It had begun with a whisper, no louder than the wind that rustled through the halls of Hogwarts, but the weight of it had spread like wildfire, growing in power with each retelling. A child born at the end of seventh month dies would rise to defeat the Dark Lord. The words, spoken in a trembling voice by a witch most considered a fraud, had reached Voldemort’s ears. And he believed them.

  James Potter sat by the window in Godric’s Hollow, his brow furrowed with concern as he watched the shadows grow longer in the street outside. The once lively home was quiet now, too quiet. His fingers drummed restlessly against his knee. Somewhere upstairs, Lily was tending to the twins—Charles, with his wild bck hair, so much like his father’s, and Harry, with his soft red curls, a mirror of Lily herself. He could hear faint murmurs from their room, the quiet coos of a mother soothing her children to sleep.

  James’s gaze flickered back to the parchment on the table before him. The letter had come only hours ago, delivered by Albus Dumbledore himself. The warning had been clear: You are no longer safe. The Dark Lord had heard the prophecy, and now he was hunting.

  It wasn’t just the Potters. Frank and Alice Longbottom had received the same warning. Their son, Neville, born only a day after the Potter twins, was also marked as a potential target. Two families, two futures. One of them would bear the child destined to vanquish Voldemort.

  It had been days since the Potters received the warning from Dumbledore. Voldemort was coming, targeting families who might harbor the child of prophecy. The Longbottoms had gone into hiding, protected by the ancient, powerful wards that surrounded their ancestral manor. The wards, forged by the Longbottoms of old, were steeped in ancient magic so strong that even the Dark Lord himself would struggle to break through.

  The Potters, however, had chosen a different path. Dumbledore had advised them to use the Fidelius Charm, the most powerful concealment charm known to wizardkind. It would hide their location, making them invisible to Voldemort and his followers—so long as their Secret Keeper held fast.

  Lily’s soft footsteps broke the silence as she entered the room, her face pale but resolute. She crossed to James and sat beside him, pcing her hand on his. “They’re asleep,” she whispered, though her voice trembled slightly.

  James nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the parchment before him—the details of the Fidelius Charm, instructions from Dumbledore. The pn was set. They would hide in a small cottage, unseen by anyone except their Secret Keeper.

  But that was where the real fear y. Trust.

  Lily’s eyes darkened. “Do you think we’re making the right choice?” she asked softly. “The Longbottoms... their manor is so well protected. Maybe we should have stayed there.”

  James shook his head, though he couldn’t shake the doubt creeping in. “The Fidelius Charm is our best option. It’s... it’s the only way we can be sure.”

  Lily sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And you’re certain about Peter?”

  A pang of guilt shot through James’s chest. The choice of Secret Keeper had been agonizing. They had considered Sirius first, but that was too obvious, too predictable. Sirius Bck, his best friend since childhood, was far too well-known to Voldemort’s Death Eaters. They had ultimately decided on Peter Pettigrew, their quiet, unassuming friend, who they believed would fly under the radar. No one would suspect Peter.

  “Peter is loyal,” James said, though there was a faint unease in his voice. “He’d never betray us.”

  Lily didn’t reply, but James could see the worry etched into her features. They both knew what was at stake—everything. Their family, their friends, the future of the wizarding world.

  Days passed, and soon, the Potters were hidden away in their small cottage, tucked into the quiet vilge of Godric’s Hollow. The Fidelius Charm had been cast, and now, only Peter knew the secret of their location. They had trusted him, pced their lives in his hands.

  Meanwhile, at Longbottom Manor, Frank and Alice Longbottom kept watch, their eyes ever alert for signs of danger. Neville, their son, was barely a year old, but they felt the weight of the prophecy too. Protected by the ancient wards of their home, they believed they were safe. The Longbottoms had always been warriors, their bloodlines steeped in old magic. Their home was their fortress, and they trusted in the strength of their family’s legacy to keep them safe.

  But safety was a fragile illusion. In both homes, fear lingered in the shadows. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside sent a shiver of dread through the families. The Dark Lord’s reach was long, and though they were hidden, they knew that danger was never far away.

  Halloween night was never supposed to be anything but another evening at the Potter family’s hidden cottage at Godric's hollow.

