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Chapter Text

He rubbed his clammy hands and blew warm breath onto his numb fingers. Small clouds formed. His boots scuffed the ground, leaving deep impressions in the icy white snow. He had pulled the hood of his jacket deep over his face, revealing a black cap and equally dark, tousled hair. A train rattled overhead and he glanced up briefly. Debris trickled down. The bridge he was standing under had clearly seen better days. The dented barrel in which a fire crackled was covered in countless fine cracks.
Around the source of warmth stood other men in worn clothes and stony faces, staring blankly out of their eye sockets.
They were outcasts, refugees. Banished from the wizarding world, and even the Muggles had no place for them. Who wanted a Squib in their family? And who wanted to feed someone who came from this devilish custom?
But even young Muggle-borns, not even five years old, rejected by their parents, stood in the circle and warmed themselves. The world was no longer what it had once been.
People without any magical blood in their veins knew about the others. And everyone lived in fear that they might produce such a brat. For they were the devil’s spawn. Sprung from hell. Possessed by demons. Likewise, in the other world, it was customary to cast out a brat of non-magical blood, a Squib.
So they stood there, afraid of both worlds and united by their otherness.

The war had spread. Not only England was now under the power of the new minister. All of Europe had bowed to his will and was now fighting alongside the Asians against the rest of the world. It seemed as if the Australians were giving up. And Africa was also virtually under his control. Only America refused to be defeated and fought with gritted teeth.  

Harry looked around. Everyone was still silent, staring into the void. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned around. Eyes lay on his shoulders. Had they recognized him? He quickly made his way to his sleeping place.  
The shops he passed, which had been open just three years ago, were now either closed or destroyed.
Broken glass crunched under his soles. To his right, he heard a steamboat on the Thames. Otherwise, everything was quiet. No drunks, no prostitutes offering their services, and no gangs of rowdy teenagers standing in the corners. In the distance, a dog barked.
He turned and squeezed through a narrow alley. Then he apparated.
Harry found himself in a small courtyard. He pulled out his wand, muttered a few hissing sounds, and the door opened. The black-haired man entered. It smelled musty inside. He climbed a creaky wooden staircase and from there entered a kind of kitchen-living room. Yellowed newspaper clippings and posters of missing and wanted persons hung on the walls. Harry turned and saw himself staring back at him. Below him was a six-digit number. The only difference between the two was that the image stared back at him with green eyes. He turned away and stumbled over a pile of books. “No More Scars – Healing Made Easy,” “Protective Barriers – Easy to Apply,” and “Snap Your Fingers and You’re No Longer Yourself – Transformation of Your Own Body.” He sank onto the sofa with a quiet sigh and reached for the blanket. Then he lay down and, with one last look at himself, closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep.

Outside London, a man sat in an armchair, also in front of a fire. It crackled in a silver-decorated fireplace, on the floor of which lay a coiled snake. Every now and then, a forked tongue darted out.
On the armrests of the chair lay pale arms wrapped in dark fabric, ending in long, thin fingers. In one of the hands was a wooden staff. Small sparks flew from its tip. The lord’s red eyes stared into the fire. He had been searching for the boy for three years now. Although he was already an adult man by the rules, to him Potter was still a boy. One who had been playing hide-and-seek for far too long, hiding from him. Once or twice his servants had spotted him, but even though he was a boy, his abilities had grown. Perhaps they were already equals, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. Voldemort hissed angrily and ordered the voice to be quiet. Nagini’s head jerked up and she looked at her master.
“It’s all right, my dear,” her master reassured her, and she lay down again.
The Lord rose and stepped up to one of the tall windows. It was dark outside.
Voldemort was sure of it. He would find the boy.

When the boy who lived woke up the next morning, he was shivering slightly. The blanket that was supposed to keep him warm lay on the dusty wooden floor. He spoke a spell. Half past six. Harry went into the bathroom and crouched down in front of the bathtub. “Auquamenti calidus.” He took off his clothes and lay down in it. He sighed. Goosebumps ran over his body.

Outside, it was cool as usual. He had his invisibility cloak on and was wandering through the streets. His gaze lingered on a grocery store. He waited until someone opened the door and slipped inside. Harry wandered through the aisles, pulling things out here and there and putting them in his backpack. Then he made his way to the Borough Market. There, as he did almost every evening, he stood in the corners with the others. The smell of pastries, fish, sausage, and other assorted foods reached his nose and made his stomach growl. He had taken off his invisibility cloak and was looking at the colorful foods.
“The end is near! The end is near!” Harry suddenly heard someone shout. An old man with shaggy hair and a long beard held up a cardboard sign on which was written in marker: „God bless humanity!“
He shook his head.
“Young man!” the man looked at him, “Take care of yourself! The demons are among us!”
“God won’t be able to help either,” replied the black-haired man grimly and wanted to move on, but the old guy held him back.
“The Lord bless you, my dear.”
For an absurd moment, he saw Dumbledore in front of him. Then the image changed and the tramp was standing in front of him again. Harry tore himself away angrily.
“I don’t believe in charity or any damn God!”
The man looked at him sadly... All that was missing were the half-moon glasses.

