Potter Manor, 1976
The afternoon sun streamed through the grand bay windows of Potter Manor's drawing room, casting golden light upon the polished mahogany furnishings and the rich tapestries that had adorned the walls for generations. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, filling the air with the scent of burning oak. Amidst the refined splendor of their ancestral home, Charlus and Dorea Potter sat in companionable quiet—an oasis of calm before the inevitable whirlwind that was their son, James.
Charlus, tall and imperious, exuded an effortless air of command even in repose. His silver-tinged hair was neatly combed back, his sharp blue eyes—piercing, unyielding—scanned the Daily Prophet with the kind of measured scrutiny one might expect from a war general assessing battle reports. His high-backed leather armchair might as well have been a throne, and the way he held the paper—a precise fold, a calculated flick—suggested he had long mastered the art of ruling his domain, even from his seat.
Dorea, regal in her own right, sat opposite him on a velvet chaise lounge, a crystal goblet of wine resting delicately in her grasp. Her dark hair, though lightly touched with silver, remained thick and elegantly styled, framing a face of striking bone structure and keen intelligence. There was a grace to her—effortless, untouchable. The kind of woman who could command a room with a single glance, a tilt of the chin, the ghost of a smirk.
She idly turned the pages of an old family album, her long fingers trailing over the moving images within. Her expression softened at the sight of a young, unruly-haired boy grinning mischievously up at her.
"It's dreadfully quiet without James here," she mused, the edges of her lips curving slightly. "Almost unnerving."
Charlus gave a dry, knowing hum, not looking up from his paper. "Enjoy it while you can. Soon enough, he'll come barreling in, trailed by that Black boy like a particularly handsome shadow, and we'll all be lucky to survive the ensuing disaster."
Dorea chuckled, setting the album aside. "Yes, Sirius does have a flair for the dramatic. Wonder where he gets that from."
Charlus exhaled sharply, finally lowering the newspaper just enough to glance over the rim of his spectacles. "Oh, I don't know, Dorea. Perhaps from being raised in a household where 'Good Morning' is delivered like a formal declaration of war?"
Dorea's dark eyes gleamed with amusement. "Ah, but at least his dramatics are entertaining. The Black family rarely produces anything quite so… endearing."
Charlus merely arched a brow. "Endearing is one word for it. I'd have gone with 'anarchic menace,' but that's neither here nor there." He flicked the newspaper back open, hiding his smirk. "Frankly, I worry for McGonagall. That woman has the patience of a saint. I wouldn't be surprised if she's developed a nervous twitch by now."
"She always did like a challenge," Dorea mused. "Besides, you should be relieved James has such loyal friends. A boy can't grow into a great man without great companions."
Charlus made a sound somewhere between reluctant agreement and a suppressed groan. "Perhaps, though I'd settle for a companion who didn't consider 'inciting chaos' a legitimate pastime. Between that blasted Map and their proclivity for wandering—"
"Marauding," Dorea corrected smoothly, swirling her wine.
Charlus shot her a flat look. "Yes, well, they've certainly chosen a fitting name for themselves. I still haven't forgotten the incident with the flying broomsticks and the kitchen ceiling. Did I ever tell you how I found out about that?"
Dorea sipped her wine, entirely unfazed. "You ranted for a full hour. It was delightful."
"Ranted?" Charlus sniffed indignantly. "Ranted implies unstructured complaint. I delivered a finely honed critique, with an opening argument, evidence, and a devastating conclusion."
Dorea smirked. "And James slept through all of it."
Charlus narrowed his eyes, then exhaled in something almost resembling reluctant admiration. "Yes. Damned impressive, really."
For a moment, silence settled between them again, the warmth of the fire making the grand room feel like an intimate cocoon. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, Dorea reopened the album, turning to a photograph from their youth. The image showed a young Charlus and Dorea, standing outside a Muggle pub, dressed in casual clothing—grinning, windswept, and entirely out of place.
Dorea tapped the photo with a perfectly manicured nail. "Do you remember this?"
Charlus snorted. "Vividly. You convinced me sneaking into a Muggle speakeasy would be educational."
"And was it not?"
"We were nearly arrested!"
Dorea's lips twitched. "Only nearly."
