October 31st, 1981 - Earlier That Evening
Albus Dumbledore sat in his office at Hogwarts, staring at the parchment in his hands as if hoping the words would somehow rearrange themselves into something less terrible. The prophecy, spoken by Sybill Trelawney in that horrible, hollow voice that accompanied true Sight, seemed to burn itself into his mind with each reading.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. "Come," he called, and the door opened to admit Professor McGonagall, her usually stern expression softened by genuine concern.
"Albus, they've arrived. Both families are waiting in the Room of Requirement."
Dumbledore nodded heavily and rose from his chair, feeling every one of his hundred and fifteen years. "Thank you, Minerva. Let us not keep them waiting any longer than necessary."
The walk through Hogwarts' corridors felt longer than usual, each step bringing them closer to a conversation that would change everything. When they reached the Room of Requirement, Dumbledore paused with his hand on the door handle.
"Minerva, I want you to understand—what I'm about to tell them will put their children in mortal danger. But not telling them may doom us all."
McGonagall's lips tightened. "The prophecy?"
"Indeed."
Inside, the room had configured itself as a comfortable sitting area with a warm fire crackling in the grate. James and Lily Potter sat close together on one sofa, their infant son sleeping peacefully in Lily's arms. Across from them, Frank and Alice Longbottom held their own baby boy, both looking tired but alert.
"Albus," James said, rising as they entered. "Your message said it was urgent."
"Please, sit," Dumbledore said gently, taking the chair across from them. "What I have to tell you concerns both your families, and both your sons."
For the next twenty minutes, Dumbledore explained the prophecy in careful detail, watching as comprehension and fear dawned in four sets of eyes. When he finished, the room was silent except for the crackling of the fire and baby Neville's soft breathing.
"Either Harry or Neville," Lily whispered, unconsciously tightening her grip on her son. "One of them is meant to... to face Voldemort."
"So it would seem," Dumbledore said heavily. "Which means both boys are now targets. Voldemort will not take chances—he will attempt to eliminate both children."
Frank Longbottom's jaw tightened. "What do you recommend?"
"The Fidelius Charm," Dumbledore said immediately. "It's the only protection strong enough to hide you completely from Voldemort's detection."
"No." Alice Longbottom's voice was firm, surprising everyone. "Frank, we can't."
"Alice—" Frank began.
"No," she repeated, her voice gaining strength. "My grandmother was hidden under a Fidelius during Grindelwald's war. The Secret Keeper was tortured until they broke. When the charm fell, Grindelwald's forces were waiting. She died because someone else held the key to her life."
Frank's expression grew thoughtful. "You're right. We won't put our lives—or Neville's life—in someone else's hands, no matter how trustworthy they seem."
"There are other protections," Alice continued. "Family wards, blood magic, ancient protections that don't rely on a single point of failure. We'll use those instead."
Dumbledore wanted to argue, but he could see the determination in their faces. The Longbottoms had made their choice, and nothing he said would change their minds.
"Very well," he said quietly. "But please, take every precaution you can."
James and Lily exchanged a long look before James spoke. "We'll use the Fidelius. But we need to choose our Secret Keeper carefully."
"I would be honored to—" Dumbledore began.
"No," Lily said gently but firmly. "Albus, you're too obvious a target. Voldemort expects you to be involved in protecting Harry. We need someone he wouldn't suspect."
"Sirius," James said immediately. "Sirius Black. He's Harry's godfather, he's family, and Voldemort would never expect us to trust a Black with our lives."
Dumbledore frowned. "James, are you certain? The responsibility of being a Secret Keeper—"
"There's no one I trust more," James said firmly. "Sirius would die before betraying us."
"Then it's settled," Lily said, pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead. "We'll contact Sirius tonight and perform the charm tomorrow."
What Dumbledore didn't know—what he couldn't know, because the very nature of the Fidelius Charm prevented him from learning it—was that Sirius Black would make a devastating decision. In his paranoia and desire to protect his best friend's family, Sirius would convince James and Lily to make Peter Pettigrew the actual Secret Keeper at the last moment, reasoning that he was too obvious a choice and that no one would suspect quiet, unremarkable Peter.