  The Potters' two boys, Charles and Harry, y quietly in their shared crib, completely unaware of the danger that was about to unfold. Watching over them were James’s parents, Charles Potter Sr. and Dorea Potter, née Bck. Dorea, a member of the noble and ancient House of Bck, was a formidable witch with a mastery of ancient, often forbidden, magic. Charles, a steadfast and powerful wizard in his own right, kept a close eye on the wards surrounding the cottage.

  Meanwhile, at one of the Order of the Phoenix’s hidden headquarters, James and Lily Potter, along with Albus Dumbledore, gathered for an urgent meeting. There had been rumors of Voldemort’s activity increasing, whispers of an imminent attack, but no one knew where or when. The Fidelius Charm had been pced upon their small cottage in Godric’s Hollow.

  In the shadowed streets of a distant vilge, Peter Pettigrew crept through the night. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow as he made his way to meet his dark master. The weight of his betrayal hung heavy over him, but fear had driven him to this. Voldemort’s promise of power and mercy had won out over his loyalty to his friends

  Voldemort arrived at the cottage as the moon reached its peak in the sky. His figure was a silhouette of pure darkness, his red eyes glowing with malevolent anticipation. He had come for the Potters—the children who might fulfill the prophecy and destroy him. His breath misted in the cold air as he stepped closer to the wards, his wand raised.

  The wards surrounding cottage fred to life, shimmering with ancient power, but they weren’t enough to stop him. Voldemort’s mastery of dark magic was too great. With a wave of his wand and muttered incantations, he began dismantling the protections one by one. The wards faltered, weakening with each curse that passed his lips.

  Inside the cottage, Charles Sr. felt the tremor of magic break through the first yer of the wards. His eyes narrowed, and he rose from his seat by the fire, wand already in hand. “Dorea,” he said, his voice tense, “he’s here.”

  Dorea Bck Potter, her sharp eyes fshing with the coldness of her heritage, stood beside the crib where her grandsons slept peacefully. Her mind raced, calcuting every possible outcome. She had always known this day might come, and she had prepared for it. Dark rituals, forbidden spells, the ancient magic of the Bck family—it was all at her disposal. She would protect her grandchildren with everything she had.

  As Charles moved to reinforce the wards, Dorea’s hands moved to an ornate silver dagger tucked away in her robes. She had studied a particur ritual long ago, one that called for the ultimate sacrifice—a life for a life.

  Outside, the st of the wards fell, and Voldemort stepped forward into the compound of the cottage. His serpentine face twisted into a satisfied smile. His wand was ready, and he moved quickly. There would be no mercy tonight. His goal was simple: kill the children and eliminate any future threat to his reign.

  With a flick of his wrist, the front doors exploded inward.

  Charles Potter Sr. stood firm, his wand raised, but the duel was over before it could truly begin. Voldemort’s power was overwhelming, and with a single Killing Curse, Charles fell.

  Dorea didn’t flinch. She had expected this. Her heart ached for her husband, but she knew there was no time for grief. Moving swiftly, she began the ritual.

  She pced the dagger across her palm, whispering the ancient words of her ancestors. The ritual demanded her blood, her life force. As she chanted, a dark mist swirled around the crib where Charles and Harry y. Their innocent faces were untouched by the horrors of the night.

  Voldemort’s footsteps echoed down the hall, drawing closer. His eyes gleamed with anticipation as he approached the nursery, where his ultimate prize awaited.

  Dorea’s voice grew stronger, her will unbreakable. The dark magic responded to her call, forming an impenetrable barrier around the crib. She felt the pull of the spell, her strength waning as it demanded more from her.

  And then he was there. Voldemort stood at the doorway, his wand raised.

  “Move aside,” he hissed, but Dorea did not move. Her final act was complete, and as Voldemort’s curse struck her down, she died knowing that her grandsons were protected.

  Voldemort stepped over her body, his attention now fully on the children. He raised his wand, aiming for the bck-haired boy—Charles. This was one of the boys who had been marked by the prophecy. The one destined to vanquish him. He could not allow the boys to live.

  “Avada Kedavra!” The Killing Curse erupted from his wand, a green fsh of light that hurtled toward Charles Potter.

  But something went wrong.

  Before the curse could reach its target, it rebounded. The air crackled with raw magic, and Voldemort’s eyes widened in shock. The spell, meant to kill the child, instead reversed, smming into the Dark Lord with the full force of the ritual Dorea had cast. The protection born of her sacrifice was far more powerful than Voldemort had anticipated.

  He let out a scream as his body was torn apart, his soul fractured, leaving only a broken husk behind. The Dark Lord was no more.