“The Lord protects even those who do not believe in him. He protects all those with pure hearts.”
Harry laughed dryly.
“And what if I am a demon? Possessed?”
The old man backed away from him.
“There you go!” Harry muttered...and that wasn’t even a lie...
Oh yes! He was possessed. Two red eyes burned inside him. He heard laughter. Cold. Cruel.
He had lost his appetite.

The young man made his way back to his modest abode. Whether he wanted to or not, the old man simply would not disappear from his memory. Was it because he reminded him of his old school principal? Infuriated, he kicked an empty soda can in front of him.
The damned old man just wouldn’t let him go! Harry gritted his teeth.

He splashed some water on his face and held on to the sink. Harry’s gaze wandered to the fogged-up mirror. Slowly, the concealment spell wore off.
Two glowing red eyes stared back at him from his face. His scar was back too.
He paused for a few seconds, then spun around. Harry didn’t want to see it. He clenched his hands into fists. The mirror shattered and fine glass dust formed on the bathroom floor. He would fix that later.

A short time later, he was sitting on the couch eating some of his loot. He was just biting into a sandwich when he heard screams coming from outside. He jumped up and ran over to the window.
A woman was standing in the street with a little boy, presumably her son, and opposite her were three Death Eaters.
“Hand over the boy,” one of them snarled. Harry recognized the voice. Dolohov.
“NO!” screamed the woman, and something yellow flashed from her fingers.
Another Death Eater easily blocked the stun gun with a spell.
“Crucio!” The Muggle woman fell to the ground and the weapon rolled out of her hands.
The third Death Eater grabbed the boy.
“No! Michael! NO!” she cried, but a green flash silenced her. With a loud bang, the three figures disappeared.
A Muggle protecting her son, who was a wizard? Did such a thing still exist? He sat back down on the sofa. ...No... More likely a Squib than a Muggle.
The sandwich tasted just fine.

Chapter Text

Harry... come to me... Harry...
He rolled over.
Harry... Harry...
Harry was sweating.
Then someone pulled the blanket off him.
Four boys were standing in front of him.
They were his age.
“Freak!” one of them shouted. “You freak! Wake up!”
Fear overwhelmed him.
“Look at him!”
Laughter.
“Riddle, what are you going to do now, huh?”
Laughter.
Someone hit him and he fell out of bed.
He woke up soaking wet. He was lying on the floor. “Not again!” he thought. A glance outside told him it was early in the morning.
The dreams were getting stronger and more frequent. He went to the bathroom and looked in the repaired mirror. His blood-red eyes were glassy and he had dark circles under them. Tired, he muttered, “Occulta.”
His eyes turned blue and his scar disappeared.

A man in worn-out clothes was sitting on the bench next to him. His gloves had holes in them and he smelled strongly of cigs, piss, and sweat.
Harry looked at the bum.
He was asleep. One of his greasy strands of hair hung down over his face and fluttered back and forth with every breath he took.
„Next stop: Piccadilly Circus. Here you can connect to the Bakerloo Line.“
Harry got off and looked around. It was early morning and the station was bustling with activity. Men in suits carrying briefcases and talking on cell phones weaved their way through the crowd. Young people with colorful hairstyles and leather clothes hung out in corners listening to music. Women with expensive handbags gossiped with their friends.
The black-haired man let himself be carried along with the flow, pulled his expired ticket at the exit, and passed through with a green flash from the machine.
Outside, cars were honking. Black taxis followed red buses, crowds of people ran across the street at red lights, and in the distance he heard sirens. Everything was as ever.
He sat down at his usual spot by the window in one of the cafés and looked outside, sipping a latte macchiato. Harry closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the smell of roasted coffee beans, fresh sandwiches, and blueberry muffins.
Then there was a loud bang.
He opened his eyes just in time to see four, no, five black figures appear in the middle of the street. A bus racing toward them was suddenly thrown into the air and crashed into the bright signs and posters. People screamed.
Harry jumped up. Should he...?
The Boy Who Lived sprinted out of Starbucks.
He drew his wand.
A dark red flash of light sprang from its tip and struck one of the five with pinpoint accuracy, who flew several meters backward and lay motionless. The black magicians turned their heads and four curses raced toward him. With a swing of his hand, they bounced off and shattered into a thousand glowing sparks. He countered and a second one fell to the ground.
“It’s Harry Potter!” someone shouted. They began to surround him. A spell flew past his head, missing him by a hair’s breadth. His heart was pumping. He was breathing rapidly. Harry swung his arm, and something that looked like a glowing snake burst forth and raced toward the third man with fiery nostrils. The man narrowly escaped the curse, tearing his robe in the process, which was now smoking. Furious, the Death Eater ripped the mask from his face, and Harry recognized him immediately: McNair.
Walden McNair let out a cry and retaliated with a poisonous green spell that struck behind Harry in one of the buildings, leaving a steaming hole. At that moment, a voice inside him spoke up: “Area curse,” it hissed.
Harry felt it take control and, without regard for the consequences, conjure up a light blue curse that spread in a circle, reducing everything around him to ashes.
Only one Death Eater remained.
He seemed unsure of what to do, as the two duelists now stood facing each other, breathing heavily.
And before Harry could even move a finger, the other man had disappeared with a loud bang. The black-haired man stood still. The police had arrived.
“Sir! Put your wand down and raise your hands.”
Then the voice hissed again, and the last thing Harry saw through the red veil was a bright flash of light and screams. Lots of screams...