It was a decision that would cost them everything.
November 1st, 1981 - 2:47 AM
The Dark Mark hanging over Godric's Hollow was visible from miles away, a sickly green skull with a serpent writhing from its mouth, floating above the ruins of what had once been a cozy cottage. Dumbledore Apparated directly into the garden, McGonagall materializing beside him a moment later.
"Sweet Merlin," McGonagall breathed, staring at the destruction.
The house was nearly destroyed, its upper floor completely collapsed. Dark magic hung in the air like smoke, making Dumbledore's skin crawl with its malevolent presence. But underneath it, he could sense something else—ancient magic, warm and pure and achingly familiar.
"Blood magic," he whispered, understanding flooding through him. "Lily... what did you do?"
They picked their way through the rubble carefully, wands drawn and senses alert. In the garden, they found Hagrid kneeling beside his motorbike, a small bundle in his massive arms.
"Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid said, his voice thick with tears. "I got him out before the whole place came down. Little Harry, safe as houses."
Dumbledore approached carefully, extending his magical senses toward the child. What he found made him step back in shock. The baby was wrapped in protective magic so powerful it made the air shimmer, but wound through it like a poison was something else—a fragment of soul, dark and twisted and definitely not Harry's own.
"Hagrid," he said quietly, "where exactly did you find Harry?"
"Upstairs, in what's left of the nursery. Crying he was, but not a scratch on him except for that cut on his forehead." Hagrid's face darkened. "Saw Black fleeing the scene when I arrived. Sirius Black, on that flying motorbike of his. Gone before I could catch him."
Dumbledore's blood ran cold. Sirius Black—the Secret Keeper, the one person who could have led Voldemort directly to the Potters. "Did he say anything?"
"Not a word. Just took one look at the ruins and flew off like the devil himself was chasing him."
"Give me the child," Dumbledore said gently, and Hagrid carefully transferred Harry into his arms.
The moment Dumbledore touched the baby, he understood exactly what had happened. The scar on Harry's forehead pulsed with dark magic—a Horcrux, though he wouldn't have that name for the foul thing for years yet. But the protection surrounding it was something far older and more powerful than any Dark Magic Voldemort could command.
Lily's sacrifice. Her deliberate, willing death to save her son had triggered one of the oldest forms of magical protection known to wizardkind. Harry Potter was now protected by blood magic so ancient and absolute that Voldemort literally could not touch him.
But the protection came with a price—and specific requirements.
"Professor," McGonagall said from inside the ruined house. "You need to see this."
Dumbledore handed Harry back to Hagrid and followed McGonagall's voice. She was standing in what had once been the sitting room, staring down at James Potter's body. The young man lay sprawled near the doorway, his wand still clutched in his hand, his eyes wide with surprise and determination even in death.
"The Killing Curse," Dumbledore said quietly, kneeling beside James. The magical signature was unmistakable—Avada Kedavra, cast with enough power to kill instantly. "He fought bravely."
"Albus," McGonagall said carefully, "where is Lily?"
Dumbledore looked around the destroyed room with growing confusion. "She should be here. The magical signature suggests she died protecting Harry, but..."
"Hagrid didn't find a body," McGonagall said. "Just James, and Harry in the nursery."
They searched the ruins thoroughly, but found no trace of Lily Potter beyond the blood magic that still suffused the very air. It was as if she had simply... vanished.
"The ancient ritual," Dumbledore murmured, his mind racing through possibilities. "When someone performs such powerful blood magic, sometimes..." He paused, a darker thought occurring to him. "Or someone may have taken her body. In the chaos, in the aftermath of such magic, someone could have removed it before we arrived."
McGonagall's face was pale. "But who would do such a thing? And why?"
"I don't know," Dumbledore said grimly. "But the ritual itself consumed everything she had to give. Her life, her magic, her very essence—all of it poured into protecting Harry."