  The bodies of Charles and Dorea Potter y still, lifeless, but in the crib, Charles and Harry remained untouched. Charles Potter bore a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, the only mark of the horrors that had taken pce that night.

  It was Sirius who arrived first, his heart hammering in his chest as he burst into the ruins of the fortress. “James! Lily!” he shouted, but the house was empty of his friends. His eyes fell on the bodies of Charles and Dorea, and he dropped to his knees, grief threatening to consume him.

  Behind him, other members of the Order of the Phoenix arrived—Albus Dumbledore, James Potter, Lily Potter, and a dozen more. They moved quickly, assessing the damage, trying to understand what had happened.

  Dumbledore was the one who found the children. His old eyes softened as he looked at the sleeping boys. The magic still radiating from the crib was palpable, ancient and protective. He reached down, gently brushing a finger over the lightning-shaped scar on Charles’s forehead.

  “It’s over,” he murmured. “Voldemort is gone.”

  That night, the wizarding world would celebrate. The fall of the Dark Lord, the victory they had longed for. And at the center of it all, Charles Potter, the Boy Who Lived, became the symbol of hope for a world emerging from darkness.

  The streets outside St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Madies and Injuries were eerily quiet for what should have been a time of celebration. Inside, the air buzzed with urgency and whispered conversations. James Potter stood by the entrance, his hand gripping Lily’s as they waited, their hearts heavy with conflicting emotions.

  The fall of Voldemort had come at a steep price.

  James' parents, Charles and Dorea Potter, were gone. The weight of their deaths bore down on him, an ache he could not shake. They had been his foundation, his strength, and now they were just memories, sacrificed to save his children. Despite the grief that clung to him like a shroud, a part of him was relieved—his children had survived. Both Charles and Harry had come through the attack unharmed, or so he hoped.

  Lily, though pale and exhausted, stood tall beside him. Her green eyes flicked toward the doors of the hospital, where healers had taken their sons for a full examination. The attack had come so suddenly, the night unraveling in chaos and blood, yet the mysterious protection that had repelled Voldemort still hung over them, unspoken but palpable.

  “I still don’t understand how,” Lily whispered, her voice strained. “How did Charles survive?”

  James sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Mum… she must have done something, some ancient magic. There’s no other expnation.”

  Lily nodded but remained silent, her mind far away. The elder Potters had given their lives, and something in their sacrifice had protected the boys. Yet, the mystery of what had really happened lingered between them.

  The door to the hospital wing creaked open, and Sirius Bck appeared, his face drawn and shadowed by exhaustion. He was usually a source of boundless energy and mischief, but tonight, he looked defeated. The death of the elder Potters weighed on him too, as much as it did on James.

  “They’re... they’re gone,” Sirius murmured, his voice catching. “I can’t believe they’re gone. But Merlin, I’m so gd you two made it.”

  James hugged his best friend tightly. “I know, mate. I know.”

  Sirius pulled away and turned his gaze to the doors leading to the examination rooms. “Any word yet about the kids?”

  Lily shook her head. “They’re still checking them over. It’s been too long.”

  “They’ll be alright,” Sirius said, though his tone was more hopeful than certain.

  The distant sounds of bustling healers, rattling potions bottles, and murmured spells filled the silence as the trio waited. Every minute felt like an eternity. Outside, Aurors continued their hunt for the remaining Death Eaters, and somewhere out there, Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who had sold them all out to Voldemort, was still running free.

  “I’m going to find him, you know,” Sirius muttered darkly. “Peter won’t get away with this. I swear it.”

  James pced a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. “We’ll get him. But for now, we have to take care of our families.”

  Before Sirius could respond, the door to the examination room opened, and a Healer in lime-green robes approached them, her face calm but serious.

  The healer’s words echoed in the sterile corridors of St. Mungo’s, freezing the air around James and Lily Potter.

  "Your children are fine, physically," the healer began. Relief washed over them like a flood, but the slight hesitation in her tone told them there was more to come. “However... we’ve found something unusual.”

  James’s heart skipped a beat. “What is it?”

  The healer's gaze softened. “It’s about Harry. When we ran our diagnostic spells, we detected no signs of magic in him. I’m afraid... your son is a Squib.”

  The words hit James like a punch to the gut. A Squib. His son—his second-born—had no magic. The thought alone sent his mind reeling. He looked over at Lily, whose face had gone pale, her eyes wide with shock. She held Charles, still fast asleep in her arms, while her other hand instinctively gripped at the empty air, where Harry should have been.

