Suddenly, Harry found that everyone around him had vanished.
"Veratia?" he called out uncertainly. "Cassandra? Poppy? Sirius?"
But all that answered him was a prolonged silence.
At that moment, the scar on his forehead erupted in searing pain.
The agony was so intense that his vision began to blur.
The surroundings grew darker, as if the very light was being swallowed whole.
A dizzying sensation surged within him, all too familiar, like being pulled into the Pensieve.
Before long, Harry felt his feet land on solid ground, and the pitch-black darkness gave way.
In the distance, a crescent moon hung low on the horizon, while stars twinkled faintly in the sky, their light flickering uncertainly.
A cold breeze swept past, and Harry felt a chill unlike anything he'd experienced in someone else's memory.
By all accounts, one shouldn't feel the temperature of a memory's environment.
Could this… not be a memory?
At that moment, Harry caught sight of a figure cloaked in black.
The figure's face was obscured beneath the hood, but Harry could just make out a pair of crimson eyes.
Those weren't human eyes—they gleamed with the sinister, predatory menace of a bloodthirsty beast.
It was Voldemort. Harry would never forget that silhouette, not even in death.
Suddenly, Voldemort moved. His cloak swept over the frost-covered grass, and his pale fingers brushed against a yew wand.
Yew, phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches long.
Harry remembered the details of Voldemort's wand, something Mr. Ollivander had mentioned in passing.
Before Voldemort stood a three-story cottage.
A memory surged in Harry's mind, and he knew with absolute certainty: this was his parents' home.
Could it be…?
Was this October 31, 1981?
The day Voldemort had stormed Godric's Hollow and murdered his parents, James and Lily Potter.
Instinctively, Harry raised his hand, and a jet of sickly green light shot forth, piercing through Voldemort's body.
No reaction. The figure was like a phantom.
Was this… a memory after all?
Yet the cold around him felt all too real. Confused, Harry cautiously kept his eyes on Voldemort's form.
Voldemort moved with steady steps, approaching the front door.
He raised his wand and pointed it at the lock.
The lock crumbled into dust under the hissing whisper of Parseltongue. The protective brass bell hanging in the entryway didn't even have time to sound an alarm before it was melted into a dark green liquid by Voldemort's spell.
Harry followed Voldemort to the staircase, where he saw his father, James Potter, rush to the landing. Even without a wand in hand, James cast a Stupefy at Voldemort.
Without a wand's focus, the spell's aim was off, and Voldemort deflected it with a hissing laugh.
He seemed to relish the moment, eager to see despair in his prey's eyes.
But James disappointed him. Far from showing fear, James stood like a warrior ready to face death, casting another Stunning Spell.
"Run, Lily! Take Harry and run!"
"Dad?"
Harry stared, stunned, as his father unleashed a barrage of spells at Voldemort, all to no avail.
"Heh…" Voldemort let out a hissing chuckle. "Such touching devotion. But it ends tonight…"
With a snap of his fingers, a gust of black wind surged toward James.
James, true to his reputation as a pillar of the Order of the Phoenix, wasn't entirely defenseless, even without a wand.
A shimmering ripple appeared before him—Protego, the Shield Charm.
"I'll savor this irony…" Voldemort sneered.
A sickly green light flared from the tip of his wand. As the green light erupted, James's final expression froze in a mix of shock and defiance.
He collapsed with a thud.
"Dad!"
Harry roared in fury, but he was powerless, forced to watch as Voldemort strode toward the nursery.
As Voldemort passed James's body, Harry stole a final glance at the father he'd only ever seen in memories.
Just as Sirius had once said, people aren't simply black or white; they're complex, like circles.
His father was a hero who stood against Voldemort.
In the nursery, Lily had just tucked baby Harry into his crib.
She bit her finger, drawing blood, and traced ancient magical runes on the floor.
As she completed the ancient spell, a hissing laugh echoed from the doorway.
That voice alone was enough to chill the blood.
After all, its owner was the infamous Dark Lord.
As Lily turned to face the skeletal figure emerging from the shadows, the roses on the vanity withered, their petals turning to blackened ash before they hit the ground.
"Lily Potter…" Voldemort hissed. "Let me guess—you're about to beg me to spare your son, aren't you?"
Harry could see it clearly: there wasn't a trace of fear in Lily's green eyes, only unwavering resolve.
"Let's have a wizard's duel, Voldemort," she said, each word deliberate.
"Such touching maternal love," Voldemort sneered with a hissing laugh. "But I have other matters to attend to. Step aside—"
"I never imagined the Dark Lord would be such a coward," Lily said suddenly, her gentle face twisting with contempt. "You're afraid of death, aren't you, Voldemort? Or should I say… Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
"Damn you!" Voldemort snarled, enraged at hearing his true name. "Mudblood, you dare challenge my authority!"
"I know your mother never loved you," Lily continued, her green eyes narrowing, echoing the same taunt Harry had once used against Voldemort. "You want to kill Harry, but it's not just about the prophecy, is it? I know Peter betrayed us—we knew the moment we changed the Secret-Keeper. But I also know the real reason you want to kill Harry: he has a mother who loves him, a father who loves him. Not like some pitiful wretch abandoned by his mother in an orphanage…"
"Silence!"
