--- Dungeons beneath Castle Ravenloft, Barovia, Domain of Strahd von Zarovich ---
(POV: Mordenkainen)
It had been five years, eight months, two tendays, and six days since I had been captured by the Vampire Lord of Barovia.
I should have won.
I had more power, more experience. He had home advantage—but that should not have mattered. I had grown complacent, too used to standing above those I fought. And I had forgotten the one rule no wizard should ever forget:
Never charge blindly into an enemy's domain.
A lesson that had cost me nearly six years of my life.
I had tried to fight my way out, at first. Summoned storms, shattered the castle walls, tore apart reality itself in search of escape. But Barovia did not abide by the laws of the worlds I knew.
Strahd had enjoyed my struggles. Even now, he still visited to gloat.
---
"Brooding in your failures again, Archmage?"
I did not look up. I did not need to.
".....Strahd." My voice was hoarse from disuse. "Come to gloat again?"
"Oh, always." The vampire's voice was thick with amusement. "Though this time, I simply came to refill your water. You do love your little blessings, after all."
I heard the splash of liquid against stone and forced myself to move. Strahd enjoyed watching hope decay—it was why he never let me starve, never let me die.
"Create or Destroy Water, such an unimpressive spell, wouldn't you say? And yet, it's given me years of amusement."
He chuckled.
"Enjoy your imprisonment, _Archmage Mordenkainen. I have new toys to play with."_
And with that, he was gone.
I dragged myself forward, reaching for the water. It was always my only reprieve, my only weapon against this cursed land.
"Boccob." My voice was a whisper, almost lost in the void. "Bless this water. Grace your servant with your presence. Grant me Protection from Good and Evil."
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then—a flicker of power. A strand of divinity. Weaker than I had ever felt it, but there.
As I drank, a rare clarity washed over me, repelling the fog that threatened to consume my mind.
Not much longer.
Barovia had drained all divine magic in this land. I would need another way out.
The Paradoxical Ascension Ritual.
It was madness. A spell to pray to a future version of myself, forcing that reality into existence. A fool's gambit.
But if I remained here much longer, I would go mad again.
---
Ten Days Later
The blessing had long since faded. Hope was beginning to follow.
Then—I felt it.
A pull.
A whisper.
"…pr… te… t… h...m… ple…"
It was weak. Disjointed. But I recognized the signs of a summoning.
Someone is calling me.
I had no time to question who or why. I did not care. I reached out, gathering my strength—holding back just enough to keep my mind from shattering.
I pulled.
And I was pulled in turn.
---
Godric's Hollow—12:05 AM, November 1st, 1981
Sanity.
The moment I entered this world, I felt it—a clarity that had eluded me for nearly six years. The madness of Barovia was gone, washed away like ink in the rain.
For a single, fleeting moment, I reveled in the absence of the whispering dark.
Then I noticed something else.
The Weave here was different.
Not wrong. Not broken. Just… unfamiliar. It was raw, unshaped by logic or structure. Less like the careful threads of Oerth and more like a living thing, pulsing with intent.
It was disorienting, but it was a welcome change from the madness.
Time slowed. My Chronomancy already in effect.
A crib. A child.
Spells hurtling toward him.
The body of my summoner, cold and lifeless. The last traces of their magic still clinging to the air.
A final act. A sacrifice.
"Thank you for your sacrifice." I whispered, eyes locked on the child. "I never forget favors."
Then, I turned my attention to the oncoming spell.
A curse. Laden with a soul fragment.
"Interesting."
I raised my hand.
"Dispel Magic. Dispel Curse."
The green light shattered—unwoven before it could land. The spell collapsed without ever touching the child.
I sensed the fragment—a tether of the caster's soul—lingering in the remains of the spell. With a flick of my wrist, I snuffed it out.
But something remained.
A mark.
Not a curse. Not a soul fragment. Something else entirely.
The Weave had taken what should have been erased and made it real.
I frowned, tracing the faint scar left behind.