His head was throbbing.
He opened his eyes.
“What on earth have you done now?!”
Mrs. Cole looked at him angrily.
“I didn’t...”
“Shut up!”
Angry and not exactly gentle, she smeared a bitter-smelling ointment on his temple.
“I’m sorry...” Tom muttered.
“Hmph.”
“But Jack, he...”
“Stop it!”
She wrapped, no, she tied a bandage around his wound.
“He teased me. Together with Eric and Alfie and—”
“I said stop it!” she interrupted him again. “Jack is a good boy. He helps where he can, and you—” She stuck a band-aid on the end. “...you just cause trouble!”

“Harry... Harry... Wake up... Wake up...”
His eyelids fluttered. He wanted to get up, but with a painful groan he sank back onto the sofa. The world was spinning.
What... had happened?

Something inside him chuckled. He stood up. The world spun. Harry staggered into the bathroom. He held onto the sink. He felt cracks forming under his fingers. There was a crack, and the ceramic broke in two.
He trembled.
And fell...

When he came to, he was no longer lying in the bathroom. He was lying on the carpet.
“Harry... get up... Harry...”
He gritted his teeth and sat up. This wasn’t the first time he had lost his memory.
“Harry...” hissed the voice again. Angrily, he slammed his fist down on the floor. It shook. Dust trickled down from the ceiling. “Harry...”
“Be quiet!” he shouted.
“Harry...”
“BE QUIET!!!”
The table next to him flew aside and the sofa was also torn into the air. Magic swirled around him. Dark. Black. He breathed. Quickly. In. Out. In. Out. The storm subsided again and it became quiet around him.
“Harry...” it whispered again.
A tear rolled down his cheek. And then a second. A third. He sobbed. He cried. A fit of crying overcame him and he curled up on the floor. Rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth...

Something grabbed his arm. Was he hallucinating again? A young man was kneeling in front of him. About his age. Black hair, gray eyes, and thin lips. His face was pale. He was handsome...
“Get up!”
Harry didn’t move.
“I said, get up!”
“I can’t...”
“Get up,” the man hissed quietly.
“I’ve hurt people. I’ve lost my memory again. I’ve...”
The man suddenly pulled him up and held him by the shoulders.
“Accept it!”
“What?!”
“Accept it or you’ll lose your mind.”
In the blink of an eye, the other man was gone and Harry stood there, his hands clenched into fists, struggling with himself.

Wizard violence at Piccadilly Circus
Yesterday, countless civilians watched as six wizards destroyed the streets and buildings of Piccadilly Circus, injuring and killing people.
More on page 3

Not only were buses and taxis destroyed by the wizards‘ violence, but people also paid with their lives.
According to a young woman who does not wish to be named, shortly after ten o’clock yesterday, ten masked “wizards” appeared and began wildly casting spells. Shortly afterwards, a younger wizard known as “Harry Potter” ran up to his brothers and helped them...
Gritting his teeth, Harry threw the newspaper back into the trash. It was unbelievable! Not only did The Prophet print dirty lies, but so did the Evening Standard, The Times, and London Magazine. All of them! Sometimes there were ten Death Eaters, sometimes fifteen, and sometimes only one. But every time, there was talk of him helping his “brothers and sisters” destroy Piccadilly and injure civilians...kill them...