But the protection, Dumbledore knew, required specific conditions to remain active. Harry would need to live with blood relatives—with Lily's family. And Lily had only one living relative: her sister Petunia.
"Hagrid," he called, returning to the garden where the half-giant waited with the baby. "I need you to take Harry to his aunt. Petunia Dursley, in Little Whinging."
"His aunt, Professor?" Hagrid's face scrunched with confusion. "But surely he'd be better off with a wizarding family?"
"No," Dumbledore said firmly, though it pained him to say it. "The protection Lily died to give him can only be maintained if he lives with her blood relatives. It's the only way to keep him truly safe."
There were other Potters—he knew of a branch of the family that had emigrated to America in the early 1800s. But they were too distantly related for the blood protection to work. It had to be Petunia, no matter how much she might resent the magical world.
"Take him there now," Dumbledore instructed. "I'll follow shortly to make the necessary arrangements."
As Hagrid's motorbike disappeared into the night sky, Dumbledore stood among the ruins of the Potter house and felt the weight of his choices settling on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He had failed to protect James and Lily, failed to anticipate the betrayal that had led Voldemort to them, failed to prevent this tragedy.
But he would not fail Harry Potter. Whatever it took, however long it required, he would ensure that Lily's sacrifice meant something.
November 1st, 1981 - 6:30 AM
By the time Dumbledore arrived at the Ministry of Magic, news of the Potter deaths had already spread through the building like wildfire. He was immediately ushered into an emergency meeting with Minister Millicent Bagnold and the entire Wizengamot emergency council.
"Dumbledore," Minister Bagnold said as soon as he entered the room. "Thank Merlin you're here. We need to discuss the Potter situation immediately."
The council chamber was in chaos, with various officials talking over each other in their urgency to understand what had happened. Dumbledore took his customary seat and waited for the noise to die down before speaking.
"Ministers, Lords and Ladies," he began, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. "Last night, Voldemort attacked the Potter family in Godric's Hollow. James and Lily Potter are dead. Harry Potter survived, but only because of his mother's ultimate sacrifice."
The chamber erupted in excited whispers. "Survived?" Lord Malfoy asked, leaning forward. "How does a baby survive the Killing Curse?"
"He didn't," Dumbledore said firmly, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Lily Potter defeated Voldemort. Not Harry. Not through some mystical power or destiny, but through an ancient blood ritual that cost her everything. She deliberately sacrificed her life to invoke protections so powerful that when Voldemort tried to kill her son, the magic she had woven destroyed him instead."
The chamber fell silent, digesting this information.
"You're saying," Minister Bagnold said slowly, "that it was Lily Potter who destroyed You-Know-Who?"
"Lily Potter performed one of the most advanced and costly forms of protective magic known to our kind," Dumbledore confirmed. "She chose to die to save her son, and that choice created a magical protection so absolute that Voldemort's own curse rebounded upon him. The child survived, yes, but only because his mother died to make it so."
Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat. "And where is the Potter boy now? Surely he requires proper oversight, given his... significance."
Dumbledore's eyes hardened slightly. "Harry Potter is safe and under my protection. That is all the Wizengamot needs to know."
"Now see here, Dumbledore," Lord Parkinson interjected. "The boy is the heir to one of our oldest families. He should be placed with appropriate guardians who understand his importance—"
"The boy," Dumbledore said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet, "is exactly where he needs to be."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Dumbledore's magical presence, usually carefully contained, began to press against everyone present like a physical weight. Several of the younger Wizengamot members actually flinched.
"Perhaps I was unclear," Dumbledore continued, his blue eyes no longer twinkling. "Harry Potter is under my personal protection. Anyone who attempts to interfere with that arrangement will discover exactly why Tom Riddle considered me the only wizard he ever feared."
Minister Bagnold held up her hands placatingly. "Of course, Albus. We merely want to ensure the boy is properly cared for."
"He will be," Dumbledore said, allowing his magical pressure to ease slightly. "And when he comes of age, he will be prepared for whatever role he must play in our world's future. Until then, his safety is my responsibility."
