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Harry was one when a prophecy ruined his life.
He was at home, cuddled into his mum's chest as she rocked him to sleep. He could hear the low timber of his dad's voice as he spoke to her, as he spoke to him.
Harry was happily envisioning his future, growing up safe and loved. Constantly cuddled and played with, a child's dream, when a prophecy ruined his life.
He first knew something was wrong when he couldn't hear his dad's voice anymore. He didn't worry though; he was probably just doing something else. He really knew something was wrong when his mum tensed beneath him, and her hold became almost painfully tight.
Normally he would cry, alert her to the fact that she was close to hurting him, but something made him pause. He was very close to his mum, a bond made strong by both of their magic, and it was telling him to be quiet.
Very quiet.
His dad's voice spoke again, though it was loud and harsh to his ears, he pushed his mouth against his mum, intent on being quiet. She began to move under him, still clutching him close to her as she began to climb the stairs. He could tell by the movement, the way she held him still in an attempt not to jostle him but didn't quite manage it with how quickly she was moving.
His nursery smelt of lavender. It made him sleepy; he thinks that's why his mum insisted on it. Every day she would spray it, never directly onto his bed though.
He recognised his nursery, not just the smell but the sight of it. The ceiling above his bed was blue, and it had people flying around on it. Harry always found that amusing, and he could stare at them for hours at a time if he was allowed to.
He didn't think this was a time he would be allowed to.
His mum hugged him. All he could see was red; he knew this was the colour of his mum's hair. It was a beautiful colour. He didn't know how to describe it yet, but one day he would and when he could he wanted to write about it. Wanted to paint it for her; wanted more than anything for her to know that it was his favourite colour in the whole wide world.
It wasn't just red, and that's what made it so special. It wasn't the same as the colour of the fire trucks that careened down his street sometimes. It wasn't the same as the roses out in the garden. It wasn't even the same as his favourite red plate.
Nothing was the same beautiful colour of his mum's hair.
His mum put him down. He whimpered a bit, his small hands automatically reaching out for her. Trying to grab fistfuls of her beautiful hair, of her clothes; anything to stop her from letting him go.
She cooed at him, her soft voice telling him to let go; her hands gently easing her hair out of his hands, untangling the red strands where they were wrapped uncomfortably tight around his little fingers.
He didn't really have a choice, he had to let go.
She put him on his bed; his back pressed into the soft blue blanket that he slept with. His dragon plush sitting just inches away. He reached out to it, tugging it towards him until the soft pink underside of the dragon was against his face.
His mum was still watching him, her hair falling around her face and towards him. If he reached up he might be able to grab it again, though she was likely to notice and move out of the way. His mum was smart like that.
His dad's voice came from downstairs.
His parent's never shouted, even when he could tell they were angry, never had they shouted at him or at each other. Why were they shouting?
His mum soothed him, her voice going soft as she turned back around. Her fingers carded through his hair, a gesture that never failed to make him feel better. He sighed, curling into her fingers, wanting more than anything for her to lift him into her arms; for her to hold him close and cuddle him until he fell asleep.
She didn't though.
A loud crash from somewhere downstairs startled her and she jerked her hand away. He whimpered at the loss of contact, the loss of heat curling through his hair radiating from her fingers. He missed the feeling of her nails gently raking his scalp; he wished she would start again.
She didn't.
She knelt by his bed, her hands gripping the bars that kept him from falling out during the night. She cooed at him again, her eyes were bright and shiny. He thought that green was his second favourite colour; after red of course. There was more red so he liked that best, but green was there too.
Green was always there. Shining at him whenever she looked at him, green was expressive. He always knew what she was feeling by staring at the green of her eyes.
Always.
He knew that the green was cold when she was angry, that it sharpened into shards of green ice when his dad and his friends did something she didn't like. He knew that the green was warm and bright when she was happy. He knew that the green would shine and grow dark when she was sad.
The green was dark and shiny now.
He didn't like dark green. Dark green was bad. Dark green meant something bad. Dark green meant his mum was sad.
He cooed back at her, tried to reach out for her hand. She pulled away from him, lifting a hand to wipe at her eyes. She smiled at him, her lips shifting into a soft, sad sort of curve. The sounds from downstairs were louder now, more frequent and closer to them.
His mum squeezed her eyes shut, her hand flitting between the bars to grasp his hair. She didn't move her fingers, didn't speak and didn't open her eyes. She sat still, her hand tangled in his hair and he waited.
Waited for her to do something, waited for her to comfort him the way she always did.
She didn't.
There was a louder noise, one that didn't sound the same as the others. It was like something big and heavy falling on the floor, almost like when his dad sat down really fast.
His mum choked; her other hand flying from the bars to cover her mouth. There was water on her cheeks, she was crying. He made a distressed noise, and for the first time since she brought him upstairs she didn't shush him. Her eyes opened to stare at him, and they were darker than he had ever seen them.
She scraped her hand through his hair again, just once, before she stood up. He reached for her, moving up onto his knees and gripping the bars to help hold him up.
She shook her head at him, smiling softly.
She drew her wand; turning her back on him as she placed herself between him and the door. He didn't understand what was happening. Didn't understand what she was doing.
Then the door opened.
He was expecting his dad. He'd be standing there, his hair standing up weirdly like it always was, his eyes crinkling the way they did when he smiled too hard. He'd take the step towards his mum and would grab her waist, he would dance her around the room, the both of them laughing, before lifting him out of his bed and dancing around with him as well.
It'd happened before; he was expecting it to happen again.
It wasn't his dad though.
He didn't know who it was; he didn't think he had seen him before. He was tall, though he wasn't that much taller than his dad. He had black hair like his dad too, he was paler though and more lanky.
It was his eyes though, that were the real difference. It was the man's eyes that scared him.
They were red.
The man was talking to his mum. He could hear his voice, oily and cruel, echoing around the room. His mum's voice followed, strong and defiant.
He didn't understand.
The strange man lifted his arm, holding his wand aloft, and a bolt of green flew from it; right towards his mum.
Harry screamed; it was dark green. Dark green was bad, always bad.
His mum was on the floor, right near his bed. He cried, and he cried. The man walked towards him, carelessly stepping over his mum.
The man stopped by his bed, his voice sliding over his skin like a snake. He shuddered through his tears, not liking it at all. The man's voice stopped, his wand rising again.
There was more dark green, and then there was nothing. A loud noise and the man had gone.
His mum hadn't though. She still laid there, quiet and still right by his bed. He could see her beautiful red hair spread out on the floor, like a halo he thought.
Harry was one when a prophecy ruined his life.