Charlus set his paper aside, folding it with precise movements. "We obliviated a constable, Dorea. I had to talk our way out of a holding cell using nothing but sheer charm and a very questionable story about a lost dog."
"You charmed them, did you?" Dorea smirked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "Strange, I recall me being the one who secured our release. The young officer seemed rather taken with my… eloquence."
Charlus crossed his arms over his chest. "Yes, well, I suppose some things never change. You always did have a way of making people listen."
Dorea inclined her head gracefully. "It's a gift."
He studied her for a moment, his sharp blue eyes filled with something softer, something that had lasted through decades of love, war, and the quiet understanding that only time could forge. "You worry about James," he said at last, his voice gentler now.
Dorea sighed, closing the album. "How could I not? These are dark times, Charlus. Voldemort is growing stronger, and James… he's young. He believes he's invincible, as all young men do."
Charlus leaned forward, taking her hand in his. His grip was firm, steady. "James is not a fool, Dorea. He has your wit and my resolve. And more importantly, he has people who love him. He'll make it through."
Dorea studied him, then gave a slow nod. "I hope you're right."
Charlus smirked. "Of course I'm right. I'm always right."
She rolled her eyes, but there was affection in it. "And there is the Charlus Potter I married."
"And you're terribly lucky for it."
Dorea only chuckled, lifting her glass in a silent toast. Outside, the sun dipped lower on the horizon, bathing Potter Manor in gold, as if the very walls held onto the warmth of the past. And inside, in the quiet glow of the drawing room, two formidable Potters sat together—content, defiant, and ready to face whatever came next.
—
The quiet grace of Potter Manor was shattered by the sharp crack of splintering wood, followed by the high-pitched shatter of breaking glass. The drawing room doors burst inward as masked figures flooded in, their wands raised, black robes billowing like specters of death.
Charlus Potter did not flinch. He did not even blink. Instead, he slowly folded the Daily Prophet in his lap, his movements precise, deliberate—leisurely, almost. Then he stood, a towering presence of icy command, his silvered hair catching the afternoon sunlight. His sharp blue eyes, filled with the weight of experience, flicked over the intruders with barely concealed disdain.
"How incredibly gauche," he murmured, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve. "Crashing into my home like common thugs. I do hope you intend to do more than break furniture."
Dorea, standing by the fireplace, exuded an eerie stillness. Her dark eyes, as deep and unfathomable as a winter's night, swept over the Death Eaters with cold assessment. She set the family album down with deliberate care, as though the intrusion were nothing more than an inconvenient house call. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost amused.
"Well?" she said, arching a single, elegant brow. "Are we waiting for an introduction, or shall we get to the part where you all die?"
The Death Eaters hesitated. These were not trembling, grief-worn parents. These were Charlus and Dorea Potter—warriors, tacticians, legends. The Black Dragon Legion had once reduced entire strongholds to smoldering ruin under their command. And now, after years of political exile in their own home, it seemed the battlefield had come to them.
A spell shot forward—green light, aimed to kill.
Charlus moved with the reflexes of a man half his age, stepping aside with effortless grace. With a flick of his wand, he sent the curse careening into an ornate mirror, which exploded into shimmering shards.
"Avada Kedavra? Really?" he sneered. "Pathetic. You could at least try to be creative."
And then the air itself shifted.
Dorea struck first, moving so fast she was a blur of silk and shadow. With a flick of her wrist, she whispered, "Confringo." The Death Eater nearest to her had only a fraction of a second to register his mistake before his body was flung backward, colliding with an antique bookshelf that promptly erupted in flames.
Charlus was already moving. His wand cut the air like a duelist's blade.
"Expulso!"
An explosion sent two more Death Eaters flying, one crashing into a cabinet of fine china, which shattered upon impact. Another scrambled to his feet, only to be met with a quick, efficient "Diffindo"—his throat opened in a spray of crimson.
The room devolved into chaos. Spells ricocheted off the walls, leaving scorch marks and shattered marble. The once-elegant drawing room was becoming a war zone.
Charlus advanced, his wand a weapon of sheer precision.
"Imperio."
