Chapter One

Remember when I was younger and I was going to camp and I cried because I would miss you, then you told me to sit on the left side of the bus beside the window so that if I started to miss you I could look back and see you standing there? Well that's the seat I'm taking now.

When Lily Potter had woken up in the middle of the night with red drops escalating her thighs and wetness surrounding her bottom, her first reaction was to scream for help. But her husband had beaten her to it, with half of his night shirt dripping with her burgundy liquid and eyebrows reaching his hairline that they were practically hidden.

It was in the evening of the 31st of July when James Potter had carried his wife down the stairs with such caution yet speed that could envy a moving locomotive. His wand had almost been forgotten until James had the decency to remind himself of their lack of clothing.

Healers had rushed to greet them at the base of St. Mungo's, a modified wheelchair in tow. She was brought to one of the corridors while James was helplessly pushed inside a lounging area, a mediwitch scolding him for daring to apparate with a heavily pregnant woman.

Hours later had found James pacing around the room while Remus and Sirius went into frantic approaches to calm him down.

The child was born exactly a minute before midnight, and the Healers were yet to inform James of what had occurred earlier during the delivery. While Sirius and James were arguing who gets to carry the baby home, the Healers had no choice but to tell their other friend, Remus.

But James had stopped to listen, and was forced to face the horrible truth. The Healer, he had yet to ask her name, looked him in the eyes and told him to bear with the pain he and his wife would soon be facing.

Their son was a stillborn.

At first, James had thought his hearing was impaired and used various excuses in denial but she ventured deeper into the subject while tapping the base of her binder with her wand. "But your child is responding positively to the treatment we are giving him."

James had looked at her confused while she observed him through strained eyes and answered his confusion with a barely-there smile.

"Mr. Potter, when we had extracted the umbilical cord from your wife's uterus, your child had lost his pulse." James paled and was about to argue with her but she had cut him off again with a dismissing wave. "We tried to check for a heartbeat, but there was nothing at all. The amazing thing is, he's still alive and breathing."

James was silent for a while, taking in the information one by one at heart.

"So you're saying," James paused and tried to think of what to say while calming the frantic excursion in his chest, "My son, my living and breathing son, doesn't have a pulse?"

She gave him a simple nod.

"Isn't that impossible?" James blinked once, then twice as he tried to point out the obvious.

"I don't know Mr. Potter, but all I can say is that you are now a father, and you must accept the fact that your son won't be able to enjoy things other children will be able to enjoy. He will be different, without having a pulse and all, but the symptoms he has been giving us is fairly equivalent to that of a child. But just to make sure, we might want to observe him for a week in the hospital."

Her feet inched a bit higher, even with her heels she was shorter than James, and she patted the man's head. "You shouldn't be worried, you should be proud. You've got a strong boy, that one. He has made possible the impossible. What he's going through now is simply a miracle, the boy-who-lived."

The woman chuckled at her own joke and pushed her square glasses back as she walked back to the delivery room. Turning around, she beckoned the three further and said, "You may see him if you wish."

With the three men trailing behind her, she let her eyes wander to the naked baby trapped inside a transparent cot, like a prison cell. Dozens of Healers almost blocked her from view.

She stifled a gasp, but it came out anyway. The child, his eyes wide open and looking blindly forward, had his hands in the air, both of which were fisted inside the curls of a Healer's beard. The corners of his mouth were unintentionally raised and a small smile was formed.

And that didn't stop the Healer from doing the same thing, too.

When Harry Potter was a year old, he celebrated his first birthday party. The top of his costume, the lion's mane tickled his nose when he would shake his head, and he would sneeze in return, lifting his 'paws' to scratch his nose. His parents and his godfather had laughed and pinched his cheeks and his mum had rushed upstairs to take the flashy-thing that would go hurt his eyes.

Harry looked at them in silence, curiosity brimming. He slapped his dad's hand away and stalked the huge present on the floor with big, innocent eyes. They were talking to him with words he did not understand, and his dad was coaxing him to say papa.

A big circle with smaller circles layering the top was displayed in front of him, and his hand dove to the center in interest, splattering the circle on his face and on his open mouth. He decided he liked big circles; they made his tongue feel good.

Lily had placed a candle in the middle after much cajoling from James and Harry stared at the moving flame in wonder. He looked at his family; they were making weird faces with their cheeks. Every time they did it, the flame would disappear and Harry would pout, then his mum would clap and the flame returned. Harry, on instinct, had followed them, puffing his cheeks and blowing on the gentle flame while clapping his hands vigorously.

Nothing happened.

Harry frowned and tried again, the same result. Lily was too busy snapping pictures and James and Sirius were secretly helping him blow out the flame. Angry, Harry slammed his fisted paws on the table and blew as hard as he could.

