I do not own any of this. I don't intend to make money of it. Ok?

A/N: This is the introduction to a new story. I intend for it to be long and magnificent. Don't think it's going to be at all like the original series. Consider it an alternate universe where absolutely anything can happen, short of Snape liking Harry, of course.
Gimme reviews, or I'll hunt you.

Prologue

31st October, 1981

A faint pop interrupted the silence of Godric's Hollow, summoning forth a wizard dressed in black. He was stocky and muscled, every inch of his skin scarred beyond repair. His mouth was twisted in a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing—remnants of old battles and memories of fallen enemies. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening. One was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. It moved ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye—watching all places at the same time.

He lowered the hood of his traveling cloak and shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair. He stood perfectly still in the shadows of a stooping oak, watching the darkness with unwavering intent—waiting for the enemy to show themselves, if they were there. For a while, it seemed almost as if he would never move, as if he weren't even human. But the wind stirred gently, sweeping across him, and it seemed to wake the wizard from his deep attention.

There was another pop, this one louder, and a second wizard appeared, taller and much younger than the first. He turned to his companion, looking down at the stocky man with a shadow of respect. "Alastor," he said with a regal nod, his voice deep and strong despite his age. "I apologize for my lateness. Lucius made me stay for dinner."

"What'd that slimy shit want?"

"He was hoping for my vote in the Wizengamot next week," the man replied, smiling at the epithet. "Some Bill to do with Muggle rights and Pureblood supremacy."

"Nothing about Voldemort's plans, then?"

The man shivered at the name. "The Dark Lord has devoted himself to finding Harry Potter," he said simply. "Most of us have been tasked with discovering his location. Pettigrew is realistically the only person capable of doing so, now that we know he's the Secret Keeper to the Potters' Fidelius Charm."

Alastor Moody, auror and member of the Order of the Phoenix, glanced briefly at the other wizard. "Was."

"Sorry?"

"Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper."

The man blinked. "I assume you caught up to him?"

"Did you have any doubt, laddie?" he asked, taunting. "Pettigrew was quick to spill his guts, the coward. Told me where the Potters were staying—begged for his life too."

"Did you take care of it?"

The auror barked out a laugh. "What do you think? He's dead." A sudden grin twisted Moody's scarred face. "I sent his head to Dumbledore with a letter attached. He should be getting it in the morning. A farewell gift, you might say."

The younger wizard looked vaguely disgusted. "I question your sanity sometimes, Alastor."

"Only sometimes?" asked Moody. "Well, I must be doing something wrong then."

The man ignored the comment and let out a deep breath. "I suppose that means our plans have almost reached fruition," he spoke. "Is everything in place?"

"Are you questioning me?"

"With so much at stake, I think I'm owed that much," he replied, his cultured voice calm and cold. "After all, if it weren't for me, you and your friends would never have discovered Pettigrew's true loyalties, and the young Harry Potter would be nothing more than a bloody smear on history's canvass. Set aside your distrust for a moment."

Moody snorted but didn't deny the claim the man had made. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over it," he replied. "The Potters are staying here; I've confirmed it. Right down the street, in fact. I'll have the boy soon enough, and then off into the wilderness for the both of us."

The taller man scowled slightly, frowning at his companion with a shadow of uncertainty. He drew out a gold pocket watch and blinked at it for a moment. "I have to leave soon," he said with a sigh, slipping it back into his pocket. "Can you take them alone or should I lend a quick hand? I hear James Potter is quite the duelist, though from what I've seen, his form is quote sloppy."

Moody turned to give the man a flat stare. "The Potters are excellent fighters, but they need another ten years under their belt before they can challenge me," he replied. "You go on your merry way, boy. Give ol' Voldemort my best."

The man turned to leave, but stopped midway. "Where will you take the boy?"

"That's not your problem." Moody's blue eye focused on him, almost if challenging him to say something. "He's going somewhere far away, and you won't hear a word about him for many years. When the time's right, I'll be in touch."

The man released a long breath. "Farewell, Alastor," he spoke. "The boy is our future. Don't make any mistakes."

And with that, he disappeared, and the village was quiet once more. Alastor Moody stepped out of the shadows of the oak, his wooden leg clicking against the ground. Godric's Hollow was small village, built around a decrepit church, an old post office and a pub that had seen many better nights. You wouldn't think it was the home to some of the most notable wizards of the modern age, nor that the very object of the Dark Lord's downfall resided somewhere in the quaint little cottages that lined Church Lane.

Moody had been here before. There was a certain irony to the fact that Dumbledore would hide the Potters so close to his childhood home, almost as if he was taunting Voldemort, a pastime which was usually limited to Moody himself. He made no sound save for the click of his leg as he walked down the deserted lane, and the billowing wind seemed to give him a wide berth, refusing to stir his sweeping cloak.

He approached the house at the end of the street, an ordinary home—unremarkable as the rest of Godric's Hollow. The shingled roof was covered in twisting vines and the old stone walls layered with slick moss. There was a peace about it that was almost attractive, but Moody was here to shatter that peace, to take away from those who lived within its walls something that was dear to them. It wasn't in his nature to hurt innocents, to cause pain and suffering where it wasn't due, but he understood what it meant to make sacrifices, to commit a lesser wrong in order to prevent a greater one.