The Death Eater who had been raising his wand against Dorea suddenly went rigid. His breath hitched, his limbs stiffening as his mind was no longer his own.
Charlus' lips curled. "Turn around," he ordered silkily. "And kindly remove the idiot beside you from my sight."
The cursed man obeyed, spinning on his heel and firing a Killing Curse directly into his comrade's chest.
Charlus released him from the spell an instant later, watching dispassionately as the man collapsed to his knees, retching. "Oh dear," Charlus mused. "That must be quite a heavy conscience."
Dorea danced between spells like a wraith, her wand carving through the air with elegant lethality. "Sectumsempra." The incantation left her lips like a lover's whisper, and the nearest Death Eater screamed as invisible blades carved deep gashes into his chest.
"Still breathing?" she mused, tilting her head. "Tiresome."
A second spell, a mere twitch of her fingers—his throat was slit, and silence reclaimed him.
More Death Eaters flooded in, their numbers increasing. Too many.
Charlus pivoted, his gaze locking with Dorea's. A silent conversation passed between them.
"We need to fall back," he said coolly. "The odds are becoming tedious."
Dorea parried a jet of red light, barely sparing the aggressor a glance before snapping her wand toward him. "Oppugno." The broken glass shards on the floor lifted like razors and launched themselves at the man's face, slicing him apart.
She turned to her husband with a calm nod. "To the Floo?"
"The Floo," Charlus confirmed.
They moved as one, fighting toward the grand fireplace. Charlus covered their flank with ruthless efficiency, felling another Death Eater with an "Incendio Maxima"—the man's screams barely audible over the roaring inferno.
Dorea reached the hearth first. "Blackmoor Estate!" she commanded, stepping into the emerald flames. But before she could vanish, the fire extinguished itself, leaving only smoke in its wake.
"They've blocked it," she said coldly, turning back to Charlus.
He exhaled through his nose, the only sign of his irritation. "Then we do this the hard way."
"Plan B, then," Dorea said, voice smooth as silk.
Charlus nodded, stepping beside her. "Plan B."
The Death Eaters hesitated. Their numbers were still overwhelming, but something about the way Charlus and Dorea stood—the absolute certainty in their stance—made even the most bloodthirsty hesitate.
Charlus smirked, a slow, knowing expression. "No mercy," he said.
Dorea's smile was pure ice. "No survivors."
And with that, the true slaughter began.
—
The manor trembled under the force of battle. Dust and splintered wood rained from the ceiling as curses flew back and forth, setting tapestries alight and reducing centuries-old furniture to rubble. The air reeked of ozone, fire, and the sickly stench of blood.
Charlus Potter stood at the heart of the chaos, his wand gripped like a general wielding a sword. His distinguished features—sharp as cut stone—betrayed no panic, only cold, methodical fury. He had been a warrior before he was ever a lord.
Dorea, at his side, moved with the grace of a cobra. She was silent, deadly, and her wand never wavered. The Death Eaters were fools. They had come expecting an aging lord and his delicate wife. What they found were two war-forged killers who had once waded through the carnage of Grindelwald's war without hesitation.
The enemy poured into the shattered drawing room like a tide of darkness, their masked faces twisted in arrogance.
Charlus sneered. "Invading my home? My sanctuary?" His voice was like a knife, smooth and sharp. "You should have brought coffins."
The first volley came—Cruciatus, Killing Curses, Bone-Shattering Hexes—but Charlus and Dorea did not flinch.
"Protego!" Charlus snapped, his Shield Charm absorbing the barrage before he twisted it—yes, twisted, as though magic itself bent to his will—sending the energy back at their attackers. The force of it slammed two Death Eaters into the wall, their bones cracking like dry twigs.
Dorea's lips curled into a cold smile. "You're not fighting children at Hogwarts, darlings." With a flick of her wrist, she whispered, "Infringo." The curse detonated at the feet of a trio of masked men, sending them screaming as the floor caved in beneath them.
A Death Eater rushed forward, wand raised.
"Sectumsempra!" Dorea murmured, almost lazily. The man collapsed mid-stride, blood spraying from invisible cuts.
A spell came at her from behind—she turned just in time, slashing her wand downward. "Glacius!" The Death Eater froze where he stood, mouth open in a silent scream, frost creeping over his eyes before his body shattered into a thousand shards.