Even the police could do little after arriving on the scene.

He put his hands in his pockets.

Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world and public enemy number one of the English government, is said to have injured and killed the arriving police officers without hesitation. New Scotland Yard reported a total of 24 injured and 6 dead officers. Among them was a family man whose wife is now giving us an interview.

He pulled his hood deeper over his face. It was drizzling and the streets of London were shrouded in thick fog. Harry turned a corner. Behind him, London’s tallest building towered into the sky, and in front of him flowed the Thames. An elderly lady sat under the awning of a café, holding a cane umbrella and drinking tea. He entered the building next door and came out again with a bottle of expensive whiskey.

In his apartment, Harry opened the bottle and took a big gulp. The alcohol burned his throat and a warm feeling spread through his head. He took another sip and stood by the window. The Regent’s Canal, churned up by the rain, made its way between the houses. He saw some tourists hurrying across the bridge with umbrellas.

Voldemort was pensive, angry too – yes, but especially pensive.
“Sir...” whispered the man at his feet.
“You can go,” muttered the Dark Lord, and the man hurriedly disappeared.
Nagini hissed.
“Yes... yes... That is extremely strange...” he agreed with Nagini. “Why did the boy kill Muggles?”
Voldemort stepped up to the fireplace. The wood crackled, small yellow sparks scattered across the marble and died out.

Chapter Text

“Occulta!”
He pushed a strand of hair aside. His scar disappeared. His irises turned blue again.
Harry repeated the spell. His hair turned blonde.
He looked like a normal young man. Maybe his name was John. John had stayed up all night with his friends and now had dark circles under his eyes. John probably drank too much. John had had a tough childhood and had been a difficult child.
Now he lived in a small apartment, walked dogs, worked in a café to earn money, and went out partying every day. His boss didn’t like that.
He was now John. Not Harry Potter.
Everyone knew Harry Potter. Everyone knew about the wizard who had to grow up far too early, who had been burdened with the fate of the wizarding world. The one who had lost a little more of himself every year as he grew up.
They had been so sure. Every Horcrux destroyed would bring them a little closer to their goal. But that wasn’t the case. Dumbledore should have known. Harry should have known. The soul that had clung to him that night was proof enough. Harry was the real and true Horcrux. Seen in that light, he was nothing more than a vessel. And Voldemort’s soul knew that. Because it wasn’t the only thing that passed into him...
Each individual Horcrux had taken root in him after its “destruction.”
Harry had never noticed anything. Why would he? He had been living with Voldemort’s soul since he was one year old.
But when the last piece of soul attached itself to him, he noticed the changes...
The red eyes were just one of many “side effects.”
Horcruxes could not be destroyed. Except for magical fire and basilisk venom. He had noticed that too. He could no longer be hurt. And he could not die. Because Harry’s blood, flowing in the veins of the Dark Lord Voldemort, did the rest and kept him alive. Voldemort and he shared an extraordinary bond. They were blood brothers. Soulmates. They were the prophesied ones.

Harry struck the mirror. A shard broke off. He picked it up and ran the tip across his arm. He felt nothing. NOTHING! No blood. Not a single scratch. Nothing. He pressed the shard into his arm again. Still nothing.
“Stop,” it hissed.
He continued.
“Stop!” it said, now more urgently.
And he continued.
“STOP!” the voice screamed.
“Why?!”
“This is pathetic. YOU are pathetic.”
“I don’t feel anything,” he whispered.
Silence.
“I don’t feel anything!” Harry screamed.
“Yes, you do.”
“NO!” he screamed.
“Anger. You feel anger.”
“That’s the only thing I feel. Anger. Hate.”
“And power.”
He didn’t answer.
“Power... So wonderful. So pure.”
Harry shook his head. No. No. NO!
“It felt good.”
No. No. No.
“It felt good when you took that filthy Muggle’s meaningless life. When you broke her bones.”
“It wasn’t me. It was YOU!”
“With your hands.”
“I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to,” he muttered.

The Times
Friday, February 2, 2001
After evaluating several eyewitness accounts, the magicians who rioted, injured, and murdered at Piccadilly Circus last Thursday have now been apprehended. Police spokeswoman Amanda Jones reports:
„We are indebted to the witnesses for enabling us to arrest the magicians. I think I speak for the entire department when I say that our thoughts are with the victims. This Sunday, there will be a memorial service where the relatives will gather at the scene of the incident. We wish the mourners the strength, support, and hope they need during this difficult time.“

Harry snorted. He thought of the wizards who were now paying the price.

