Chapter Text
Prologue
A faint golden light is streaming from under the door. Hushed voices echoing down the stairs, some whispered, some yelled in a confusing and chaotic mumbling. There is anger filling the air, a slow poison descending into the house. Denial, moving into the night like the moon in the sky - rising from the horizon, behind a line of far-away trees, and fading together with the darkness, replaced by a bruised morning - coming onto the earth blue and purple and sore.
Many things change when Albus Dumbledore leaves the cottage in Godric’s Hollow cloaked in righteous fury, his face curved in disappointment, making him look like an old grey willow tree, weighted down by his age. No Fidelius Charm is spoken that night - and when August comes in, grey, gravid with storm clouds, the Potters disappear to never return.
Not for years, not for a lifetime.
Lily Potter is a brilliant witch, the smartest of her age. She loves to smile, and wears her muggleborn status like a badge of honor, a slap to the face to all her pureblood peers that can do nothing but begrudgingly admit she is better than them. When she finds out she’s pregnant, she decides to love her unborn child no matter what - she will do anything for him, even if he turns out a squib, even if he turns out different. She will run to the edge of the world just to appease his cries, she will turn the roots of earth itself to make him laugh. She knows he’s a boy even before casting the charm to confirm her morning sickness is more than a mere indigestion of pudding.
Her boy.
And while James is ecstatic - and runs to his friends to immediately tell them the good news, she turns to the small esoteric library they had built together since they left Hogwarts and begins to study. It is a time of war, and she will not endanger her boy, exposing him to a madman before he can know love.
Once word of her pregnancy spreads around, mainly through the Order, Dumbledore comes to visit. He telles them about a prophecy, of an unborn hero that will come to the world at the height of summer. He doesn’t believe in prophecies, but he believes Voldemort will. Lily has never been angrier at him, at his kindness, at his mercy. She wants to see him burn for having told them, for having placed this destiny upon her son’s shoulders. But she also knows what she has to do to keep her family safe.
Harry’s blood is gently picked from his small fingers, cut healed before it can sting. Red and warm, three drops added to the spell, like witches of Old.
The sigil cuts itself upon his brow.
*
Harry learns to run in the small cottage’s garden. A safeplace, hidden by tall green edges spelled to always hide the outside world. Impenetrable walls of leaves and thorns, dusted with tiny and fragrant flowers blooming all year long - the colour of fresh spilled blood. Warm and beating at the thrum of his heart.
Lily loves to sit outside with him, to watch as Harry learns the wea of the earth by dipping his fingers into the mud, listening with his childish joy to James' encouraging words. She loves to take him in her arms, cradling him and singing lullabies under her breath when night comes and the air turns cold, and they all slip into the biggest bed to sleep.
James teaches him to fly - to hover above the ground like a fairy, explaining Quidditch before he is even able to say: “Mama” or “Dada.” His first word is: “Quaff!” pointing to the bouncing ball on the floor.
Harry grows up in a perfect world.
A world made of endless summer, of golden sun shining on terse skies.
When he is about five, he makes the pebbles of the path float with just a glance, and Lily feels her heart rupture in joy, as she grabs him and kisses his rosy cheeks, and begins to teach him the ways of magic.
And how Harry loves it. He squeals in delight, asking question after question, pushing his magic into the same earth he loves to dig - to mend, to command roots to grow, to save roses from ever shivering and dying. He dances in his garden, barefoot in the grass as he reaches for a bee or a butterfly - helping them to sweet nectar hidden among the petals. Dressed in white - a blinding light, smiling sunshine-kissed smiles.
Harry grows up in a perfect prison.
*
“Do you see that small, golden gate?” Lily tells Harry one day, in the middle of December.
The sun is high and warm, the neverending summer stretching the seasons to never wither. Harry nods, cursed green eyes focusing on the gate that somehow always tries to escape his gaze. It is made of pure gold, wrought in the shape of leaves and wild berries. Short and delicate, and not at all imposing - or scary. For the first time, Harry sees the edges split, and sees what lies beyond.
A path disappearing into the fog, surrounded by fields of golden hay.