Charlus was unrelenting. A masked figure leapt toward him, screaming, but Charlus flicked his wrist. "Reducto!" The Death Eater exploded into a mist of blood and bone.
Two more rushed him.
"Pitiful," he muttered.
He cast without words—Confringo, Diffindo, Avada Kedavra. Spells meant to maim, to burn, to kill. One Death Eater lost his arm to a Severing Charm before being incinerated. The other crumpled, lifeless, before he could even scream.
Still, they kept coming.
Dorea turned to him. "We're outnumbered."
Charlus' lips curled. "They're outmatched."
She exhaled, then inclined her head toward the east wing. "The staircase leads to the grounds—we can Apparate from there."
Charlus fired a Blasting Curse so violent it sent a chunk of the ceiling collapsing onto the nearest Death Eaters. "Go," he commanded. "I'll cover you."
Dorea hesitated, just for a breath. Then she moved, flowing across the battlefield like a shadow, her wand carving destruction in her wake.
Charlus held his ground, his wand a weapon of absolute devastation. He did not duel—he executed.
"Avada Kedavra!" Green light streaked from his wand. One Death Eater fell. Then another. Then another.
"Sectumsempra!" A masked figure screamed as deep, mortal wounds tore through his chest.
"Fiendfyre!" A monstrous serpent of fire erupted from Charlus' wand, devouring the enemy in an unstoppable inferno.
The manor burned. The bodies piled. And Charlus, warlord of a forgotten age, did not falter.
Then—
"Dorea!"
A spell struck her mid-stride. She crumpled against the staircase.
For the first time that night, Charlus froze.
He turned, slow as death itself, his golden eyes darkening. Dorea lay still.
Something inside him snapped.
The Death Eaters thought they had faced his wrath. They had not.
Charlus turned to them, his expression devoid of humanity. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but it carried like a funeral toll.
"You will all die screaming."
His wand cut through the air. "Inferno!"
Fire erupted, not just flames but living fire, twisting and howling as it consumed his enemies, their screams rising in harmony with the crackling blaze.
"Ossis Fractura!" A Death Eater dropped, every bone in his body shattering at once.
"Cruentus Ensis!" A spectral crimson blade slashed through another, decapitating him before his body hit the floor.
Charlus advanced, relentless, implacable, a god of vengeance clad in fire and shadow.
They ran.
The Death Eaters ran.
One of them, shaking, dared to call out. "Retreat!"
Charlus raised his wand, disgust curling his lip. "No."
His next spell flung the last of them back, breaking their legs, their spines—leaving them crippled in the ruins of his home.
He turned back to Dorea, his breath harsh. He knelt beside her, his hands—soaked in battle—gentle as he cradled her face.
"Dorea," he murmured, his voice raw. "Stay with me, my love."
A breath. A flutter of her lashes.
"Charlus," she whispered. Her lips quirked faintly. "I told you not to burn down the manor."
He huffed a laugh, though his hands trembled. "You were always the sensible one."
With care, he gathered her into his arms, his grip unyielding. Around them, the last embers of the battle flickered. The manor was broken. Their sanctuary was no longer safe.
But Charlus did not look back.
The war was not over. Not yet.
And the Death Eaters had just made an enemy they would never forget.
—
The room was a cacophony of destruction—crumbling walls, shattered furniture, and swirling magical debris. Charlus Potter stood amidst it all, his expression hard as granite, his jaw clenched in determined defiance. His wand was gripped like a dagger, and his every movement was a testament to a lifetime spent honing his lethal skills. The remnants of his home—his sanctuary—were scattered about him, but the thought of what he was about to lose made him colder, more dangerous.
Dorea, bloodied but breathing, lay on the floor behind him, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. A line of crimson stained her robes, but her spirit had not yet dimmed. And neither had Charlus'.
As the shadows of the room deepened unnaturally, the temperature dropping with an unnatural chill, Charlus' heart skipped a beat. He knew that presence all too well. The air became thick with malice, and before him, like a malevolent specter, stood Voldemort.