Evening Standard
Sunday, February 4, 2001
The relatives of those injured and killed in the attack on February 1, 2001 gathered today for a joint memorial service at the site of the incident.
One relative reports: „I am shocked by this destructive fury. By the extent of this war. Civilians are being attacked. I lost my brother. And my best friend lost her mother. But our grief binds us together more than ever: we are ready to fight against these inhuman beings. Today, I joined the organization ‘AMO’, ‘Anti-Magic Organization’, and signed up for the civil defense force. We must join hands and fight together! Against the wizards!”

Daily Mail
Tuesday, February 4, 2001
Yesterday evening, violent riots broke out at London’s main train station, Kings Cross. Several wizards allegedly attempted to take five people hostage. However, witnesses at the scene, who are members of the AMO organization, which was legalized two years ago, were able to intervene and rescue four people. The fifth person was placed under what the wizards called the Imperius Curse and subsequently attacked those who came to help.
This shows us once again the uncontrollable aggression, boundless destructive madness, and barbarism of magicians.

The Prophet
Wednesday, February 5, 2001
Yesterday evening, wizards and witches in England once again witnessed Muggles staging a demonstration against us in the streets of London after six healers attempted to recapture five escapees from St. Mungo’s, who then ran through London’s main Muggle train station screaming wildly. Four people were injured when several non-magicians belonging to the so-called “AMO” organization, which stands for the fight against magic, tried to prevent this rescue attempt. Unfortunately, due to the violent intervention of the Muggles, none of the five could be returned to St. Mungo’s.

Evening Prophet Friday, February 6, 2001
A report by Rita Kimmkorn
Once again, the wizarding community had to bow its head after several members of AMO attempted to kill a young wizard family this morning.
The daughter (4) was killed and the father lost a leg, which healers at St. Mungo’s are currently trying to regrow. The mother suffered severe burns and was also taken to the hospital. Our minister commented as follows:
“I cannot stand by and watch our brothers and sisters lose their lives because of the narrow-mindedness of Muggles. No more magical blood should be shed. No more lives should be wasted. And Muggles should pay for their stupidity.”

Times
Sunday, February 8, 2001
Massacre at Tower Bridge – 50 dead, 116 injured

The Prophet
Tuesday, February 10, 2001
Bloodshed – 15 dead and 20 injured

Harry threw the newspaper in the trash. It had been raining continuously in England’s metropolis for days. London was crying.

He stood in a T-shirt on the bridge in front of his house. His gaze drifted to the left. Nothing was going on at Camden Market. Only a few shops were open, and even fewer stalls were offering their wares. Both wizards and Muggles had retreated. Licking their wounds. Mourning their losses. And wallowing in their own hatred, which grew more and more within them. The last time there had been fighting on such a scale, time stood still. The whole world looked to the capital and the whole world felt for it. Everyone had lost at least at least one relative in the First World War of this kind. And it seemed endless. The Americans were already flying to England today to support their brothers and sisters there. Muggle President Clinton had ordered available units to be stationed in and around London. The American Minister of Magic, however, stayed out of the conflict as much as possible. He hadn’t even made a public speech. Not to mention offering any help.
But that had been predictable. The Dark Lord had responded by launching several attacks on the United States at once. These included Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Florida, and New York City.

Tomorrow was Thursday, when he would go back to Borough Market and ask around. Until then, he kept a low profile.

“The apocalypse is here. The demons are among us,” cried an old man standing in the exact spot where the supposed Dumbledore had been sitting.
„Confess your faith in God! Confess your faith in Allah! Confess to Jehovah!“ the guy shouted. Harry leaned against a pillar and looked at the homeless man. He was holding up a sign that read: ”Pray.“
There was a cap in front of the man. It contained exactly two pounds.
“The Lord will welcome you! He will grant you a place in heaven! For the devil is taking back his brood!”
Then he had an idea.
“Finis,” he muttered, closing his eyes. He knew that his irises had turned red again. Then he walked up to the man and threw him a galleon.
The tramp eyed the galleon. A few moments passed before an invisible light bulb finally appeared above him. Startled, he jerked his head up and stared at Harry, then took a few steps back.
“You!” he gasped. “You’re a demon! A son of the devil, a—”
“What’s going on here?” A man, perhaps 40, had stepped between them.
“He...” stammered the homeless man, pointing a trembling finger at the black-haired man. “He’s a wizard!”
Harry looked at the man indifferently. “Why?”
“Red eyes!” gasped the bum breathlessly.
“They’re green. Are you color blind?”
“B-but! He put a spell on them...and...and...he threw me a coin, I think it’s called a ‘Galore’ or something,” the guy pointed to his cap. But there were only three pounds in it.
“B-but-”
“Should I call the police to have you arrested? For slander?” The man pursed his lips and then turned to Harry: “I’m sorry. This man belongs to my congregation. He is often not quite in his right mind, and I have had to have him dragged out of my church by the police on more than a few occasions...”
“No problem,” Harry smiled. He pulled four fifty-pound notes out of his pocket and pressed them into the perplexed tramp’s hand. “Buy yourself a new hat... or maybe some glasses.”
Then he left.