And every light bulb in the house exploded.

When Harry Potter was three-years-old, he met an old man wearing neon-bright clothing and a very long beard who was humming a rather odd tune. He giggled at first and played with the helms of his own shirt, his mouth pouting in a hidden request as he looked at the old man, what he presumed was a male version of a fairy in the picture books his mum would buy.

Albus Dumbledore, no matter how dire the situation had become, allowed the boy entrance with a laugh and let him play with the animated unicorns on his toga. And since then, the boy had clung to his feet and poked the unicorns when they would pass him by.

So Dumbledore was obliged to retell the tragic story of Neville Longbottom and his lightning-bolt scar with a naive boy who was clinging to the ends of his garments and talking gibberish to the prancing animals. Dumbledore had seen first-hand the bodies of the boy's parents and the boy himself, a scar on his forehead the insignia of the fulfilment of the Prophecy. Lily had held her husband's hand and forced herself not to let her son see her tears.

But somehow, Harry had seen them and stood up from his position below the table and grabbed his mum's hand, tugging it and pushed her down, kissing her nose and looking at her with knowing eyes. He patted her everywhere, trying to look for boo-boos and wounds.

"Mummy no boo-boo, don' cry. 'arry is 'ere, no bad."

She had cried some more and buried her head on the small crook of her son's neck. Unable to hold a giggle from the contact, Harry played with her hair. He then looked at the remaining occupants of the room and huffed, as if blaming them for making his mum cry, "No cry, or 'arry get ang'wee."

And through some fathomless explanation, Harry had ended up on the table and was facing Dumbledore with confident eyes. His chubby fingers were pointed towards the still-prancing unicorns on his feet and an unseen agreement was made, and then he was gone.

Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore would meet again.

When Harry Potter was six-years-old, he met his first love. That day, Harry had accompanied his mum shopping. There last stop was at the local music store. His inhaler was bouncing against the soft fabric of his shirt, annoying him to no end as he tried to even his pace with his mum's long strides.

They entered hand-in-hand, his little fist clutching his mum's and he grabbed the end of her dress and tugged it down. She kneeled and looked at him in the eyes with a gentle smile.

"Don't let go, okay? So you won't get lost and I won't go looking for you. You remember the last time." Harry warned his mum before pushing her forward to the store, his clutch on her hand had already started to loosen considerably.

The last time she had let go, they were in the grocery. Harry had this unexplainable infatuation when it came to Treacle Tarts. His habit had left him wandering around the store unaccompanied asking random strangers if they knew where the "tweacle tawts" section was found.

Harry had let go of her again. But an inkling in the back of her mind reminded her he would be scolding her for letting go again. In her hands were Harry's little palms used to be was a set of vinyl records of Pachelbel, Chopin and Tchaikovsky. Her love for music had been passed through genetics, as her family was musically-inclined. Her fondness for the violin had not stopped her from continuing the family tradition.

Harry was beside her, his toes standing on their tips as he tried to get a view of the strange circles his mum was holding. She giggled at his confused look and said, "These are the nice sounds that I play when you sleep, sweetheart."

Harry's confused exposure suddenly morphed into a big smile and jumped around the room, exploring the weirdly-shaped toys that were scattered around the store. After paying, his mum had turned to call for him when she saw Harry in the middle of the room, motionless.

She looked at his eyes and was unable to suppress a coo from how large they had become, his innocence reflected well and true. His mouth was gaping, and his cheeks were tinted pink. Following his gaze, Lily was led to see a young girl in her pre-teens playing with the piano situated in the middle of the room.

She wasn't exactly beautiful, but she was pretty and Lily had to restrain herself from smothering the boy with adoring kisses. She wished she had her camera right now. The girl had her hair ponytailed twice in white ribbons and her dress had frills and pink sequins.

She was playing the Etude, a song most pianists could play with ease.

Harry had looked at her in fascination, his eyes widening after each note. He watched her fingers glide over the ivory keys and he gasped when the rhythm struck cords in his unbeating heart. He had not noticed the girl's family had been calling her. He had not noticed the girl blushing at his stare as she came to him and ruffled his raven locks before leaving.

He was pouting, the music had stopped playing. He moved towards the piano and stared at it for a long while. A small index finger moved towards a single note and he looked at his mum for permission, she nodded. His eyes had widened with a smile and the emerald tint had taken her breath away. Random notes filled the music store, accompanied by bubbling laughter.

And that was when Lily noticed that it wasn't the girl her son was staring at, it was the piano.

When Harry Potter was seven-years-old, he was diagnosed with stage three chronic Leukemia. The Healers told him to stay in St. Mungo's for a month while James was in Sussex completing one of his Auror investigations and Lily had to file a reason to be put on lease as a Charms professor from Hogwarts.