"Charlus Potter," Voldemort hissed, his voice a cruel whisper that seemed to freeze the air itself. His pale face twisted in an expression of both contempt and amusement. "You have been a thorn in my side for far too long."
Charlus did not flinch. He straightened, his silhouette a shadow of death itself, every inch of him radiating cold authority. His gaze locked onto Voldemort's with the fierceness of a lion protecting its pride.
"Tom Riddle," Charlus spoke, his voice unwavering, icy with contempt. "You won't have her. You won't have us."
Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile, the darkness in his eyes deepening. "Brave words, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Let's see if you can back them up."
In an instant, Voldemort's wand flicked, and a jet of green light shot toward Charlus.
"Avada Kedavra!"
Charlus moved with deadly grace, his body a blur as he dodged the curse, the green light tearing past him with a hiss.
"Confringo!" Charlus roared, and the ground beneath Voldemort exploded into a hail of deadly force, but the dark wizard swayed, his wand flicking effortlessly to deflect the blast.
The two men locked eyes, their battle a dance of wills—each determined to end the other's life. Charlus struck first, his wand slicing through the air.
"Diffindo!" The cutting charm sliced through the air, but Voldemort was quick, his serpent-like reflexes enabling him to effortlessly deflect it with a sneer.
"Crucio!" Voldemort hissed, the Cruciatus Curse flowing from his wand with all the malevolent power of the darkest wizard alive.
Charlus stood his ground, his features hardening as the curse met his shield. He grimaced but did not relent. "You can do better than that, Tom," he spat.
His next move was faster, an eruption of magic, sending a jet of fire roaring towards Voldemort's chest. "Incendio!" The flames surged with a heat that could have melted stone, but Voldemort flicked his wand and the fire was snuffed out, the darkness around them swallowing the light.
"You cannot win, Potter," Voldemort sneered, the scorn in his voice dripping like venom. "You are nothing compared to me. The old ways are dead. Your death will be just another testament to the inevitable."
Charlus' lips curled into a smile—a cold, ruthless smile. "As long as I stand, you will never win."
He swung his wand again, the air cracking with energy. "Protego Maxima!" A shimmering barrier enveloped him, a momentary respite from the torrent of curses. His eyes darted briefly to Dorea, still lying unconscious, the blood staining her robes.
Voldemort's voice sliced through the room, "Your shield won't save you." The dark wizard's eyes blazed, his fury palpable.
Charlus' gaze never wavered, but the weight of exhaustion was creeping into his limbs. He couldn't keep this up forever. But he had one final play.
In a breathless moment of reckoning, Charlus dropped the shield and lunged forward with a bellowing cry. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted, his voice thick with determination. He aimed to disarm the monster before him.
But Voldemort was quicker. With a flick of his wand, he cast the Killing Curse with a hiss. "Avada Kedavra!"
The green light flashed toward Charlus, but with the last of his strength, Charlus summoned a burst of desperate magic—a shard of glass, sharp and cutting, shot out in front of the curse. The Killing Curse struck it with a deafening explosion, the force of it sending Charlus flying backward through the ruined walls.
The room was silent for a heartbeat.
Then, Voldemort's voice, low and mocking, echoed through the wreckage. "A futile attempt."
Charlus lay motionless, surrounded by broken stone and shattered glass. His body, bruised and bleeding, seemed to be nothing more than a casualty of the battle. Voldemort, with his triumphant sneer, took a step forward. "And now, the last of the Potters falls."
He turned to Dorea, ready to finish the task. But as he raised his wand, a blinding flash of energy tore through the room.
Voldemort was thrown off balance, his grip faltering as a storm of power surged against him. "You will not touch her!" Charlus' voice was a primal roar, his figure rising from the rubble like a phoenix reborn.
Voldemort staggered, his eyes widening in fury. "Impressive, Potter. But still... futile."
Charlus, bloodied and battered, struggled to stand. He could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling at him, but he refused to fall. Every muscle screamed for respite, but his eyes—his will—were burning with unyielding rage.
Before Voldemort could strike again, a resounding series of cracks echoed through the air. Aurors, wands drawn, Apparated into the fray. Among them was Arcturus Black, tall and regal as ever, his wand already raised, his eyes sharp with deadly intent.