Chapter Text

Mary was afraid.
Will, her William, hadn’t come back. She had told him: It was late. He shouldn’t go out anymore. It was far too dangerous.
“Don’t worry. I’ll only be gone five minutes,” he had said and hugged her. Then he had left. She had stood at the window and bitten her lip until it bled. But he hadn’t come back. Not after five minutes, not after ten minutes, not after half an hour, not after two hours, not after all the hours she had stood at the window until she had fallen asleep.
The next morning, she was crouched on a chair on the windowsill with her head resting on her arms. Her shirt was wet. She had drooled in her sleep.
Mary stood up and looked at the fogged-up window. A black shadow hung in front of it. She wiped the pane with her sleeve.
A scream pierced the apartment.

Lestrange trembled. He knelt before his lord and looked at the floor. He felt his master’s magic leaking across the floor and creeping toward him.
“How many?”
“Eleven, My Lord. Eleven Death Eaters have died.”
“And have you punished them?”
“We were able to locate their leader,” his voice broke off.
“Continue,” his master ordered.
“We killed him and hung him outside his house as a warning.”
Voldemort nodded.

“Freak. What kind of freak are you? Look at him!”
Laughter. Harry was scared.
“Where’s your mummy? Where is she, huh?”
He got angry.
“Shut up!”
“Ohoo!” the children jeered. “What are you going to do, you bastard? Your whore of a mother deserved it!”
He kicked him. His nose broke. He was bleeding.
“You freak!”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Bastard!”
Tears burst from his eyes.
“Go ahead and cry! No one’s going to help you anyway. Your mummy’s dead! Did you hear that, Riddle? You killed her! You freak!”
No!
“Your mother deserved it. You’re probably the result of an accident with her pimp. You’re a son of a bitch!”
“Shut up,” he shouted.

Harry sat on a bench and looked around.
Next to him, a squirrel crouched and looked at him with its head tilted to one side. He was holding a cookie in his hand. The squirrel climbed onto his lap and began to nibble on the cookie.
Its fluffy tail bounced up and down as it did so.
He looked around.
The little animal snatched the rest of the cookie from him and jumped off the bench into the nearest bush. Harry watched it go. In front of him walked two teenagers carrying a portable stereo system. Hip-hop music blared from the speakers. The sound suddenly faded away. One of the guys raised his eyebrows and slapped the stereo.
“What’s up?”
“This fucking thing is broken.”
Harry looked at the volume control, which suddenly began to turn by itself. At the same moment, the CD popped out and fell to the floor.
“Fuck. What the hell is that?!”
The teenagers dropped the stereo on the floor. Just in time, because it was now catching fire. A voice giggled. “I think it’s broken.”
“Prove it!”
“Prove it!”
A white-haired man sat in front of him. His wardrobe began to catch fire.
“Tom! Clean your room!”
It smelled like seaweed.
“Let’s play catch. Let’s catch Riddle. Who wants to play?”
He ran. And ran. His lungs burned. Only one child followed him. The others had given up. He ran. The rocks loomed ahead of him. Oh no! A dead end!
He turned around. Winston grinned.
Harry looked around. There! A crevice in the rocks. He climbed in. Winston followed him.

“Where’s Winston Bennet?” Mrs. Cole called. “No idea?”
“Riddle and he were playing tag earlier!”
“Tom, where’s Winston?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”

Bennet followed him through the crack. He heard his laughter. “You can’t hide from me!” Harry continued running until he came to a lake. The water was pitch black, and there was an island in the middle. Suddenly, he wasn’t afraid anymore. He turned to Winston, who came running around the corner, panting. “There you are!” he cried triumphantly and jumped towards him.
Harry took a step back. Bennet stumbled and fell on him. Blood flowed from his nose and dripped onto the dark stone.
Something sparked inside him.
Winston was lifted into the air. It was as if an invisible rope was hanging around his neck. Bennet gurgled something incomprehensible. A feeling spread through Harry’s stomach. It intoxicated him... It...
“S-stop!” gasped his former tormentor.
“And the lion becomes a lamb,” whispered Harry.
Bennet struggled. Harry raised his hand. Something shimmering ran through his victim’s T-shirt and skin. Red ran in streams over his body and fell from his feet to the ground...

