Prologue

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Prologue

31st of October 1981

Harry stared at the fireworks exploding over London from his bedroom window as owls fluttered across Surrey. The three-year old sighed and clambered down from the small chair he'd used to reach the windowsill. He went back to bed and slipped under the sheets just as his bedroom door creaked open.

"He's somehow sleeping through the racket." His aunt's voice said quietly, eliciting a deeper, male grumble.

"He's the most lethargic boy in England, pet. He'd sleep through a world war if you'd let him." His uncle said, perhaps a bit too loudly.

"Vernon, quiet, you'll wake him up. You don't need to add your shouting to this ridiculous display as well. Really, what are peop-" The door quietly shut, blocking out any further talk.

Harry continued laying there, back to the door, the light coming from the street-lights illuminating just enough of the wall for him to be able to fixate on it. He could make out the grains, the bumps of paint, everything that the wall had to offer.

"The tyrant is dead. Long live the saviour," he whispered and brought up a hand to snap his fingers; a spark briefly lit up his fingertip before disappearing.

"But if this is the Wizarding World celebrating Voldemort's defeat, and I've been living with my aunts my whole life… then who is the boy who lived? And who am I?"