"Leave my family alone, Tom," Arcturus growled, his voice a deep rumble that shook the air, cold and unwavering.
A battle cry erupted as spells were cast, a deadly rain of light and shadow filling the room. Voldemort, realizing he was outmatched, glared at the Potters with a final, venomous sneer.
"This isn't over," he spat, before vanishing into the shadows with a violent crack.
The room fell silent, save for the distant echo of the battle fading as Voldemort retreated.
Arcturus, now standing between Charlus and Dorea, lowered his wand, his eyes flicking between his fallen friend and the motionless body of Dorea.
"Charlus!" Arcturus knelt beside him, his face dark with concern. "Stay with us."
Charlus' eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, a faint smile touching his bloodied lips. "Dorea... is she...?"
Arcturus nodded, his voice grim yet comforting. "She's alive. She's going to be alright. We're getting both of you out of here."
Charlus managed a faint chuckle, weak but laced with stubborn determination. "Good... I'd hate to leave her with the job of finishing him off."
Arcturus smiled darkly, his wand flicking to stabilize his fallen friend. "Not if I get to him first, old friend."
Charlus closed his eyes once more, his body succumbing to the toll of battle. But with Arcturus' strength and the Potters' resolve, he knew he would rise again. For now, he would rest—but only for a moment.
—
The hours that followed the Potters' harrowing battle felt like a lifetime. As Charlus and Dorea were levitated with careful precision, their bodies drifting in the air like fragile vessels, Arcturus Black stood resolute by their sides. His face, pale and drawn from the shock of the events, betrayed nothing of the tempest raging inside him. His sharp eyes, cold and unwavering, scrutinized every movement as the Aurors and Order members worked to secure the manor.
The small, quiet force that had infiltrated the manor had been completely neutralized, but there was no comfort in victory—not when his sister and his best friend lay unconscious, their fates uncertain. They were transported with haste, a procession of magical wards and healers accompanying them to the safest place Arcturus could think of: Blackmoor Estate, a fortress steeped in secrecy and protected by layers of spells and enchantments.
Once there, the best healers from St. Mungo's—renowned for their expertise—descended upon them. But even their skilled hands faltered in the face of the grave curses the Potters had endured. Charlus' body, though alive, showed signs of deep, unrelenting strain. Dorea, too, bore the marks of the battle, her aura dimmed by the trauma. Both were caught in the web of magical healing, their lives tethered by a delicate thread of hope.
Arcturus stood vigil, his silhouette a dark figure against the glow of the dimly lit room. For days, he did not leave their sides. His eyes never wavered from their still forms, and he said not a word to anyone who entered the room. The murmurs of the healers filled the silence, but Arcturus did not respond to their cautious optimism. Instead, he kept his thoughts and his heart locked away, like an iron vault, waiting for any sign—any indication—that his friends could return from the brink.
"The strain from the battle, combined with the curses, have put them in a state of stasis," one of the healers murmured softly to Arcturus, his voice lined with concern. "We can keep them alive, but their minds… they are unreachable. We cannot force them back to consciousness."
Arcturus, his lips pressed in a thin line, did not respond. His gaze hardened, his mind already calculating the next steps. He had lived through the darkest of wars and watched as many of his comrades had fallen, some of them in the face of overwhelming odds, others betrayed by their own. But seeing his sister and Charlus like this—like lifeless shells—was a different kind of hell. He could almost taste the bitterness of it on his tongue.
"Damn it," he whispered, though no one was close enough to hear. "They will not fall. Not like this."
As the days wore on, the healers became more concerned, their efforts growing more desperate. The Potters' bodies remained trapped in their coma, and despite the healing potions, the dark remnants of Voldemort's curses lingered like poison in their veins. Still, Arcturus refused to give in to despair. He'd lost too many before to afford the luxury of surrendering now.
He called in trusted veterans from the Grindelwald wars—former comrades, soldiers of the old guard who had seen the worst of the world and survived. They were men and women who had fought alongside Charlus and Arcturus, who shared their pragmatic and unforgiving approach to the rising dark tide. The Order of the Phoenix, despite their courage, were often too bound by ideals and hesitation. No, Arcturus knew—he and Charlus had always stood apart from that hesitancy. The Potters had never believed in sitting idly while darkness spread, and neither would Arcturus.