“You really don’t know where he is?” Mrs. Cole asked him.
“No.”

Harry threw Winston into the lake. The body sank slowly.

“Hey, kid! Hey!”
Something patted his forehead. He opened his eyes. A guy was crouching in front of him. “How are you? You fell off the bench,” said the man, adding after seeing Harry’s confused look, “I’m a paramedic.”
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked him.
“...No...I’m fine...” replied the now blonde man, trying to get up.
“No. Stay down!” hissed the man.
“How—”
The two teenagers from earlier were standing next to him, but one of them was holding his neck. For a moment, his hand slipped and he could see dark welts.
“Oh no! Not again!”
Panicked, he looked at the man and tried to move away from him, but the guy held him back:
“I know who you are. Your light hair and red eyes don’t make any difference,” he lowered his voice, “I’m a Muggle-born.”
As if the last word had been a magic spell, four black figures appeared beside him. The Boy Who Lived managed to break free as the masked faces stared at him.
Harry raised his arm and narrowly avoided an ice-blue spell. A yellow one crashed into the asphalt next to him, leaving a glowing hole.
“Potter!” one of them shouted.
“How did they know?!” one of the youths grinned.
Harry grimaced. “Kill him for that!” hissed the voice.
As he remembered, the teenager’s clothes burst open, but this time the cuts went all the way down to the bone. At the same time, the skin on the other boy’s neck peeled off.
“Watch out!” cried the first responder, pushing him aside and bursting into flames himself.
He was aware that he didn’t have his wand with him.
“Forget it, you can do magic without it anyway!”
“That’s the point,” Harry replied and jumped behind a tree. “They shouldn’t know that I can do magic without a wand.”
“Thanks to me,” the voice added somewhat haughtily.
“Come here, Potter!” The tree burst apart. Harry raised his hands protectively, a blue shimmering shield appeared, and then he apparated.

“Repeat!” hissed Voldemort.
“H-Harry Potter has escaped us.”
“I will not accept this! Crucio!”
Screams rang out through the hall.
“M-Master! Potter didn’t have a—” The rest was drowned out by another scream.
The Dark Lord lifted the curse.
“What didn’t he have?”
“He didn’t have a wand, yet he could still cast spells and defend himself!”
Voldemort suddenly fell silent. Angry and surprised, he stared at his servant lying on the floor. The latter seemed to have regained his courage, for he added:
“And his eyes glowed red.”
“Go!” hissed his master suddenly.
The Death Eater nodded hastily and ran out of the room, half staggering.
“Nagini... did you hear that?”
“Yes, Master,” she replied, crawling out from under the table.
“That means... The boy has mastered wandless magic...” the Lord sank into the huge chair that resembled a throne. Nagini slithered up to her master and laid her massive head on his lap. Voldemort began to stroke her.
“Potter was already too weak for Legilimency. Why should he now master this high art...?”
“Your servant said the boy had red eyes,” added the snake.
“That’s true...” Voldemort pulled the Elder Wand from his cloak and looked at it. “I think I’ll look for Harry Potter myself...”

Chapter Text

Times
Wednesday, February 21, 2001
AMMO President: Dead

Yesterday morning, Frank Whitfield (name changed), head of the AMMO (Anti-Magical Measures Organisation), was found strangled in front of his hideout. Mr. Whitfield and his wife Amanda (name changed) were under personal protection, which had them go into hiding and brought them to this hideout. This naturally raises the question of whether the British government is up to the task of dealing with this disaster, given that the AMMO was in dispute with it over the future location of its president and had suggested a different place for him to go into hiding. We now ask ourselves: Is the government overwhelmed, and should other more committed people, such as the AMMO itself, take control in order to steer this war in the right direction?

The green light blinded him. There was a dull thud, then everything was quiet. He lowered his hand. A body lay on the floor. Motionless. Its arms bent unnaturally. Was that relief? He didn’t know. He just stared motionlessly at the corpse. The anger had subsided. Something wet dripped onto the floor, salty. He was shaking.

Harry opened his eyes. He had been crying in his sleep. His fingers twitched uncontrollably. The black-haired man stood up and staggered into the bathroom. He looked terrible. His eyes were red, he was sweating. Harry ran cold water over his hands.

He turned off the tap.
Shouts rang out.
“Where were you?”
Red streaks made their way across the ceramic into the drain.
“Did you have a nosebleed?”
He nodded. His mouth was dry.
“Should I take you to the infirmary? You don’t look well.”
He shook his head.

