Tragedy in the Eyes of the Beholder

Prologue

The smoldering wreckage of the Potter house was seen for miles. Not because of the gray smoke wafting up from the rubble, but because of the green smoke form hanging high above.

* FLASH *

A man burst into a dimly lit room. Up a few steps sat a man - tall, skin so pale it seemed he'd never set one foot out into the sun, and eyes that glowed red. The first man (going by the name of Wormtail) rushed over to the bottom of the stairs, kneeling there and bowing his head a moment before looking up at his master.

"What news do you have for me, Wormtail?" said the Dark Lord Voldemort, looking down on his servant. He was wearing jet-black robes and was sitting in a high-backed chair, left arm resting on the arm of the chair, fingers tapping slowly, right arm resting on the other arm of the chair, hand slowly making circles with a wand.

"The Potters have made me their Secret Keeper," Wormtail said. "They are certain that someone close to them is passing information to you, but they do not believe it could be me."

"That will be their downfall."

"Yes, My Lord." He paused for a moment. "I know where they are hiding. I can take you to them."

"Excellent."

The man called Wormtail smiled. His small, watery blue eyes displayed malice, almost not unlike the eyes of the Dark Lord. Voldemort laughed, a high, cold, mirthless laugh that filled the room and rang on long after he had stopped. Soon the room was silent again.

* FLASH *

A short, stocky man with small, watery blue eyes rode up to the smoldering wreckage on a small motorbike. The Potter house was no longer recognizable, just rubble smoking in the midnight sky.

In the midst of the rubble, he heard a cry. A look of confusion crossed his face. After all, no one was supposed to survive. He followed the sound, only to find a small child - no more than a year old - lying in a pile of rubble. He was wrapped in a soft, baby-blue colored blanket, with only his arms (flailing about) and his head showing. A tuft of jet-black hair sat on top and his face was screwed up, hiding the color of his eyes. However, there was a lightning-shaped scar across his forehead, partially hidden by the tuft of hair.

After getting over the shock of seeing the young child there, Wormtail picked him up and stared at him for a moment. The child stopped crying soon after, and opened his eyes. There were streaks of tears on his cheeks.

The child's eyes were emerald green in color and calm, full of purity. Wormtail gasped as he was finally able to take in the whole of the child's appearance. This was Harry Potter, Lily and James Potter's only child and son. Mentally hitting himself for not realizing the fact immediately, he headed for the motorbike. He couldn't kill an innocent child himself, but one of the other Death Eaters would. He hated to see someone die so young, though. Maybe he could convince them to raise the child themselves, teaching him their ways, so he could one day become a Death Eater himself. Wouldn't that just kill the wizarding world: the one who defeated the Dark Lord fighting on his side.

He started up the motorbike and began to head away from the wreckage. He kept driving until he was about fifteen miles away from Godric's Hollow where, because of the darkness, he didn't see the pothole in the middle of the road and ran the motorbike right into it. The bike swerved, Harry started crying again, the tires squealed, and the bike swerved straight into a tree, smashing it completely and rendering it basically useless. Neither Harry nor Wormtail were hurt.

While attempting to get off the bike, Wormtail did a sort of toppling action, barely staying on his feet. He was still holding the crying child. A few lights came on in some of the nearby houses.

"Shoot," Wormtail said. There was smoke coming from the bike. There was no way he'd be able to hide it before the muggles started swarming around, and he couldn't Apparate with the child in his arms. 'I'll leave him here, then,' Wormtail thought. 'He can grow up with the cursed muggles. No one will ever find him here.' He set the crying child down next to the smashed mess of the motorbike, Apparating away only moments later.

It took the townspeople who had heard the noise a few minutes before they found the crying child in the dark. A woman found him first. She was wearing a nightgown, her hair thrown up in a very messy bun. She picked the child up and held him, rocking him until he stopped crying. She walked slowly to the other townspeople and showed them the baby.

A man walked up, staring at the child, running a finger slowly across the lightning bolt-shaped wound on his forehead. He took out a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from the wound before wiping the blood off his finger. He hesitated for a moment before saying, "Take him to the orphanage. He'll be safe there."

At 1:00 in the morning, Esmeralda was awoken from her dream. Someone was knocking on the door. Not wanting her mother to wake up, she quickly got up from her place on the living room couch and went to answer the door. The was a man there, holding a small bundle in his hands.

"A new little, I presume?" Esmeralda whispered to the town mayor.

"Yes," he answered. "He was found by the roadside by a motorcycle. Someone abandoned him."

"Here, let me have him." The now-sleeping child was handed over gently. After looking at him for a few moments, Esmeralda announced, "His name is Spencer," and shut the door.