He summoned them to Blackmoor under the cover of secrecy, each arrival marked by swift apparitions and whispered oaths. There, far from the reach of the Ministry's complacency and Albus Dumbledore's cautious hand, they began to form a silent war machine.
They would not wait for Voldemort to strike again. They would not beg for permission from the frail government or the slow-moving Order. Instead, they would fight with the brutal efficiency of men who knew the cost of delay. A group of elite wizards and witches, battle-hardened and ruthless, began to gather—united by one singular goal: to see Voldemort undone.
But even as they moved, as their network of spies, informants, and fighters grew, the wizarding world remained unaware of the growing threat at the heart of the war. To the public, the Potters were just two more victims of the chaos, their names soon to be overshadowed by the inevitable rise of the younger generation—James Potter and his friends, eager to prove themselves in the fight against Voldemort.
Yet, even in their silence, Charlus and Dorea were not forgotten. The Potters, despite their injuries, had become symbols of defiance—rallying cries for those who would stand against the darkness, and a burning reminder that not all heroes stood in the light of the public eye.
While James and his friends continued to follow Dumbledore's more idealistic path, working within the confines of the Ministry's system, Arcturus, the cold and calculating tactician, carved a darker, more dangerous path. His operations, hidden from the public view, were carried out with a precise efficiency. His allies, no less ruthless than he, worked tirelessly to thwart Voldemort's forces. They gathered intelligence, sabotaged Death Eater missions, and rescued those who had fallen into the dark wizard's clutches, all the while remaining unseen, like ghosts in the shadows.
To them, the war was not about hope or ideology—it was about survival. It was about ensuring that Voldemort's reign would never reach the point where families like the Potters, whose names had once been whispered in reverence, would be forgotten. It was about securing a future for the wizarding world—one that was free of the creeping darkness, even if it meant standing outside the law.
As the Potters lay unconscious, their legacy burned brighter than ever, fueling the fire of rebellion even in their absence. Arcturus, never once wavering, continued his battle, ensuring that their cause was not forgotten, no matter how dark the world became.
And so, in the silence of Blackmoor Estate, with the Potters' bodies resting and their minds unreachable, the real war began—one that would be fought not with wands and words, but with blood, sweat, and the unyielding will of those who refused to bend.
—
The wizarding world, forever scarred by the tragic events of Halloween 1981, had been thrust into a new era of uncertainty. The fall of Lord Voldemort at the hands of his own curse was a turning point in the war, but it came at an unspeakable price. The Potters, once symbols of resistance against the dark forces, were now gone—murdered in cold blood by the very monster they had sought to defeat. James and Lily Potter were dead, their lives extinguished in an instant, leaving behind only the echoes of their love and sacrifice.
Their young son, Harry, was the only survivor of the cursed attack. The scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt, would become his only visible reminder of that night—the one trace of the magic that had saved him, the one mark that would forever tie him to the tragic legacy of his parents. The wizarding world rejoiced at his survival, seeing him as the "Boy Who Lived," a symbol of hope and victory. Yet for Harry, the cost of survival was steep. He was a child who had lost everything—his parents, his home, and the promise of a future filled with love and warmth.
In the aftermath of the Potters' deaths, Albus Dumbledore made the decision to place Harry with his only remaining family—his maternal aunt, Petunia Dursley. Though Petunia was Lily's sister, there was no warmth or love in the Dursley household. Petunia and her husband, Vernon, viewed Harry as an inconvenient burden, a painful reminder of the magical world they both despised and feared. They resented him for the very blood that ran through his veins, the blood that had given him the power to survive Voldemort's curse.
Harry's life with the Dursleys was a nightmare, marked by neglect and mistreatment. Petunia and Vernon treated him like an outsider, a servant in their home, rather than a family member. He was forced to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, away from the warmth of the family, and was frequently berated and belittled for no other reason than the fact that he existed. The Dursleys' cruelty was subtle but unrelenting, a constant barrage of verbal abuse and emotional neglect that left Harry feeling like an unwanted ghost in their home.