That shouldn’t have happened. He had his hands in his pockets and his head bowed. Someone bumped into him.
He heard a mumbled “sorry.” And then a thud. The guy had fallen down. He quickly moved on. “Hey!” He turned a corner.
Bookstores lined up next to him. He headed straight for a pub nestled between a record store and another bookstore.
Harry opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, the smell of cigar smoke, firewood, and fresh food hit him.

“Can I help you, young sir?” he heard Tom, the landlord, say.
He looked up and their eyes met. Tom inhaled sharply. Harry lowered his head again.
Heavy stares weighed on his shoulders and back. Angrily, he pushed open the door to the backyard and kicked a trash can. The brick wall had been destroyed, which was why he didn’t pull out his wand.
He strolled past the shops, many of which were boarded up, while others were open but no one seemed to be shopping inside. Harry looked regretfully at a huge brown hat with a red brim, which sat enthroned on one of the rooftops, under which was a huge red-haired head. The purple and orange paint had partially crumbled away, revealing the gray stones and dark undergrowth.
Dull music sounded from inside. He walked past it in silence.
He had actually just wanted to see if anything had changed. He stepped on something. Harry looked down and lifted his foot. A green candy was stuck to the sole of his shoe. His jaw tensed and he looked back at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.
He forced himself to keep going. The corners grew darker and the shadows longer as he entered Knockturn Alley. Little had changed here, except that the wanted posters had been replaced. His eyes followed him. He stopped and tore his own poster from the wall.

His mouth was open. He thought he was dreaming. Owls flew overhead and suitcases floated beside him, making their way through the colorful crowd.
“...tried this new cream. Terrible, I tell you—boils everywhere.”
“Honey, can I get through?” A small, plump, red-haired woman pushed her way past him. “Don’t dawdle!”
“Mom, I want to go to Florean Fortescues.”
“Honey, that means ‘I would like to,’” the witch scolded her daughter. “Look, Ginevra, there’s Bilius!”
A lanky boy waved at the young girl, who crossed her arms in front of her chest. “He’s stupid. He gave me disgusting Bertie Bott’s Beans at the last party and said they were mint flavored.”
“But he already explained to you that it was his cousins.”
Ginevra wrinkled her nose and looked away.

Another dream, another one from Tom’s childhood. He rolled over onto his other side, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and stared at the dark wallpaper.

And then many things happened at once.
They heard a commotion coming from the distant edge of the school grounds, and it sounded as if hundreds of people were swarming over the walls, which were out of sight, and storming toward the castle with loud war cries. At the same time, Grawp came trampling around the corner of the castle, shouting, “HAGGER!” Voldemort’s giants answered his cry with a roar: they ran toward Grawp like elephant bulls, shaking the earth.
Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from his cape, threw it over himself, and jumped to his feet.
“HARRY!” roared Hagrid. “HARRY! WHERE IS HARRY?”

Fire. Fire everywhere. That was the moment he Apparated.

“You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry, the Horcrux he never meant to create.”

“He took your blood and used it to recreate his living body! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection in both of you! He bound you to life as long as he lives!”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Can you forgive me?”

He woke up screaming.
Again.
His whole body was shaking. Not from fear... It was that feeling again; it burned through his veins. He threw back the covers and sat up. What if he went to the pharmacy tomorrow and got some potions? Against the dreams. He didn’t know if it would also help against Voldemort’s memories. He just hoped he wouldn’t see that face anymore. Blue eyes, white hair, a hooked nose—an angry cry escaped his throat. He tore at his hair and jumped up. Dumbledore! Fragments of images raced back and forth in his mind, mingling with Voldemort’s thoughts of the old wizard.
Harry felt like he was going to explode. Hate. Hate. HATE!
He felt nothing else.
Dumbledore had betrayed him.

“You kept him alive so he could die at the right moment?”

“Now tell me you raised him like a pig for slaughter...”

He roared. Cursed the old wizard. The couch flew to the side. Bottles clattered. The smell of alcohol spread through the room.

„ Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily threw her own life between them like a shield, that on that night the Killing Curse rebounded on Lord Voldemort and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blown off the whole and clung to the only living soul left in that collapsing building. A part of Lord Voldemort lives in Harry, and this gives him the power to speak to snakes and a connection to Lord Voldemort’s mind that he never understood. And as long as that fragment of soul, which Voldemort does not miss, is linked to Harry and protected by him, Lord Voldemort cannot die.

“So the boy... the boy must die?”

Harry slumped down. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He fell onto his side and remained there. The whiskey soaked into his hair. Harry reached for a shard and pressed it against himself. He felt nothing. Then everything went black.