Prologue -
October 31st, 1981
As the man hurried down the hallway toward the foyer, a sudden crack split the air. The front door exploded inward, splintering into a storm of wooden shards that peppered the walls and floor. He flinched, shielding his face with one hand while raising his wand with the other. Through the settling debris, a dark figure stepped forward — slow, deliberate, and absolutely terrifying.
"He's here!" the man shouted toward the stairs. "Take the boy and run! I'll hold him off!"
Lord Voldemort surveyed the entrance with clinical amusement. Door fragments jutted from the banister like grotesque decorations, and fresh gouges marked the plaster. He smiled, oddly grateful — the fool had practically yelled the exact direction he needed.
"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort said automatically.
The man dropped instantly.
Voldemort blinked. Oops. He had actually meant to offer the fellow a chance to join him. He shrugged to himself — enthusiasm, what can you do? The woman upstairs could be the one to tempt… or at least amuse.
He glided up the staircase, catching the faint sound of someone swearing. Wonderful. She'd found his anti-apparition wards. Always nice when someone appreciated his craftsmanship.
He stepped into the nursery. The woman spun around sharply, planting herself between Voldemort and the crib.
"Stand aside, woman." His lips thinned with anticipation. He had other errands tonight — notably, a second child of prophecy to attend to — so the quicker, the better.
"I know what you're here for," she growled. "You'll have to go through me to get my grandson."
She fired six rapid Reductos before he'd even finished his smirk. Voldemort barely flicked his wand, batting them away as if bored. One rebounded, clipping her cheek. Blood dripped onto the baby, who whimpered at the sudden chaos.
"Stand aside and I'll let you live," he lied pleasantly. The lying was half the fun.
"I'd sooner see you in Hell," she snapped, sending more spells his way. He let his shield do the heavy lifting and sidestepped the rest with an almost lazy elegance.
He had things to do. He had places to be. He had a schedule.
One more flick. One more flash of green.
She collapsed.
Voldemort stepped around her and leaned over the crib. A tiny boy stared up at him with wide, bewildered eyes.
"So. You're the child of prophecy." He sighed. "Enjoy the afterlife, little one. There's no vacancy here."
He lifted his wand.
Ten minutes later, aurors burst through the compromised wards, Frank and Alice Longbottom in the lead.
"Check the main floor!" Frank barked as he and Alice sprinted upstairs.
What they found stopped them cold.
"Neville!" Alice choked as she rushed to the crib. Her breath hitched — her son was alive. His cheek was bloodied, but he was alive.
Frank's gaze swept the room. His heart sank as he spotted his mother's body near a heap of black robes. Voldemort's wand poked out from the cloth, unmistakable.
"Oh, Mum…" he whispered, kneeling beside her.
Mad-Eye Moody's heavy footsteps stopped at the door. "Perkins is dead downstairs. Killing curse. What in Merlin's name happened up here?"
Frank pulled himself together through sheer force of training. His voice still trembled. "My mother fought Voldemort. He killed her. The Killing Curse residue is still on her. He must have tried to kill Neville next… but the prophecy protected him."
"What happened to You-Know-Who?" Moody demanded, eyes narrowing.
Frank stepped aside, revealing the robes and wand. "Neville must've killed him. A backlash, maybe. Voldemort wouldn't leave his wand behind unless he was really gone."
Moody let out a low whistle. "Your son killed a Dark Lord? Good lad."