11.55 PM, 31ST OCTOBER, 1981, POTTER MANOR
LILY AND JAMES dashed out into the antechamber of the manor, ignoring the ghastly wreckage of the ruined living room. The scent of dust, debris and blood thickened as they moved, but they had no time to process the destruction.
The moment they stepped into the hallway, a grisly sight froze their breath—Tilly's broken body was impaled against the wall, her lifeless form slumped at an unnatural angle, her blood staining the floor and walls. She must have fought to protect the children from the intruder.
Grief and horror clawed at their chests, but they couldn't afford to stop. Forcing their feet to move, they bolted up the staircase toward the nursery, weaving past the debris. Their magical senses flared, searching frantically—only two signatures registered within the house, the twins'.
Both of them had the same thought: What the hell?
Entering the devastated nursery, they gasped as soon as their eyes fell upon their daughters. Ivy was clinging to her sister, her tear-streaked face pressed close to Jasmine, who lay limp and barely conscious in her arms.
James and Lily picked them up, hugging them with a mixture of relief, shock and anxiety.
Ivy seemed unscathed—crying more out of shock and terror than pain or injury. She was deathly pale, her pure white hair wild and dishevelled, her blue eyes wide with fear as tears ran down her face.
But it was Jasmine's appearance that immediately unnerved them.
Jasmine's small, pale face now had an unnatural, almost haunting look. Her once-pure white hair was streaked with crimson and jet-black streaks. But it was her hands that held their attention most.
Where once they had been small and delicate, now they were completely blackened, as if stained by ink or some other dark force. The blackness seemed to consume her hands, creeping up her wrists, as though the darkness was bleeding from her very soul.
Her skin, pale as it had always been, now seemed almost hollow in comparison to the deep black that overtook her small fingers, as if something foreign and malignant had taken root within her.
And her eyes—those once-vibrant emerald-green eyes, a reflection of Lily's own—had completely shifted. They were now a deep, endless black, with crimson "X"-shaped pupils that glowed faintly.
Even her magical signature was off. It was hers, undoubtedly, but it no longer carried the familiar warmth they had known since her birth. Instead, it pulsed with an eerie, unsteady rhythm, as if something foreign had entwined itself with her very essence.
Lily kissed Jasmine on the forehead as she rocked her soothingly, her gaze meeting James', who was comforting Ivy in similar fashion. Both of them were wondering the same thing—could it be some kind of curse? Then why wasn't Ivy affected?
What the hell actually happened?
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01.45 AM, 1ST NOVEMBER, 1981, THE INFIRMARY, HOGWARTS CASTLE
POPPY POMFREY STILL could not believe the sheer absurdity of the night's events. It felt less like reality and more like a tale conjured from the depths of fiction—an impossible sequence of miracles and abnormalities taking place one after the other.
And at the center of it all lay her current patient, Jasmine Potter, resting in a hospital bed within Hogwarts' infirmary.
The Potters brought their girls to her given the danger of going to a public place like St. Mungo's in the current socio-political climate, and the fact that Poppy was the single most accomplished healer of the current age.
Yet, even Poppy had to be shocked by Jasmine Potter's current health situation.
The child's condition defied every medical precedent Poppy had encountered in her long career. Whatever altered her was entirely unrecognizable—something beyond the scope of conventional magic, perhaps even beyond the boundaries of known wizardry itself.
She and Dumbledore had performed every diagnostic spell they could think of, yet none could decipher the anomaly within the girl. Instead, they were forced to work with theories and presumptions.
The most plausible explanation was that it stemmed from some severe backlash caused by an anomalous magical phenomenon. While this theory seemed to be the most likely, it was riddled with logical inconsistencies—chief among them the fact that Ivy Potter was in perfect health, completely untouched by whatever had afflicted her twin.
According to the Headmaster, his tests indicated that the Dark Lord had used some kind of obscure and unnatural magic to obliterate the wards protecting Potter Manor. That much was at least believable—if not highly probable—given the sheer devastation of those wards.
But then came the revelation that had truly shaken them. Dumbledore had stated, with absolute certainty, that the Dark Lord used a Killing Curse upon the children.
