Chapter Text
Warmth.
Not the kind that seeped through thin blankets in a cupboard beneath the stairs, or the scratchy heat of sun against worn hand-me-down clothes—but real warmth. Gentle. Alive. Like hands cradling him close, like a lullaby hummed into dark curls.
Harry—no, not Harry—opened his eyes.
A dark wooden room swam into view, lit only by morning sun bleeding through a narrow windowpane. The rocking motion lulled him. The smell of rosemary and smoke curled in the air. Outside, birds chirped in a tongue he almost understood.
The woman held him close. He couldn’t see her face—only the shape of it shadowed by a hood—but she sang softly in a language unfamiliar to Harry’s ears, yet it struck something old in him. Something deep.
He should have been frightened. He was only five. But he wasn’t. Not in this place. Not in this body.
There was shouting.
Metal clashing. Feet pounding on dirt. The woman’s grip tightened. Her breathing quickened, though her song never faltered. Then the scene changed—snapped like lightning through water.
The world tilted. Trees surrounded them now. She ran, holding him tightly beneath her cloak, dodging roots and ducking under branches. Voices thundered behind them.
“Find her! Find the child!”
She slipped between the gnarled roots of an ancient tree and gently, urgently, lowered him into a hollow.
Her voice was trembling now, though she tried to steady it.
“Shhh,” she whispered, brushing a finger to his brow. “Do not be afraid. I will find you again. Even if he catches you, I will find you.”
She pressed her lips to his forehead. Her breath smelled of mint and iron.
Then she was gone.
Harry—Mordred—shivered, hidden in the crook of the earth as footsteps crashed closer. The boots belonged to men in armor, and their voices cut the air like blades.
“She’s vanished. Damn witch—where is the babe?”
“He must be nearby! Search every tree!”
He couldn’t help it. A whimper escaped his lips, the start of a cry. He bit it back too late.
Rough hands dragged him into the light.
“Got him!”
Everything blurred after that. The man’s grip hurt. The armor was cold. The world smelled of blood and ash.
Then—waves.
Salt.
A boat. Gentle rocking. But not safety.
Harry lay bundled among other infants—silent, shivering, abandoned. The sea stretched like glass around them. The air was too still. No one came.
One by one, they stopped crying.
But Harry did not.
He cried until his throat burned raw. Until he couldn’t cry anymore. Until he heard nothing but the gentle slap of water against wood and his own heartbeat.
Then—light.
A woman, rising from the surf like a ghost. Her hair was dark and wet, her eyes catching the moonlight like twin silver coins.
She lifted him in strong arms. Carried him to shore.
She looked into his eyes, and smiled—not with joy, but with sorrow.
“I told you I would find you.”
And again, she rocked him.
Again, she sang:
“Hush, child,
The darkness will rise from the deep,
And carry you down into sleep.” And as the waves kissed the sand, and the stars wheeled overhead, Harry Potter—five years old, asleep in a cupboard beneath the stairs—dreamed for the first time of a life not his own.
And when he woke, heart pounding, sheets tangled around his legs, he remembered every word.
Every touch.
Every tear.
He would remember it for the rest of his life.
Even if no one else ever believed it was real.