The night was shrouded in an eerie stillness, broken only by the whispers of leaves rustling in the wind. A gentle mist clung to the earth, swirling in lazy spirals as though reluctant to be disturbed. In the quiet suburban neighborhood of Godric's Hollow, a small, ivy-covered cottage stood nestled among the trees, its windows illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. Inside, the Reeves family—Philip and Jean—held their precious infant son, Arthur Damian Reeves, close, their hearts heavy with the weight of impending doom.
Arthur, a mere babe with wide, glistening eyes, lay nestled in his crib, oblivious to the fear that hung thick in the air. His parents exchanged solemn glances, their faces etched with love, worry, and determination. They had known that this night would come, that their world teetered on the edge of chaos. There had been whispers, hushed warnings from trusted friends, and an unshakable feeling that something malevolent lurked just beyond the veil of their fragile peace.
Outside, the wind howled mournfully, a harbinger of the horror about to unfold. The sky was an inky abyss, thick clouds obscuring the moon's watchful eye. Darkness had long since swallowed the village, but no darkness was as deep as the one that approached. Unseen by the eyes of ordinary men, a sinister presence loomed at the threshold of the Reeves' home, tendrils of shadow slithering forth as though tasting the fear in the air.
And then—
A deafening crack split the night.
The front door exploded inward with a burst of green fire, splintering into jagged shards that scattered across the wooden floor. A gust of cold wind swept through the house, extinguishing all but a single flickering candle. In the doorway stood a figure draped in flowing black robes, his pale, serpentine face twisted into a cruel semblance of a smile. Lord Voldemort had arrived.
The most feared wizard of their time stepped forward, his crimson eyes glinting with an eerie satisfaction as he beheld the scene before him. He had come for the child. The boy who, according to prophecy, had the power to challenge his reign. Arthur Damian Reeves—an infant, harmless in appearance but dangerous in fate.
Jean let out a strangled gasp, instinctively stepping between her son and the intruder. Philip raised his wand, his hand steady despite the sheer terror tightening his throat. They had prepared for this moment, but preparation did little to soften the reality of facing the Dark Lord himself.
Voldemort regarded them with something that almost resembled disappointment. "Such a waste," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "A pure-blood family, standing in the way of destiny. You should have been wiser, should have embraced the world I am creating."
Philip tightened his grip on his wand.
Voldemort sighed, as if weary of their defiance. "It is always the same with your kind. Clinging to outdated notions of love, of sacrifice. You think that will save you?"
"We think it makes us stronger than you will ever be," Jean snapped, her voice laced with fury.
The Dark Lord's expression darkened. "This should be fun."
Spells erupted like fireworks, filling the small home with bursts of blinding light. The air crackled with raw energy as the young couple fought with every ounce of magic they possessed. Philip's shield charms flickered under the assault of the Dark Lord's onslaught, while Jean darted between shadows, casting hexes with remarkable precision. But it was not enough.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort sent Philip crashing into the far wall. The sickening crack of bone was followed by a strangled cry. Jean's scream tore through the air, her anguish sharpening her magic into a final, desperate act. She lunged toward Arthur's crib, shielding him with her body, her arms forming a protective cage around the infant.
"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling.
Voldemort tilted his head, considering her words as though they amused him. "Love," he mused. "Such a fragile thing."
For the briefest of moments, something flickered in his expression—an emotion long buried beneath years of darkness. Regret. It was not the act of killing that stirred it, but the fact that this family was pure-blood. Once, long ago, he might have considered them allies. But ideology meant nothing in the face of prophecy.
"It is a shame," he murmured. "The world could have used more of your kind. But fate does not yield to sentimentality."
And then the world was bathed in green light.
Jean's body crumpled to the floor, lifeless, her final act one of unyielding devotion. Voldemort stepped closer to the crib, gazing down at the child who had unknowingly sealed his parents' fate. Arthur's tiny chest rose and fell with each steady breath, his innocence untainted by the horrors unfolding around him.
The Dark Lord raised his wand.
Another flash of green light streaked toward the boy.
And then—
Something happened. Something unexpected. The spell rebounded, hurtling back toward its caster. Voldemort's scream of rage and agony was swallowed by a whirlwind of raw, uncontrollable magic. A thunderous explosion rocked the cottage, and the Dark Lord vanished into nothingness. The house groaned under the force of the blast, its walls quivering before settling into an eerie silence.
The only sound that remained was the soft, pitiful cries of baby Arthur.
Beyond the shattered walls of the cottage, the world carried on, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had just unfolded within those ruins. The night had claimed the Reeves family, leaving behind a scarred child and a world forever changed.
---
In shadows deep, a boy shall rise, Born to those who've known darkness's disguise.
In secrecy raised, marked by a scar's glowing light, His heart shall guide his flight.
As destiny's veil begins to lift, He'll face a future, a hidden gift.
Marked as an equal to darkness and dread, With power untapped, he'll rise instead.
Two paths entwined, a destiny unknown, He'll face the Dark Lord, through battles yet unknown.