Chapter Text
“We are the reckless. We are the wild youth.” From “Youth” by Daughter
Two candles sat atop pale blue and white frosting, a small cake artfully decorated. The flames danced, their lights reflecting against the bejeweled chandelier hanging above the guests. Someone laughed as Helena stuck her fingers into the frosting, her father quickly blowing the candles out so she would not burn herself.
There was a small smatter of applause when the two-year old managed to grab a chunk of cake and smear it across her cheeks, as if she managed some great feat. Eryk lifted her from the highchair and held her close in his arms, his smile so wide it looked like it might split his face.
“Well, she’s clearly a Selwyn,” an older relative said, his voice smug and fond, “she’s already claiming territories.” Somewhere else a Potter relative scoffed, her voice amused, “As if, she is very clearly showcasing her Potter blood. Look at how smart she is, she knows the cake is hers.”
Helena’s father just shook his head, his expression endearing. He pressed a kiss on the child’s head, causing her to look up at him with a gummy smile. Dorea walked over, a napkin in hand to wipe the cake off Helena’s face.
“Sweet child, you got your face so messy,” she tutted fondly, her smile never leaving her face. Helena just giggled and the room followed quickly filling with laughter. Glasses clinked together and music drifted softly from the violinist in the corner. The wards audibly hummed with power, as the family magic grew stronger from the joy and familial bonds.
Then the humming stopped. It was small and most of the room failed to notice at first. That is, until the music also stopped and that lack of humming became more evident. The chandelier’s candles flickered for a moment before a couple blew out.
Eryk’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked around, confusion and wariness growing in his expression. “What--?”
The windows exploded inward.
The first curse struck the far wall before anyone could react, the chandelier shattering above from the force. Screams erupted as masked figures poured through the broken entrance, spells and curses already flying.
Someone distantly shouted about the wards; another shouted about the children. Helena began to cry in her father’s arms, her tiny hands clinging to his chest. Eryk spun around and began to run down the hallway, just as if another curse hit a guest behind them. He could not turn and look, he could only pray it was not his mother-in-law or father-in-law.
Extinguished candles slowly rolled across the floor, having fallen from the shattered chandelier. Eryk raced down a hidden stairway before locking himself and his daughter in one of the many ritual chambers housed in the ancestral home. It was only then he could allow himself to breathe before he quickly got to work.
He set Helena in the center of a large ritual circle, initially made to test her magical capabilities and now needing to be changed for a new purpose. Her small cries echoed against the stone as Eryk knelt beside the circle, hands trembling slightly as he drew his wand.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice hoarse as he brushed the tiny curls from her forehead, “I know.” There was no time to think, no time to mourn. Only time to act.
The circle beneath Helena glowed faintly as Eryk carved new runes in place of the old ones. His wand moved quickly as he rewrote the magic that had been laid there generations before. Protection sigils flared to life one after another, ancient Selwyn blood-wards answering as his magic fed into them.
It was a preservation ritual. A final safeguard for the Lord’s heir. He sliced his palm open with a quick cutting spell and allowed the blood to drip into the circle. The ruins ignited instantly. Silver light surged across the camber floor; it raced through the carved runes until the entire circle blared with power.
Helena’s crying quieted as she began to stare at the magic wrapping around her like a cocoon. Eryk had to look away, forcing himself to ignore the wonder he knew would be on her face.
“With the paternal blood of Selwyn willingly split and the maternal blood of Potter spilt in battle,” he whispered, his voice shaking with effort, “I bind this heir to the ancient roots. Let no harm come to her, no enemy shall find her.”
The magic roared in response; stone trembled beneath his feet. Footsteps thundered above them somewhere searching. They were coming, Eryk realized. He swallowed hard, his expression becoming more determined. He reached forward one last time, resting his hand on Helena’s face, looking into her sleepy eyes.
“You’re going to sleep for a while, my little light,” he murmured, “But you will wake up one day. When it is safe for you to explore and live.”
The ritual circle flared brightly. Helena’s eyes slowly closed as the magic finally took hold of her, her breathing evened out as the spell pulled her into an enchanted sleep.
The chamber’s doors exploded inward. The wood shattered with a shocking force. Eryk’s eyebrows furrowed angrily, his teeth grinding against each other. His wand snapped to the door, magic already beginning to flow through his body.