  “A Squib?” James whispered, his voice raw.

  The healer nodded. “I’m so sorry, but there’s no magic in him. It’s incredibly rare for one twin to have magic and the other not, but it has happened.”

  For a moment, James could only stare bnkly. The joy of having both his sons survive Voldemort’s attack felt like it was being ripped away, repced with a sinking sense of loss. Not because Harry was less loved—he would never love his son less—but because of what the world would do to him.

  The healer’s voice faded as she walked away, leaving James and Lily alone in the aftermath of the revetion. Lily's face remained stoic, though the tears began to well in her eyes. She had fought so hard for her children’s survival, only to be told that one of them would never belong in the world they called home.

  "We'll figure it out," James whispered, though his own heart was heavy with doubt.

  A few days ter, in the dimly lit halls of Hogwarts, a meeting had been convened. Dumbledore, as usual, sat at the head of the long table, his face grave but calm. The news of Voldemort's downfall had spread quickly, and the world was rejoicing. But here, within the walls of Hogwarts, a far more personal tragedy was unfolding.

  “James, Lily,” Dumbledore began, “we must discuss Harry.”

  Lily squeezed James's hand tightly. They had agreed to this meeting, knowing what was likely to be suggested, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear. The headmaster looked at them with deep sympathy.

  “Harry has no magic in him,” Dumbledore continued. “The healers have confirmed it. And while he is still your son, still a part of your family, the implications are significant.”

  James frowned, his emotions barely held in check. “What do you mean by that, Professor?”

  Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his hands steepled. “You must understand, in the eyes of the magical world, Harry will be seen as different. A Squib. Worse yet, very few people even know the Potters had twins. If it becomes widely known that the Boy Who Lived has a brother with no magic...”

  Lily's voice broke the silence, a tremble in her words. “He will be hunted, won’t he?”

  Dumbledore nodded gravely. “The remaining Death Eaters would see Harry as a vulnerability. And even beyond that, the magical world can be unkind. Harry would grow up surrounded by people who see him as lesser, simply because he cannot wield magic. It would break his heart, and likely yours.”

  James's jaw clenched. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I suggest,” Dumbledore said softly, “that Harry be allowed to live in the Muggle world. It’s where he belongs, where he can live a peaceful life without the shadow of the magical world hanging over him. Let him grow up away from all this... until he’s old enough to understand.”

  Lily's eyes filled with tears, the pain of the suggestion cutting deep. “You want us to give him up?”

  Dumbledore looked pained himself. “Only for his safety. And yours. As long as Harry is here, he will be a target. And if he grows up in a magical environment, knowing that his twin brother is celebrated as the Boy Who Lived while he... he cannot even cast a simple spell... It will only cause him pain.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating. James could see the sense in Dumbledore's words, but every fiber of his being rejected the idea of abandoning his son. And yet, the dangers were real. Peter Pettigrew was still out there, and so were countless Death Eaters who would seek revenge. Could they really protect Harry in a world where he had no magic to defend himself?

  Lily shook her head slowly, her voice barely audible. “But... he’s our son.”

  Dumbledore's gaze softened even further. “And he always will be. But for now, perhaps the best way to protect him is to let him live in peace, away from the dangers of this world.”

  James swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the decision press down on him. He knew, deep down, that Dumbledore was right. The risk was too great, and the consequences too devastating if Harry stayed. But how could they just let him go?

  Later that evening, as the decision sank in, Dumbledore took Harry from the Potters. Lily had kissed Harry goodbye, her heart shattering, while James had stood by, his own emotions too overwhelming to voice.

  “I will find him a safe home,” Dumbledore promised, his voice gentle. “You don’t need to worry.”

  James and Lily watched as Dumbledore apparated away, taking their son with him. Neither of them had realized the depth of their sacrifice until that moment, as Harry disappeared into the night.

  Unbeknownst to them, Dumbledore took Harry to Number 4 Privet Drive, where the Dursleys lived. He pced the sleeping child in a basket on their doorstep, with a letter expining the circumstances. Without informing Lily or James, he believed it was for the greater good.

  With a heavy heart, Dumbledore cast a gnce back at the boy he was leaving behind. “I hope this is for the best,” he whispered before he disappeared into the night, leaving Harry alone to face his fate.