The auror drew his wand, holding it loosely between his fingers. If it weren't for Peter Pettigrew, he wouldn't have been able to see this place—no matter what magic he attempted to reveal it. The Fidelius Charm was ancient and powerful, but the Potters had made the mistake of trusting Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper. Moody had discovered their location after subjecting the rat to the Cruciatus Curse. By the time anyone discovered what had happened, he would be away, the child with him.

With a sigh that was lost in the wind, Alastor Moody stepped onto the cobblestone path that led to the front door. The shivering wards pressed up against him, but he whispered the password under his breath, and the magic faded immediately, leaving him free to approach. The Potters had no doubt sensed him coming—sensed the failure of their wards. By now, they would be wondering who'd betrayed them.

The front door slammed open and out stepped a man with unruly black hair. A crackling red spell erupted from him wand, but Moody raised a shield with a flick of his wrist, blocking the stunner. The young man sent two more, within a split second of each other, but they bounced harmlessly, disappearing into the night.

"Stop that nonsense!" ordered Moody, snapping his wand up and hurling a weak Searing Curse at the man. It knocked him back a step, leaving him somewhat dazed. "Excellent reflexes, by the way. I trained you well."

"Alastor?" asked James Potter in obvious relief, peering into the dark. "What in the world are you doing here? The Fidelius—?"

Moody waved his hand for silence. "Pettigrew's dead," he said bluntly.

Deep pain marred the young man's features, and he leaned against the side of the door in shock. "D-dead?"

"Aye," he replied. "We were ambushed in London. He gave me your location before he passed, the boy did. Pack your bags quick as you can. We're moving you somewhere else. Dumbledore's on his way to set up another Fidelius."

Calm shuttered across James eyes, and the auror spirit took over. He turned immediately and disappeared into the house. Moody gave him a moment before following him, just in time to catch the back end of the conversation taking place inside.

"—Peter's dead?" It was Lily, sorrow in her soft voice. "Oh, James. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, honey."

James's voice came back, strong and steady. "Now's not the time to mourn, Lil," he said. "Alastor says we have to move immediately. Pack what you can; leave the rest. We can send Sirius back for it later."

"I'll just get Harry's clothes—"

Moody stepped into the room, his wand raised before him. Husband and wife froze in their places, staring at him in shock and confusion. Their eyes were wide, lips apart in twin expressions of disbelief. He knew what they were thinking, what any sane man or woman would think in this situation.

"W-What? Alastor?"

Moody's wand was steady, his heart was made of stone. "I'm sorry about this, laddie, but there's no way around it," said the auror calmly. "It hurts me more than you know."

"Alastor!" Lily's voice lashed across him, filled with hurt and fury. "What do you think you're doing?"

He didn't look at her. He didn't want to see the pain in her gaze. He'd always had a soft spot for the brave young witch, and it would be his undoing. "It's for best, Lily," he whispered, focusing only on James. "I'll take good care of him. I'll teach him how to survive, how to fight. I'll make him a wizard to be feared."

James went for his wand, quick as lightning.

Moody was faster.

"Stupefy"

He collapsed, a rush of breath escaping his lungs.

Lily hadn't moved. She just watched unflinching, her gaze brittle as steel "You bastard," she spat, cold and unforgiving. "So this is what we've come to? Friends and brothers going at each other's throats? No wonder we're losing the war."

"No time to explain, girl," he replied. "I wish I could, but I have to leave you here."

"Are you Voldemort's man?" she demanded, ignoring him and taking a step forward. "A filthy traitor?"

The auror scowled and turned his gaze on her. "The hell I am!" he snapped. "It was Pettigrew, and he's taken care off. Dumbledore should know by morning."

"Then why are you here?" Not even a blink when it came to Pettigrew. Brave witch.

"For Harry, girl," he replied, gesturing vaguely at the wall. "He's too important. I can't have the lot of you fumbling to protect him like a bunch of amateurs. If I hadn't found Pettigrew when I did, he would've told the Dark Lord where you were. The boy would already be dead, and the war lost forever. I can't allow that again."

Her wand came up, with such speed that Alastor didn't even see it.

"Aveda Ked—"

"Stupefy."

She fell beside her husband, eyes closed and breath flowing steadily into her lungs. The auror stared at her for a long and quiet moment, savoring the electric shock that rippled through him. It'd been a long time—longer than he could remember—since anyone had managed to surprise him like that, but the last thing he'd expected was for Lily Potter to try her hand at the Killing Curse. Especially against him, a friend of many years, loyal to the cause. But the love of a mother was something he would never understand.

It was deeper than anything he had ever felt or ever could feel.

Moody stepped over their limp forms, walking into the adjoining room. Harry was there, sound asleep, his chest rising and falling with small breaths. The boy was so tiny; so small; so weak. He lifted the boy gently, only to have him wake up suddenly, his tiny legs stretching out and his pudgy face twisting in a sleepy yawn. His little fists clenched fiercely as he yowled like a kitten.

Moody froze, unsure of what to do. The boy stared at him for a long moment, head cocked to the side in curiosity. His eyes were bright green, as green as the curse that took life. They were his mother's eyes. He yawned again, this time longer and more tiredly.

The boy shut his eyes.

Moody disapparated.

In the next chapter, we see our prodigal hero (Harry) many years later in the company of Mad-Eye Moody, interrogating a Death Eater.