The Wizengamot grudgingly accepted his declaration, though Dumbledore could see the calculation in several pairs of eyes. They would try again, he knew. The Potter fortune and name were too valuable for them to simply ignore.
November 2nd, 1981
Dumbledore opened his morning edition of the Daily Prophet and immediately regretted it. The headline screamed in bold letters: "THE BOY WHO LIVED: HARRY POTTER DEFEATS YOU-KNOW-WHO!"
Below it was a moving photograph of baby Harry, somehow obtained despite Dumbledore's careful precautions, with the lightning bolt scar clearly visible on his forehead. The article, written by Rita Skeeter, painted Harry as a miraculous savior who had single-handedly ended the war.
There was no mention of Lily Potter's sacrifice. No acknowledgment that a mother had died to save her child. Instead, the article focused on Harry's "destiny" and "natural power," as if an infant had consciously chosen to face down the most dangerous Dark wizard in centuries.
Dumbledore's hands tightened on the newspaper until his knuckles went white. This was exactly what he had feared—the transformation of a tragedy into propaganda, the elevation of a child into a symbol.
He knew exactly who was behind this narrative. The old pureblood families, the ones who had remained nominally neutral during the war, were already positioning themselves for the new reality. They preferred the story of a powerful boy-child, heir to an ancient family, over the uncomfortable truth of a Muggle-born witch's sacrifice.
It was easier for them to accept that Harry Potter had special power than to acknowledge that love—even the love of a "Mudblood"—could be stronger than their Dark Lord.
Dumbledore wanted to march straight to the Prophet offices and demand a retraction, wanted to tell the truth about what had really happened in that cottage. But he stopped himself.
He had already played his political card to keep Harry under his protection. Drawing more attention to the boy now, even to correct the record, would only make him more of a target. Better to let the pureblood families have their comfortable lie if it meant they would leave Harry alone.
But Merlin, it galled him to see Lily's sacrifice so completely ignored
The Following Years
For the next several years, Dumbledore maintained his careful distance from Privet Drive. Mrs. Figg, the Squib he had placed nearby to monitor Harry's situation, sent regular reports that were frustratingly brief: "Boy is healthy. No incidents. All quiet."
The reports satisfied the basic requirements of the monitoring charm, but they told him nothing about Harry's actual well-being. Part of him wanted to investigate more thoroughly, but the political reality made it impossible.
Every few months, some member of the Wizengamot would approach him about "visiting" Harry Potter, always with some transparent excuse about ensuring his education or well-being. Dumbledore deflected these inquiries with increasing irritation, but their persistence made him realize how precarious Harry's situation truly was.
If he drew attention to Privet Drive—if he was seen visiting regularly, if the magical community learned exactly where Harry was living—it would only be a matter of time before someone with less noble intentions tracked down the boy.
So he stayed away, relying on Mrs. Figg's sparse reports and the knowledge that the blood protection was holding strong. Harry was safe, and that was what mattered most.
Or so he told himself.
1986
The emergency alert hit Dumbledore's office like a thunderclap, causing several of his delicate silver instruments to shriek warnings simultaneously. The blood ward monitoring device, which had hummed quietly for nearly six years, was screaming.
Harry Potter was no longer at Privet Drive.
Dumbledore was on his feet immediately, Apparating directly to Little Whinging despite the breach of the International Statute of Secrecy such an appearance might cause. He found Privet Drive apparently normal—too normal, he realized after a moment. There was a subtle glamour over the area, designed to make anyone passing by think everything was perfectly ordinary.
But his magical senses told a different story. The house at Number 4 was empty of all magical signatures except the fading remnants of the blood protection. Harry had been gone for hours, possibly days.
More troubling, the Trace that the Ministry placed on all magical children had been completely bypassed. Whoever had taken Harry knew enough about magical law enforcement to avoid detection, which suggested either significant magical knowledge or very expensive criminal contacts.
Dumbledore spent the next three days in careful, discreet investigation. He couldn't involve the Ministry—too many questions would be asked about why he hadn't been monitoring Harry more closely. Instead, he used his own network of contacts, calling in favors and following magical signatures through London's supernatural underground.