A masked figure raced through the door, their wand rising to meet Eryk’s spell. Eryk’s curse struck first, it hit the attacker square in the chest. Unfortunately, the attacker’s curse struck with just as much force, hitting Eryk in the stomach.
It took Eryk a moment before he realized what the curse was, falling to his knee in intense pain as his organs burst from within. He painstakingly crawled his way over to put himself between the circle and the door. Another masked figure made their way through the door only to be blown back by an intense shockwave and light.
It was only then that Eryk allowed himself to fall, knowing that his daughter would be protected. That his daughter was safe in the ancient wards. Lifeless, the father gave up, knowing he had done all he could for his precious light.
+++
By the time the Ministry arrived, there was no one left to save. The manor stood in ruin, the wards weak but still there. The halls remained scorched with violent magic, bodies laying everywhere. The aurors brought back up as they explored the manor, searching for any signs of life. They laid white sheets over the bodies, saying short prayers each time.
It was then they found the ritual chamber, the circle glowing faintly with protective magic. The aurors knew what occurred near instantly, sighing in faint relief. The family had not been completely wiped out; the child had survived.
Within days, the ministry declared it a massacre publicly. Privately, they sent house elves to monitor the manor and restore it for the heir’s eventual awakening. The case closed quietly and the Wizarding World grieved, before moving on.
More tragedy came and more needed to be mourned. The McKinnon family went next and more followed.
It was on a frosty night in October, the Dark Lord Voldemort fell, undone by the rebound of a killing curse. His followers scattered, some arrested and some freed. And in the quiet aftermath, a child was left on a doorstep.
Harry Potter – The Boy-Who-Lived – was placed in the care of his mother’s relatives, the last ones remaining, the Potters wiped out. He was hidden far from a world that had already begun to whisper his name.
Years passed, seasons turned and war infants turned to children, scared by the events that happened in the years of their births. The war became history and then became memory.
The Potter-Selwyn estate remained empty of human life. The only showings of any life being the house elves that entered periodically. What magic lingered there was old and unsettled. Deep beneath the manor, power sustained to protect the infant turned teenager.
Magic slowly gathered, quiet and patient, weaving into something greater. As the power grew, she slowly stirred. Gradually waking and becoming aware of the comatose state she had been left in all those years ago.
Memories of the past running through her unconscious brain. Allowing her to remember a time when she was him, and now she was Lady Potter-Selwyn, stuck indefinitely in magic.
+++
In a cupboard under the stairs, there laid a boy. This boy was no ordinary boy, if you asked his relatives that is. No, this boy was abnormal, as his aunt would say. Strange things happened around him. Lights flickered when he became upset one morning, his aunt had once again forced him into his cousin’s hand-me-downs.
Sometimes things he couldn’t reach ended up in his hands anyways. And once he had even teleported when his cousin cornered him. Naturally, in his family’s eyes, this meant he was trouble.
Harry Potter had learned very early that it was best to stay quiet and never argue when Aunt Petunia said things like that. Arguing always made things worse, so instead, he watched. He learned to be quiet.
It was easier that way. After all, if you stay quiet long enough, you become invisible. If you become invisible, you learn things. Like which floorboards creaked. Which cupboard doors could be opened without making noise. And exactly how long it took Uncle Vernon to finish the morning paper before he stomped into the kitchen demanding breakfast.
Harry knew all of this because he had spent years learning. He spent years watching the habits of his family and adapting. This was why when something unusual happened early one morning in late July, Harry noticed.
It started with the post. Harry had gathered the post like usual, dropping it onto the table in front of Uncle Vernon. Vernon had sat at the table and sorted through each piece of mail, grumbling as he always did.
Bills. Advertisements. More bills. A birthday invitation. Even more advertisements. They got a lot of mail on Wednesday. Then Vernon paused. “What’s this then?”
Harry looked up from where he had been washing dishes. Uncle Vernon was holding an envelope, a very nice envelope it seemed. One with an actual wax seal. If Harry squinted and really tried, he could read the writing on the envelope.
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whining, Surrey
Harry blinked, confused. Uncle Vernon’s face slowly began to turn red.