Chapter 1: The Lightning and the Second Cry
Lucknow, India – June 2025
The night was thick with heat and tension. Monsoon clouds had conquered the sky, hanging low and brooding, waiting for the right moment to split open. In the narrow lanes of old Lucknow, dim yellow lights flickered in windows while the city's electric heartbeat pulsed through wires and phones and rooftop memories.
On the third floor of a crumbling building near Charbagh, a young man sat cross-legged on his rooftop, head tilted against the low cement wall that separated him from the street view below. Aarav Saxena, 27, a software engineer and part-time dreamer, let the wind whip at his hair as he watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 on his phone. The final scene.
His earbuds were tight in place, but not tight enough to drown out the thunder rolling over the skyline. Lightning strobed behind the clouds, momentarily painting the city silver.
> "Albus Severus," Harry's voice crackled through the speaker. "You were named after two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin, and he was the bravest man I ever knew."
Aarav smiled. He had seen this movie over twenty times. He had not read books, but he real some fan-fiction, watch all video of explain of Harry Potter magic world on youtube. But something about this moment—Harry on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, sending his son off to Hogwarts—still made his throat tighten.
Rain began to fall in cautious drops, tapping against his skin, against the screen, the rooftop concrete. He didn't move. He was caught in that moment—in that perfect blend of fiction and longing.
> "If only it were real," he murmured. "If only I could live there."
The thunder cracked again, louder this time. The rain fell harder, stinging like tiny cold needles. He looked up at the sky and blinked, his wet lashes fluttering. A flash of light broke above—brilliant, white, immediate.
CRACK!
A blinding bolt of lightning split the sky and struck the iron rod near the water tank, less than five feet from where Aarav sat. The phone exploded in his hands. The concrete glowed blue. For a moment, the world was nothing but white-hot pain, then a strange floating sensation. He heard a ringing—or was it a scream?—and then everything went dark.
---
Godric's Hollow – 31 July 1980
The scent of fresh lavender wafted through the open window, mingling with the scent of warm milk and burning fireplace wood. Rain tickled the glass panes, tapping a soft lullaby as the wind whispered through the curtains.
In a modest cottage nestled between hedgerows and trees, two cries echoed through the small house.
The first belonged to Harry James Potter. Pink and wailing, fists clenched, magic crackling invisibly in the air around him. The room trembled faintly when he cried—candles flickered, a photo frame dropped gently from a table.
The second cry came seconds later. Deeper, though just as infantile. Quieter—but more persistent.
The room was small and round, painted with soft creams and decorated with floating, self-illuminated stars. A mobile of snitches spun slowly above the twin crib. The wooden floor creaked as Lily Potter stepped forward, her red hair slightly damp, her eyes full of awe and exhaustion.
"He's beautiful," she whispered, swaddling the first baby. "Harry."
James stood beside her, cradling the second boy.
"And this one... he's already staring. Look at that. He's not even crying properly. Just watching."
The baby in James's arms had darker eyes. Not quite black, not quite brown. His gaze followed the floating candlelight above, and his breathing was measured, almost too calm for a newborn.
Lily reached out, brushing the baby's tiny cheek. "What do we call him? We agreed if it was twins—you pick one, I pick the other."
James chuckled. "Harry for yours... and mine... let's call him Hardwin."
Lily looked up. "From the Potter family tree? The old one?"
"Yeah. Hardwin Potter. Married into the Peverell line generations ago. That makes it full circle, doesn't it?"
Lily looked down again. The baby—Hardwin—blinked at her as if he understood something.
The fire in the hearth cracked softly.
---
Hardwin Potter's Mind
There were no words yet, not really. But Hardwin could feel. And he could see.
He saw flashes in his sleep. Glimpses.
A crumbling rooftop. A glowing phone. Thunder. Screams. A wand made of elder wood. A castle with many towers. Owls.
And a name.
> Aarav Saxena.
But that wasn't him now. Was it?
He stared into the cradle's mobile—a snitch spinning slowly above. His hand reached upward without command.
> Wingardium...?
The snitch slowed, as though acknowledging him.
There was no magic burst. No glowing sparks. But the air felt thick around him. Alive.
He turned his tiny head to look at the other baby. Harry, still sleeping, occasionally making small noises.
Hardwin did not cry. He only watched.
---
Later That Night
James and Lily lay asleep on a low bed across the room. The crib stood at the center, a soft magical glow surrounding it like a ward.
The rain had lessened. The storm had passed.
And the room was still.
Hardwin lay quietly, eyes wide open.
The ceiling above shimmered faintly. Painted stars moved slowly, their charms long since worn down to a lullaby pace.
He could smell the firewood. The candle wax. The faint traces of milk.
The warmth of the blanket around him reminded him of something lost. A bed with a blue bedsheet. Posters on the wall. A metal balcony railing, still warm from the sun.
He closed his eyes.
> Magic is real. I'm here. I am not dreaming.
He did not know how he came here. He did not know why. But he knew the name they gave him: Hardwin Potter.
And he knew the world he had only dreamed of was no longer fiction.
It was air. Scent. Cry. Magic.
It was home.