“You are to never touch it, do you understand? Never, Harry. The gate needs to stay closed.” Lily makes him promise, preferring to tell him before he can discover it himself, and uncounciously undoing the spell.
After that, Harry always keeps his eyes on the gate, but he never approaches it.
*
Hushed voices come from the kitchen. Harry pads to the door, nose dirty with mud, fingertips permanently stained brown. He leans with his ear to the wood and listens, heart rate spiking at the thought of his parents fighting. It is rare, but it isn’t the first time he catches the whispered yells - the accusations murmured as to not be heard.
They always fight about the same thing.
“Lils!” moans James, in pain, “He’s almost seven! There is no trace…”
“No Jamie. You know– you know he can still be out there. Dumbledore says so.”
“Oh so now you trust Dumbledore all of a sudden, huh! Pretty hypocritical of you.”
“Oh bloody— you know why I didn’t trust him before, it doesn’t mean he’s completely wrong. I won’t let you risk Harry’s life.”
Harry feels a shiver of fear down his back like a drop of cold water when his name is spoken, and he eyes the room he’s in, fearing a monster could come out any second and snatch him away. Why is he risking his life?
“I would never! For fuck’s sake… We can’t stay like this much longer…”
Finally his mum’s voice relents, the house groaning as if letting out a breath.
“I know Jamie… but just a bit longer. Just a bit longer, for Harry. Just let me stay with my baby boy for a little bit longer…” she says, repeating words like a prayer. From inside the kitchen comes the rustling of fabric, soft noises of affection, and then silence.
*
Lily is in bed one night - it’s the thirty of July. Tomorrow, Harry will turn ten. She has her son, her beautiful, perfect son in her arms, and she won’t have it any other way.
“Maybe you can grow your hair?” she asks him, Harry only hums back, relaxed as she cradles her fingers through his black, messy locks that have never known a brush. “Like that hero you like, what was his name again?”
“Aragorn!” his son says, voice filled with admiration for the brave fictional king. Lily smiles, kissing the crown of his head.
“Yes, like him. You can always cut them again if you don’t like it.”
“Okay mum…”
Harry loves reading. If he isn’t outside, playing in the dirt or taking care of the plants, he’s sprawled among the grass - a book in hand. She has to owl-order at least a new one once every two weeks, given the rate through which Harry is going - finally able to read and understand texts way more complicated than his age appropriate list suggests. He is quickly making a dent in the small library supplies. Lily wonders, if he was to go to Hogwarts, would the hat consider Ravenclaw? But perhaps not - Harry doesn’t like to read for knowledge’s sake. Even the books on magic, which he loves, he only reads through once. He learns what he has to, but he always prefers a more instinctual approach when Lily teaches him small, harmless charms to practice without a wand. No, Harry doesn’t hoard knowledge, or ask for better study materials. He wants muggle books, he wants novels, and fantasy stories, and adventures and sci-fi. Often, Lily sees him acting out the scenes of his favourite books in the garden, grabbing a stick like a sword instead of a wand, fighting through an imaginary horde of monsters. She has even knitted him some dolls, and Harry sometimes plays with those, making up stories of princesses and fairy kings - always living in a beautiful kingdom of endless summer and golden fields.
“Mum,” suddenly starts Harry, making Lily still her hand, sensing a tension in the air that wasn’t there just a moment ago, “Why can’t I go to Hogwarts?”
Ah, Lily sighs. She was waiting for this, ever since James has decided to show Harry some of his memories in the pensieve, introducing him to Sirius and Remus and Peter - and of course, to Hogwarts. James loves sitting Harry down and telling him all about the school and his adventures, his pranks. Harry always giggles in delight, wondering about the castle and its secrets, wanting nothing more than to go there himself and carry on his father’s legacy. Lily isn’t happy. Filling Harry’s mind with tales of a place he would never see is cruel and dangerous, but she can’t deny it, not when his son is so happy after.
“Because it’s dangerous, sweetheart. My little lilypad.” she makes him sit comfortably between her legs, cradling Harry to her chest to gently rock him.
“But why?”