What he found both relieved and concerned him in equal measure.
Harry Potter was living with John Constantine.
Dumbledore knew of Constantine, of course. The man was legendary in certain circles—a practitioner of what the magical world would consider "hedge magic," someone who worked outside the traditional structures of wizarding society. But Constantine's reputation spoke to both his competence and his moral flexibility.
He was also, Dumbledore had learned through careful research, mentor to Timothy Hunter—a young man whose magical potential was spoken of in whispers even among the most powerful wizards. If Constantine could guide someone of Tim Hunter's abilities, perhaps he could help Harry as well.
But the implications were staggering. Someone had bypassed not just the blood protection, but the Ministry's own monitoring systems. Someone had identified where Harry Potter was living and removed him without anyone in the magical government noticing.
It suggested a level of competence and knowledge that made Dumbledore deeply uneasy.
For weeks, he debated whether to intervene immediately or observe the situation. His protective instincts demanded he retrieve Harry at once, but his political experience counseled patience. If he moved too quickly, too obviously, he might inadvertently expose Harry to greater danger.
Finally, his decision was made for him when Mrs. Figg appeared in his office one evening, wringing her hands and looking more distressed than he had ever seen her.
"Professor Dumbledore," she said without preamble, "I need to tell you about the boy."
"You need to tell me what, exactly?" Dumbledore asked, his voice carefully controlled as he gestured for Mrs. Figg to take a seat.
"About how they treated him," she said, not meeting his eyes. "The Dursleys. I... I should have told you sooner, but they said..."
"What did they say, Arabella?"
"They said if I caused trouble, they'd move away. Take the boy somewhere I couldn't watch him at all." Her voice broke slightly. "They said at least if I kept quiet, I could make sure he didn't die."
The words hit Dumbledore like a physical blow. "Die?"
"They barely fed him," Mrs. Figg whispered. "Locked him in a cupboard for days at a time. Made him do all the housework, treated him like a house-elf. And when the magic started happening..." She shuddered. "They called him a freak. Told him he was worthless, unwanted, unnatural."
Dumbledore sat in stunned silence as Mrs. Figg continued her confession. Every report she had sent him—"Boy is healthy. No incidents. All quiet"—had been a carefully crafted lie designed to prevent exactly the kind of intervention that might have saved Harry years of suffering.
Over the following months, Dumbledore observed the situation from a distance, using discreet monitoring charms and the occasional report from contacts in London's supernatural community. What he saw gradually changed his perspective on everything.
Harry Potter was thriving.
The boy who had been described as small, fearful, and withdrawn was growing into someone confident and capable. More than that, he was learning to use his magic in ways that impressed even Dumbledore's considerable experience.
Constantine, despite his reputation for moral ambiguity, was proving to be exactly what Harry needed—a guardian who understood both the responsibilities and the costs of magical power. Someone who could teach Harry to survive in a world that would always see him as either a weapon or a target.
Perhaps most importantly, Constantine was teaching Harry that his magic was something to be proud of, not hidden or ashamed of. For a child who had spent his early years being told his very nature was wrong, that lesson might be the most important one he could learn.
When Dumbledore finally made contact, it wasn't as an adversary coming to reclaim stolen property. It was as an old man hoping to make amends for his failures, seeking to support rather than control.
He had spent too many years making decisions for Harry Potter based on what he thought was best. Perhaps it was time to let the boy—and his chosen guardian—make their own choices.
After all, love and protection came in many forms. And watching Harry bloom under Constantine's rough but genuine care, Dumbledore had to admit that sometimes the most unlikely guardians were exactly what a child needed.
The guilt would stay with him—for the years of suffering he could have prevented, for the trust he had placed in people who proved unworthy of it, for the boy he had failed so completely in those crucial early years.
But perhaps, if he was very careful and very lucky, he could still help Harry Potter become everything Lily had died hoping he could be.
A child loved, protected, and free to choose his own destiny.