Disclaimer – I own nothing

A quick glance in any bookstore will show dozens, if not hundreds of books about Harry Potter. It seems anyone with any inclination to write has a story to tell about our hero and founder. And to be fair, many of these authors have a unique perspective; most of them did, after all, live through the events surrounding Potter's ascension. It is only fair, then, to ask why I have chosen to write this. What could I have to say that so many others have not said before me?

I will readily admit that in my youth, I was not one of Potter's supporters. Largely due to the influence of my head of house at Hogwarts, as well as certain prominent members of that house, I was convinced that Potter was nothing more than a spoiled brat with delusions of grandeur. I did not approve of him, and I certainly did not approve of his relationship with my sister. Oh, how times change.

Harry Potter truly was a hero. But these days, I find a disturbing sentiment has begun to spread. All too often, people believe that Potter's triumph was a matter of fate; a destiny that was set in stone even before his birth. They point to the famous prophecy, and proclaim that of course things had to happen as they did. How could he have failed?

These people are asking the wrong question. They should be asking, how could he have succeeded? His entire life had been dictated according to Dumbledore's schemes to ensure Potter was nothing more than a pawn. Those who were morally or legally obligated to aid Potter were instead the first to support his tormentor's actions, falling victim to the lie that it was all for Potter's own good. And yet, somehow, despite the many trials that came his way, Potter prevailed.

Where did Dumbledore's plans go wrong? What small, seemingly unimportant detail escaped his all-seeing eyes, allowing Potter to break free from the myriad webs the manipulative plotter had woven? Was it truly destiny, as some would claim?

It is easy to attribute Potter's accomplishments to destiny, for in so doing, we absolve ourselves of any guilt for our own shortcomings. There's no prophecy about me, we tell ourselves, so, of course, I cannot succeed at such great things. But in so doing, we reject the old refrain that Harry Potter was so fond of quoting, and upon which he based his entire life.

"I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul."

-Excerpt from the preface of 'No Fate but What We Make: The Story of Harry Potter', by Astoria Greengrass

October 31st, 1981

Godric's Hollow

Frantic footsteps sounded throughout the house as Lily Potter dashed up to the nursery where her son lay sleeping. Behind her, she could hear her husband yelling as he did everything he could to stall the monster that had come for them. Deep down, she knew that he would not be able to stand for long. Choking back a sob at the knowledge that there was no way to rescue him, she instead focused on what she could do. Save her son.

Her precious babe began crying, startled from sleep by the sound of the door slamming open as his mother rushed into the room. She could still hear noises coming from downstairs, but put them out of her mind. She pulled her only hope for survival, a small wooden box, not much larger than a deck of cards, from her pocket, and set it on the ground, then reached for her wand, only to discover to her horror that it was not in the sleeve pocket where she normally kept it. All the air in her lungs seemed to disappear as she stared at the rune on top of the box that seemed to be mocking her; her salvation so close, and yet so far. She heard her husband give one last scream, and then there was silence.

Fear, panic, and sorrow filled her mind, but those feelings quickly gave way as desperation turned to resolve. It was too late for her. But perhaps, just perhaps, she could save her son. She quickly snapped one of the wooden bars on the crib where her son sat, watching her curiously. Using one of the sharp edges of the wood, she stabbed it into her hand, wincing at the pain, but feeling triumphant as the blood spilled across her hand and onto the ground. She could hear footsteps on the stairs as she dipped her finger into the blood, and quickly drew the necessary runes on her body, as well as that of her son. Whispering the necessary words for the ritual, she nearly shouted in triumph as she completed her preparations, the blood being absorbed into Harry's skin as the magic took hold. She would die, but her death would give her son a chance at life.

The door burst open, and the abomination strode calmly into the room, a look of triumph and glee on his inhuman face. She knew it was hopeless, but pleaded for the life of her child anyways, hoping to distract her killer so that he would not see the trap she had set. As green light filled her vision, every last bit of magic and will in her body rose up in a desperate plea, a prayer to whatever Gods may be watching that her son would survive. And then, she knew no more.