It was a claim so impossible that any sane witch or wizard would have dismissed it outright. And yet, the evidence refused to be denied. Every diagnostic spell confirmed the same, inarguable truth: A Killing Curse had been cast upon the Potter children.
By all rights, neither of those girls should be alive. And yet, here they were.
Expectedly, everyone was astonished—none more so than the girls' parents. It was surreal—the greatest threat to Magical Britain since Grindelwald had been vanquished overnight, like a deus ex machina plucked straight from the pages of a novel.
Frankly, Poppy found it all utterly absurd.
Relieving? Certainly. A miracle? Undoubtedly. But still, absurd. And yet, the consequences were already unfolding across the country. Reports poured in of Death Eaters abruptly breaking off their attacks, their terror-stricken ranks scattering in disarray.
Entire ambushes dissolved into chaos as Voldemort's forces abandoned their posts, fleeing as though struck by some unseen force. Whatever had happened that night had not only ended the Dark Lord but shattered his hold over his followers.
In true bureaucratic fashion, the Ministry did everything they could to play it up, preaching about the Chosen Ones, the children that "Fate ordained to vanquish the Dark Lord". Ha! And people still lapped it up.
Indeed, desperation brings out the bizarre in people, making them willing to believe anything.
The sensationalised stories that had cropped up within the last 2 hours of the Dark Lord being dead were ludicrous, but the prevailing "expert guess"—as the Ministry pen pushers put it—was that the Killing Curse was somehow reflected.
In any case, the Order was doing a good job of keeping the Potters unbothered—Merlin knows they needed a break from the sudden drama. Seriously, that family never had a boring day in their bloodline's history.
Snapping out of those thoughts, Poppy decided not to bother herself with those matters. Healing was enough of a chore—thinking about such matters would only make her headache worse.
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01.45 AM, 1ST NOVEMBER, 1981, THE HEADMASTER'S OFFICE, HOGWARTS CASTLE
ALBUS DUMBLEDORE WAS absolutely livid. How did it all fail?! How did it all come apart?! What did I do wrong?! Everything was perfect! It was all supposed to fall into place, so how did things go so badly off the rails?!
He felt a headache pounding at his temples, the relentless throbbing only worsened by the sheer absurdity of the night's events. Every carefully laid thread had unraveled, slipping through his fingers as though some unseen force had intervened—twisting fate itself to ensure his failure.
The unsettling part was that the feeling of a sudden loss of control only came during the Order meeting. It had started off as a nagging feeling that something was wrong, and this sensation grew until, inexplicably, everything quickly spiraled out of control.
Even now, he couldn't recall exactly how the argument between Molly and Lily had started—it was this argument that catalyzed the sudden loss of control.
One moment, the meeting had been progressing as usual, and the next, tempers had flared, words had been exchanged, and control had slipped from his grasp. He had tried to steady the situation, to pull the strings back into place—but then James had joined in, turning it into a full-blown tirade.
It had been so insignificant, so utterly inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. And yet, in that moment, Albus had felt something deeper shift, something within his very soul, as though his entire world was coming apart at the seams.
It was irrational. Illogical. But it was there—that gnawing sensation that something, someone, was laughing at him from beyond the veil of reality. For something like this to happen under his watch, completely beyond his influence?
That was not normal.
He would have to investigate. If the Light was to prevail, if his vision of a utopia was to be realized, then he couldn't lose control. He simply couldn't. If indeed some cosmic force was thwarting his plans, then it would have to contend with the full wrath of the Light.
Tonight's failure was not the end. The Potter children were still alive, and so was Riddle. No, it wasn't over—he had another chance. He simply needed to make sure that, this time, no margin for error would be allowed.
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Author here.
Sorry it took so long for another upload. I had a crazy writer's block working out this chapter. This is the final part of the prologue, so from here is where the main story will be starting.
This chapter might seem a bit lacklustre, but I was trying to skim through some of the story's context with the prologue chapters. I didn't want to be too shallow, but I also didn't want an entire arc just for the prologue.
In any case, I'll try to do my best with coming chapters, which will likely be better given that I'll have more time and freedom to explore what is going on without rushing things. As always, if you have ideas for how I can make my story better, just holla at me.
There being no other business, I hope you all have a good time.
Ciao!