Hermione stood in the boys' dormitory, wiping tears from her cheeks, with various unpleasant thoughts swirling in her head. Harry had pushed her away and didn't want to talk to her anymore. Why else would he isolate himself? And what spells had he used? How could he figure out anything on his own?
After standing there a little longer, more positive thoughts began to surface: "What if he doesn't hear that it's me?" she thought. "Maybe the barrier completely shields him from the outside world? Madame Pomfrey said it would take a long time for him to recover, but Harry is here. Did they give him some sort of artifact so no one could disturb him?"
Hoping that her relationship with the dark-haired boy would improve, she tidied herself up, and her mood slightly lifted. She spun on her heels, repeated her signature cloak twirl, this time without jealous onlookers, and headed alone toward the Great Hall.
Lying down on his bed, Harry Potter instinctively blocked access to himself. Almost unaware of his actions, disconnected from reality, he curled up in a fetal position without covering himself with a blanket and slipped into a trance.
Under the quiet whispers in his head, his entire personality began to spin and rearrange itself brick by brick. If he were conscious, he would have gone mad—everything was drowning in a bottomless sea of chaos, as so many memories swirled together.
But nothing lasts forever, and the newly restructured memory began to emerge, completely reorganized, in its true, original form. One by one, facts from his past fell into place, following the relentless whisper, illuminating hidden events and nuances in a light that frightened the boy. He had never expected old Tom Riddle's visit to the Potters to unfold in this way—when viewed from a new perspective, the events took a completely different turn. As the memories resurfaced, those fateful hours before the rise of the Boy Who Lived and Voldemort's fall flashed before his inner vision.
The Dark Lord decided to visit the young couple's home uninvited to discuss a potential alliance or, at the very least, a non-aggression and neutrality pact. It wasn't proper for the heads of Ancient families, connected by the blood of the Peverell brothers and keepers of two of the three Deathly Hallows, to quarrel over such trivial matters. If James Potter didn't want to fight under his banner, neutrality would be the best option for both sides. One way or another, an agreement would be reached today, and little Harry would guarantee it.
At a calm knock on the door, young James responded a bit inadequately. He cast Bombarda, blowing the door off its hinges, followed by Avada Kedavra aimed at the retreating Lord. The Avada from James's wand, shaken by fear for his family, was weak and only caused a slight runny nose. Voldemort's Avada, combined with his lightning-fast reflexes, was perfect and precise, sending James Potter's lifeless body crashing against the sofa. A stream of curses burst from the Dark Lord's lips as he realized what had happened. He hadn't meant to kill the young Potter, but his instinct to preserve his own life had kicked in automatically. A gnawing sense of failure crept into his heart.
The mission in the Potter house continued to spiral out of control when, hearing the child's cry, he went upstairs and found Mrs. Potter. But he couldn't begin explaining or apologizing, as she was twice as fast and twice as reckless as her husband. Maybe it was her maternal instinct, but she pinned the Dark Lord to the door with wandless magic. She didn't run; instead, she started hitting him with her fists. Enduring this for five minutes, waiting for the petrification and silencing spells to wear off, he couldn't help but be relieved that he wouldn't have to search for her throughout the city. As soon as the spells disappeared, the Dark Lord immobilized the girl and, in a deliberately calm and quiet voice, said to her:
"Mrs. Potter, listen to me! I came here not to cause harm, and only your husband's actions led to this result."
But Mrs. Potter, agitated and terrified, wasn't listening and kept repeating like a broken record:
"Not Harry, please, not Harry!"
The Dark Lord needed to secure a neutrality pact with the current head of the Potter family, and due to his own foolishness, that head was now a one-year-old baby, peering out from behind the crib with wide, frightened, green eyes, just like his mother's. The main thing was for this little boy to say "Yes"—the rest of the work was on him, as it was impossible to get anything coherent from the child's mother.
Time was running out—Dumbledore's lackeys would arrive any moment, and Voldemort's entire plan would go down the drain. So, pushing aside the girl who had rushed at him again, he started to act.
"Step aside, girl, I only need your son."
"Please—not Harry! Don't touch my son!" she kept crying and pulling him back by the sleeve of his cloak.