his wand at the boy and victoriously said the words, green light flashed, and for the first time in so long the Dark Lord felt fear.
Harry had extended his hand as if the catch the flash of green and time seemed to stop.
The moment the spell struck his hand a gold light emerged, encasing all three of them.
Power unlike anything the Dark Lord had seen radiated from the two boys and he felt his body and soul being ripped apart.
A scream erupted from his lips and the gold light at last exploded, leaving the nursery in ruins and the Dark Lord gone.
It was disaster that greeted the three wizards.
An anguished cry came from one wearing glasses as he saw his father's dead body.
Another one close to his age stood dumbfounded, unsure of how this could have come to pass.
It was the oldest of the trio that walked the slow steps to the nursery, fear gripping him of what he might find, but it was to his astonishment that he found the two young boys alive, though fast asleep.
Harry was holding the younger boy, Thomas, and not a single hair on their heads was harmed, save for the red lightning bolt scar that was engraved onto Thomas' head.