Despite this, Harry's spirit remained unbroken. He showed remarkable resilience and strength of character, finding solace in his memories of his parents, the small fragments of love and affection they had left behind. He clung to the idea of his magical heritage, the one thing that set him apart from the Dursleys' oppressive world. Even though he did not fully understand his place in the wizarding world, he felt a deep connection to it—something beyond the walls of the Dursley household, something that called to him, even in the darkest moments of his life.
Meanwhile, far from the isolation of Privet Drive, the Potters' legacy remained in a state of suspended animation. Charlus and Dorea Potter—Harry's grandparents—lay in a deep, unresponsive coma. The best healers from St. Mungo's had worked tirelessly, but the magical curses they had endured were too strong, too insidious. The Potters' bodies were alive, but their minds had retreated into a protective slumber, unable to return to the waking world. Days turned into weeks, then months, and still, there was no change in their condition.
For Arcturus Black, this was a bitter pill to swallow. The man who had once fought beside Charlus during the Grindelwald wars now found himself at the helm of an increasingly fractured resistance against the forces of darkness. While Voldemort's followers had scattered in disarray after their master's defeat, the shadows of his influence continued to loom large, threatening to consume all that had been won. Arcturus, a man of strong convictions, had long been a defender of the Potter family—his sister's legacy, and his own bond with Charlus, were more than just a matter of duty; they were personal.
But Arcturus' task had become more complicated as the years passed. The wizarding world had fractured in ways he had not anticipated. The Ministry, despite its superficial air of stability, was rife with corruption and political infighting. Albus Dumbledore, once the shining beacon of hope, had become a figure of increasing frustration to Arcturus. While Dumbledore's ideals were noble, his hands were tied by bureaucracy and a deep reluctance to take swift, decisive action against the growing darkness. Arcturus, however, had no such reservations. He believed in action, in taking the fight directly to those who threatened the peace and stability of the magical world.
But Arcturus' personal struggles did not end with the Potters' coma. His family, the Black family, became embroiled in a series of painful and damaging events that would forever alter the course of their legacy. His grandson, Sirius Black—James Potter's closest friend and Harry's godfather—was falsely accused of betraying the Potters to Voldemort. The Ministry, in its haste to find a scapegoat, had seized on the rumor that Sirius had been the Potters' secret keeper, a position he had never held. In the eyes of the public, Sirius was guilty, and the evidence seemed irrefutable.
Sirius, however, was innocent. Arcturus knew this in his heart. He had raised Sirius, seen the boy grow into a man of honor and loyalty, and had no doubt that he would never betray the Potters. Yet, the weight of public opinion was against them. The Black family name, long tainted by their association with Death Eaters like Bellatrix Lestrange and other members of their extended family, provided the perfect breeding ground for suspicion and lies. The Ministry's blind pursuit of justice was nothing more than a witch hunt, and Arcturus was powerless to stop it.
For years, Arcturus fought to clear his grandson's name. He used every connection, every ounce of influence he had left, but it was all for naught. The Ministry's decision to imprison Sirius in Azkaban was final, and no amount of protest or legal maneuvering could change that. To Arcturus, this was an unbearable betrayal. His grandson, a man of integrity, was languishing in the darkest prison in the wizarding world, while those responsible for the true betrayal of the Potters walked free.
And so, Arcturus found himself at the crossroads of loss and frustration. He had failed to save his closest allies from the ravages of dark magic. He had failed to protect his family from the forces of corruption that had seeped into every corner of the Ministry. But he would not give up. He could not afford to. The legacy of the Potters, the Blacks, and all those who had fought and died for a better world could not be erased—not while he still breathed.
—
As Harry, the young boy with the lightning scar on his forehead, lay in the dark confines of the cupboard under the stairs, his heart heavy with fear and loneliness, a remarkable event occurred in a distant part of the wizarding world.
In a quiet room at Blackmoor Estate, Charlus and Dorea Potter, who had been in a deep slumber for years, suddenly stirred. Their eyes fluttered open, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains. Confusion clouded their senses as they slowly regained consciousness, disoriented by the passage of time.
"Charlus..." Dorea's voice was barely a whisper, filled with disbelief.
"Dorea..." Charlus reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he grasped hers. "We're awake..."
---
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