"Even destroyed, fate remembers." I muttered. "The world demands a scar, a reminder. Hah. How poetic."
This world was going to be a problem.
Turning my attention to the caster himself. I saw the bald, almost snake-like visage of the man and the flocks of his hooded followers behind him.
Seeking to neutralise this, I turned my attention to the young infant. Using his magic as a focii, I cast the strongest spell I had slots left for—
"Disintegrate!"
Then I resumed time.
---
---2:01 AM, 1st November 1981, Godric's Hollow---
"Another loss to add to my long list of failures."
"Oh how I wished to hang up my mantle. Give up all the accolades, and just waste away at some quite place."
Dumbledore sees what remains of the Potter Home. All the Death Eaters that were sent to attack disintegrated with some sort of magic.
No.
Disintegration might be a disservice to the magic, they were transmuted to dust. And the source, believe it or not, was the little Potter infant, the only one to survive the whole ordeal.
The secret holder Sirius Black was arrested, and although not sent to Azkaban, was imprisoned in Hogwarts, under his own insistence. He did not believe Sirius had the brains to betray the Potters, but someone in his inner circle did. He believed it to be the now deceased Peter Pettigrew, by simple elimination. It was either him or Sirius.
He arrived to see his student-turned-ally, Severus, cradling the body of his sweetheart, looking despondent.
All his efforts to protect her in vain.
Another Failure.
An infant left without his parents.
Another Failure.
What is the purpose of Albus Dumbledore?
When you take away the hollow accolades and fancy titles, all that remains is a long list of Failures, and a trail of Bodies.
He picked up the child from the crib, transfiguring it into a holding basket for the baby.
Green eyes, glowing with intelligence like Lily, and with a hint of mischief from James.
"Harry Potter." He mouthed his name, reminiscing about the day the Potters told him about their child. And he made the unfortunate connection with the prophecy.
The Prophecy.
Oh how he wanted to burn it away.
Every time he tried to prevent one, it led to it just fulfilling itself on its own.
Almost poetic.
Dumbledore would have laughed if not for the morbidity surrounding each and every prophecy given to him.
Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he just surrendered himself to the prophecy. Blaming his failures and inability on an external stimuli. He would be lying if that didn't seem somewhat attractive.
"Maybe I will this time. The Boy who Lived. Has a nice ring to it, isn't that right little Harry?" He looked at the infant, who had now fallen asleep in his arms.
He made his way outside the Potter house.
---
"Dumbledore?" "Professor Dumbledore?"
"Minerva, Hagrid." He acknowledged the new arrivals.
"This....has been a night of tragedy, a night of loss. Fortunately the Dark Lord has been vanquished, his magic dispersed....." Eyes still on little Harry, how small he was.
"But the night has not been without losses.... The Longbottoms trapped in a Coma, The Potters lost to the whims of a madman. Two Infants without parents to look after them....."
He hands over Harry to Hagrid, conjuring a Letter.
"I have heard of Lily's sister having a home down in Little Whinging, Surrey. Hagrid drop him off there." "But Dumbledore—"
He interrupted Minerva, having an idea about what she was trying to say.
"Not now Minerva, the Castle is not safe for an infant. Two families were attacked tonight, two families which were guarded with all sorts of magics. The Hogwarts Castle will not be able to protect Little Harry, not until we have rounded up all loose corners there. We have already had a hard time protecting the muggle students, imagine what would happen to a Child who destroyed their lord..."
I took a deep breath, having said what I had to. I knew I had revealed information which should not have been revealed. But it was for a good cause, for the greater good.
---
And so, the Boy Who Lived was left in 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, with a shadow watching over him.
Dumbledore went and squashed the remainders of the Death Eaters at Hogwarts, with the help of Minerva, Sirius and the other Professors.
After all was said and done. And the Dark Lord's forces vanquished. Rumors and whispers spread of "A Boy who Lived".
The only survivor of an attack by the Dark Lord himself. A boy who vanquished the Dark Lord.
Harry Potter