May 17th, 1983

Godric's Hollow

Junior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt looked at the ruined house before him, a silent testament to the sacrifice that had ended the war just a year and a half ago. The Wizengamot had voted to claim the house and property as a monument and war memorial. Shacklebolt had mixed feelings about that, but, he had a job and he intended to see it through.

He walked calmly through the now ruined gate, a small runestone allowing him to pass through the temporary wards the ministry had established after the death of the Potters. He walked into the kitchen, where the control stone for the wards was placed, and deactivated them, allowing the workers to enter the house. They quickly set about their work, gathering everything of value into space expanded trunks that would be placed in the Potter vault.

Shacklebolt wandered through the house, keeping an eye on the other people just to ensure there were no problems. And as always, the old adage 'many hands make light work' proved true. Less than an hour after they had arrived, the workers were finishing up. Soon enough, the trunks were packed and sealed, ready to be transported to Gringotts.

As several of the workers left with the trunks, Shacklebolt took one last look around the house, pausing as he noticed one of the workers showing another something, then slipping it back into his pocket.

A few quick strides brought him up to the workers, both of whom he had previously resolved to keep his eye on. Mundungus Fletcher did not have the best reputation, after all, and while Shacklebolt didn't know anything about William Widdershins, anyone who seemed as friendly with Fletcher as the other man was likely just as much of a scoundrel. "What was that?" he demanded.

Fletcher seemed to be trying to stay calm, but Widdershins paled. "Weren't nothing at all," he stammered.

"Let me see it." Shacklebolt's voice was firm, but with a hint of violence behind it, causing both men to swallow nervously.

Reluctantly, the other man pulled a small wooden box out of his pocket. Shacklebolt took note of the strange rune on the top, but besides that, there was nothing noteworthy about it. He tried to open the lid, but it didn't budge. He turned his attention back to the would-be thief, who glanced nervously at Fletcher.

"It's just a souvenir," Widdershins tried to explain with an awkward attempt at a smile.

"I don't care if you consider it a souvenir or not," Shacklebolt snarled, ice creeping into his voice as he glared at the beady-eyed man before him. "You are not stealing from an orphan!" He looked at Fletcher, who was trying, and failing, to keep a look of innocence on his face. A quick search of both men turned up several other "souvenirs", all of which Shacklebolt confiscated.

"Get out of here before I decide to arrest you," he ordered. Both men were happy to oblige. Shacklebolt sighed, then looked at the small collection of items on the counter. He knew that if he conjured a container, it wouldn't last through the years in the vault before Harry Potter claimed his inheritance. Stepping out of the house, he noticed a small cardboard box one of the neighbors had set out to be recycled. It was just about the right size, so he quickly grabbed the box, and loaded into it the items he had rescued from the sticky-fingered workers. Still in a bit of a foul mood, he apparated to Diagon Alley, and made his way to Gringotts, with one last deposit for the Potter vault.

July 31st, 1991

Gringotts, Vault 687

Harry Potter stood in awe, staring at the piles of gold before him. He had never had much growing up, certainly not in comparison to Dudley. The idea that all of this belonged to him was nearly overwhelming.

Hagrid began scooping some gold into a bag, while the goblin, Griphook, stood stiffly by the door, but Harry hardly paid them any mind. He walked slowly into the vault, looking around in amazement. Soon, however, the amazement turned to sorrow, as he realized that this was all that was left of his parents. And while a part of him knew the gold would be useful, he wished that there was something more. Something of them that had been left behind. A journal, a notebook, anything. His attention was drawn to a small cardboard box in the corner of the vault. Hoping that these might be items taken from the house after his parent died, he walked over to the box, and looked in. A few odds and ends lay inside, nothing more. It was a little bit disappointing, but still, it was something. Reaching down, he picked up a small, wooden box with a strange mark on what he assumed was the top.

"C'mon, Harry," his massive guide called. "Lots to be done today."

As Harry walked back to where the large but friendly man stood, he slipped the wooden box into his pocket so that he would have something from his parents, not realizing as he did just how much the future would change from this one, simple act.