It was in the first week of August when they had seen the signs. Symptoms of Leukemia were subtle and had similarities to the household flu, making it hard to distinguish both.

James had arrived later than usual from one of the month-long cases he had to recruit as an Auror, the paperwork he still had to finish slipping from his hold. The visible bags on his eyes were drooping and shadows were engulfing him everywhere. He needed sleep. His eyes had widened when he reached the second floor of his home and saw the hovering body of a sleepy Harry Potter knocking on his parents' bedroom.

Harry had turned to look at him and James was taken aback at how small Harry had become, with the neckline of his nightshirt falling over his pale shoulder. He looked like he was five again. His son had looked so fragile, and James could see the why the witches from Diagon Alley would call him a porcelain doll.

Had it really been two months?

His emerald pyjamas had small blotches of tears and the teddy bear he was holding seemed bigger than him in the shadows. His small frame was attacked by his dad in a tightened hug and Harry's only spoken words were, "It hurts all over."

The following weeks had crashed down on an emotionless Harry with pain and fatigue. His fever would increase and decrease, putting him in an uncomfortable position of having sponge baths every few hours. Nausea had overcome him until the contents of his stomach have long been emptied.

The mornings had marked an end to Harry's much needed sleep. Lily had worried her son was getting insomnia, unable to sleep from the pain swelling on the bruises that scattered on his back and legs. Harry had excused himself from all there demanding questions and waved it off as a bump from falling on the stairs, or from stepping on a stray toy.

James wasn't stupid enough to say his son was fine, either.

Harry had stopped eating his cereal and refused to eat anything besides hot soup, his childish tantrums never leaving his side. It had been months since he had last taken a bite out of a Treacle Tart.

The cupboard under the stairs had become his salvation when his parents would call out for him. He tried to go up trees and play tag with his uncles but his sickness had stopped him from going further, tiring him and making him sleep the whole day inside a stuffy cupboard and suffer the malaise at night.

The last time he had seen daylight outside of his hospital room was from the window in the kitchen when a knife cut had marred his finger. The chopped carrots were soaked with his blood. Suckling at the thumb, he winced as the pain increased. The world around him started to spin in slow motion, his steps were faltering to tired drags.

He did not stop bleeding even after he had fainted on the marble floor of their kitchen, leaving his body in a small pool of his own blood. Lily had cried during the whole trip to St. Mungo's, clutching her son's inert hand and trying to stop the blood from overflowing.

It was just a simple carrot cake, how could all this be her fault?

When Harry Potter was eight-years-old, he had lived in St. Mungo's for a year. He celebrated his birthday inside the staff room, the Healers bringing forth a sugar-free cupcake made by Healer Liam. He smiled weakly, looking at his parents and at his uncles and said, "Remember my first birthday?"

James and Sirius chuckled while Lily harshly wiped the tears that were coming out with a table napkin. Remus went forward and ruffled Harry's hair, whispering in his ear to make a wish. Harry blew lightly at the moving flame with a sad smile, reminding himself of how his life was so much like a candle.

A candle in the wind.

When Harry Potter was nine-years-old, he had witnessed his mother scream for the first time at the Healers of St. Mungo's and tried to relinquish the firm hold of his dad, thrashing away with fat tears evolving around her eyes. And all of it could be seen through the small window on the door.

Her fiery red hair emitted an unearthly glow and a condensed halo was formed around the crown of her head. Her wilful cries broke through the sound-proof walls and he gripped the pillow tightly. He smiled sadly, knowing this day would come all along. The bag of blood next to him was being transacted to his veins, and it was rapidly losing its contents.

Harry sighed and continued reading his book, his ears straining to listen to the music playing faintly in the background.

When Harry Potter was ten-years-old, the cancer cells in his body had attacked him with full force. The chemotherapy wasn't working and the wild mane that used to be his raven hair was gone, replacing it was a small transparent cap that covered the top and his ears. His hospital gowns were frequently soaked with his blood and vomit and he was forced into a routine of changing more than thrice a day. His vision had decreased and his eyes could only see rapid movements and bright lights. His body was littered with bruises that stood out against his sickly pale skin.

When Harry Potter was ten-years-old, the Healer had plunged the syringe into his skin with such gentleness he felt nothing but a scratch on his wrist, and the scent of drying chamomile leaves and damp earth wafted from a corner of the room. The effect was calming, and Harry could feel the injections slowly being removed from his body, all the tubes and dextrose being extracted with such care that Harry was surprised if they believed him dead. When Harry Potter was ten-years-old, his mum had to be restrained by two Healers and Uncle Padfoot while his dad hid himself in the restroom to cry, afraid people might see his tears as a weakness.

And all he did was close his eyes and willed them never to reopen ever again.