Godric's Hollow, October 31, 1981.
The wind howled outside the small cottage, rattling the windows as if the night itself knew what was coming. Inside, James Potter stood in the hallway, wand raised, his face set in grim determination.
"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! I'll hold him off—"
The front door exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood. James fired a curse—bright red, fast—but Voldemort was faster. A flash of green light cut through the dark.
James dropped, lifeless, his glasses askew on the floor.
Upstairs, Lily Potter clutched one-year-old Harry to her chest. Her heart pounded as heavy footsteps climbed the stairs, slow and deliberate. The bedroom door creaked open.
Lord Voldemort stood in the doorway, tall and skeletal, red eyes glowing in the dim light. His lipless mouth curled into something that might have been a smile.
"Stand aside, you silly girl," he said, voice high and cold. "I have no wish to kill you. Stand aside, and you may live."
Lily's grip tightened on Harry. Her green eyes blazed. "No. Not Harry. Never Harry."
Voldemort tilted his head. "Stand aside. I will spare you. You are a pure-blood witch of talent. There is no need for you to die."
"Never," Lily whispered, stepping in front of the crib.
"One last time, girl. Stand aside." His wand rose higher. "I do not wish to kill a witch of your ability."
Lily straightened, red hair falling wild around her shoulders. "Then you'll have to kill me."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "So be it."
He turned his wand toward the crib. Harry whimpered, tiny hands reaching out.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green bolt shot toward the baby. Lily threw herself in its path without thinking, arms outstretched.
The curse struck her chest dead-center.
Pain beyond anything she had ever felt tore through her. Every nerve burned. Her heart stuttered—stopped—then slammed back to life with impossible force. Something ancient and dark flooded her veins. Fangs pressed against her tongue. Her vision sharpened until she could see every crack in the wall, every thread in Voldemort's robes.
The curse rebounded.
Voldemort's eyes widened in shock as the green light reversed, slamming into him. His body convulsed. Flesh peeled away like burning paper. A horrific scream tore from his throat as his form disintegrated into black smoke. A fragment of something dark—his soul—lashed out in desperation, slicing into Harry's forehead and leaving a lightning-shaped scar before fleeing into the night.
The cottage fell silent except for Harry's soft crying.
Lily collapsed to her knees, gasping. She was alive. More than alive. Stronger. Faster. Immortal.
And so was her son.
She gathered Harry into her arms, pressing a kiss to his scar. His tiny emerald eyes—her eyes—met hers, and for a moment they glowed with the same faint inner light.
"We're going home, love," she whispered. "Just you and me. And no one will ever hurt you again."
With a soft crack, she apparated them both away into the night, leaving the ruined cottage behind. The wizarding world would believe Harry Potter dead, the Boy Who Lived reduced to legend.
But Lily Potter had other plans.
She would raise her son in secret. She would make him stronger than anyone who might ever come for him.
And she would love him—fiercely, completely, in ways the world would never understand.