Voldemort's low roar shook the room, and every pane of glass shattered with a resounding crash.
But as the echo of his outburst faded, he suddenly grew calm.
"You're trying to provoke me, aren't you?" Voldemort asked with a cold smile. "You want me to kill you to complete some vile scheme—or are you stalling, hoping Dumbledore will come to your rescue?"
Lily said nothing, instead pulling a wand from beneath Harry's swaddling clothes.
Voldemort's heart skipped a beat.
It had been ages since he'd felt this sensation. The last time was when Dumbledore had set his wardrobe ablaze with magic at the orphanage.
Back then, he'd felt his own weakness for the first time.
He, who thought himself powerful, realized he was nothing but dough to be molded in Dumbledore's hands.
Yet after pursuing the power of immortality, he'd never felt that way again.
Even facing Dumbledore, Voldemort believed he could hold his own.
But now, confronting this Mudblood witch, that same sense of danger prickled at him.
"What dark preparations have you made?" Voldemort hissed.
A bolt of lightning flashed, striking the spot where Voldemort had stood.
"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort countered instinctively, the reflex ingrained in his very blood.
The curse struck Lily, but to Voldemort's frustration, her face showed no trace of resentment or regret—only a serene, relieved smile.
"Mum!"
Harry's hands gripped the doorframe tightly. If this were the real Voldemort, he'd have been blasted by Harry's spells a hundred times over.
Nothing was more painful than watching his parents die before his eyes. Worse still, he could only watch, powerless to act.
At that moment, Voldemort approached baby Harry's crib.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A jet of sickly green light shot out, striking the infant.
But to Voldemort's shock, a radiant golden light erupted from baby Harry's body.
The golden light coalesced into the form of a doe, prancing joyfully before charging into Voldemort's chest.
Voldemort's crimson eyes widened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
In Harry's gaze, Voldemort seemed to implode, as if struck by some ancient magic, exploding into a cloud of ash.
At that moment, Harry's heart jolted.
He dodged instinctively as a dark green curse struck the spot where he'd stood.
"Not bad, Mr. Potter. Truly a legendary wizard," Voldemort's voice echoed from all directions. "Even in this situation, you can still dodge my spell…"
"And you're still the pathetic failure defeated by a one-year-old," Harry shot back, quietly preparing himself.
To his surprise, Voldemort didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he laughed, as if relieved.
"You know, Potter, if you'd said that two years ago in that basement, I'd have been furious," Voldemort said. "But now? I've made peace with it. Losing to a legendary wizard from a century ago isn't so shameful."
Harry hadn't expected Voldemort to be so… accepting.
He'd thought that jab would haunt Voldemort forever.
"Hold off on the fighting," Voldemort continued. "I'm not here to oppose you, Mr. Potter. I'm here to propose a deal."
"A deal?" Harry laughed. "What kind of deal could we possibly make? Unless you show yourself so I can savor the taste of revenge…"
"Revenge is a dish best served cold, Mr. Potter. I hope you understand that," Voldemort said with a hissing chuckle. "No need to waste your energy hunting me down. I'm already hidden somewhere safe. To think, my loyal servant Regulus Black betrayed me… Hahaha… But that betrayal has served me well. I'm secure now."
"This time, I'm offering you information, not exactly a deal," Voldemort continued. "Help me find that diary Horcrux and destroy it."
"Why?" Harry countered.
"Isn't it still Voldemort?" Voldemort sneered. "Compared to me, scraping by in Britain, that Tom who summoned Lucifer is the real threat to you all. Work with me. I'll provide information until you kill him."
Peeling back the layers of Voldemort's words, Harry quickly grasped the crux of the matter.
That young, effeminate Tom must have betrayed his main soul.
Or rather, that Tom had found a way to supplant the main soul, posing a serious threat to Voldemort.
Otherwise, there was no explaining why Voldemort was so eager to destroy that Horcrux.
Without hesitation, Harry sneered, "So you showed me a memory of how you killed my parents, and now you expect me to help you eliminate a rebellious Horcrux?"
To his surprise, Voldemort's shadowy form materialized before him.
Harry didn't hesitate, unleashing a barrage of vivid green curses, each one as environmentally friendly as the last.
But just like before, the spells passed through the phantom harmlessly.
"My apologies, Mr. Potter," Voldemort said, bowing slightly, his sincerity almost palpable. "That was my mistake."
"Apologies don't erase the need for Azkaban," Harry replied coldly.
"I await your response, Mr. Potter," Voldemort said as his form faded, his voice growing distant. "Once you've discussed it with your friends and that old fool Dumbledore, I'm sure you'll accept my proposal."
Nonsense!
Harry thought to himself, Can't I just take you both out?
The dizzying sensation returned, and when Harry opened his eyes again, he found himself lying in bed.
His friends and two elders were gathered around, Veratia sitting by his side, looking at him with concern.
"What happened to me?" Harry asked, clutching his forehead.
"You're not in good shape," Veratia said softly. "We just found Kreacher lying in the kitchen fireplace, charred black, looking like he'd been hit with some kind of Imperius Curse. How are you feeling? Are you okay? You passed out so suddenly—it really scared us…"
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