Harry is past the age when a simple excuse could work. He’s smart, too smart for his own good. Lily has dreaded this, but at the sime time she can’t help the swell of pride that collapses her lungs and stomach. Her baby boy has grown up so bright, he will be an amazing wizard one day.
“There was a snake,” she says, “A big, dark and dangerous snake. He was doing awful things. There was a war, lilypad. The snake wanted to conquer the world. And…” she isn’t sure what to tell him, she doesn’t want to scare him - to put words and thoughts in his head that can cause nightmares, not when she has fought so hard to make his world safe, so light there isn’t a single hint of shadows in the corners. But she wants Harry to understand the danger, or Harry will never truly see it.
“And… we had to hide. To save you, to protect you. We came here, where you have nothing to fear, but the snake is still out there. Hidden, working in the shadows. If you go out there he would surely snatch you away, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
Harry seems to be lost in thought for a moment, then he shakes his head.
“I don’t want the snake to take me away,” he says, twisting to hug her, hiding his face in her neck. Lily kisses his hair.
“He will never take you away, never. I promise, my little lilypad. The snake will never get you.”
*
Lily puts down the Daily Prophet, brow furrowed. Nine years, not a single mention of Voldemort. Not after the year that now everyone calls The Darkest Year, when the war has ravaged Britain worse than ever before, taking many lives to an early grave. Moody, Frank. So many others. Lily has found the spell just in time to save her family.
But ever since then, the Dark Lord has disappeared. No trace of him anywhere else - his Death Eaters retreated, his soldiers slithering away in the darkness where they belonged. Many never returned - Crouch, the Lestranges. Severus. Names of people she knew, showing their true colours.
Dumbledore sometimes shares his thoughts with them, late at night. James always goes to the meetings, slipping from the wards after donning himself under a thousand spells, coming back to report Lily his thoughts. Voldemort is out there, but it is impossible to trace him. He has a plan - surely, but nobody believes Dumbledore. They all think that Voldemort has died, that he’s been defeated in secret. Nine years. It has taken only nine years for the world to forget the danger. Wizarding Britain is booming once again. A golden age like never before.
Now Harry is turning eleven - and she knows, deep in her bones, that she can’t allow him out of the house. Not yet. Not when the Dark Lord is surely still out there, still trying to find the prophecy boy. They just need a little bit more time…
*
James is the first to fold. He’s going mad, staying in the cottage. He loves Harry, he loves Lily, but he needs to do something more. So he trusts Dumbledore and takes a job in the castle, where he will be safe, and leaves the wards. He comes back whenever he can, but it isn’t the same.
Harry sulks for weeks, angry that his dad can see Hogwarts while he’s bound to the garden of endless summer.
Lily begins to work - a small owl-order anonymous business, charming pieces of jewelry or clothing for a few galleons each. She uses the money to buy Harry whatever he wants, hoping to drown the sorrow with gifts. It never works - the joy in his boy’s face never reaches his eyes again.
*
For his eleventh birthday, Lily gives Harry a wand. It takes them many days, in reality - of asking Ollivander to send a batch of wands for him to try until one chooses him, before sending them back when they irremediably refuse him. Until, of course, he touches a wand made of holly and phoenix feather.
Brother to the Dark Lord’s wand.
Lily wants to snatch the wand away, break it so no one can ever be tarnished by that awful monster ever again - but Harry’s eyes are finally sparkling again, green as the curse Lily has witnessed many times during the war - and she can’t do it. She can’t do it even if it hurts her, because her boy is finally happy again, and she will never take that happiness from him.
*
To the best of her abilities, she begins teaching Harry proper magic, following the Hogwarts curriculum and adding charms and spells she knows her son can master.
When Harry turns twelve, he is already shining, weaving magic with a casual easiness no child should have.
*
Every year, Lily watches his son and thinks: “Maybe next year… Maybe he will be strong enough then.” but when next year comes, she isn’t ready yet. All she ever wanted was for Harry to grow up - to see him grow up, despite the odds. And now that he’s doing just that, she doesn’t want to let him go. He has such a brilliant future ahead of him.
“One more year.”