What if Harry Potter Was Reborn With All His Memories And Abilities?
What if Harry Potter Was Reborn With All His Memories And Abilities
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Voice Acting & Narration: Steven Waters @bobablackfly602
Writing: Myself, @khuz377 , @viktoriafilbert
The first thing Harry Potter remembers is dying.
It comes to him in fragments. Green light. The forest floor beneath his knees. Voldemort's voice, high and cold, cutting through the silence of the Forbidden Forest. The rush of something leaving his body, then warmth, then nothing.
And then everything.
He opens his eyes. The ceiling is too close. Rough wood planks, splintered at the edges, inches from his face. A thin mattress beneath him. The cupboard under the stairs at Number Four, Privet Drive.
He’s an infant. The scream that tries to tear itself from his throat comes out as a gurgle. His hands, tiny and useless, clench against the blanket. His legs kick without purpose. His body betrays him in every direction, a prison of fat fingers and uncoordinated limbs, and behind his eyes sits the mind of a man who had just fought the dark lord.
The memories arrive in waves. Some are sharp: Hermione's face when Ron left them in the tent. The sound Dobby made when the knife hit. The way Dumbledore's body turned in the air as it fell from the Astronomy Tower. Others are softer, worn smooth by repetition: the smell of treacle tart in the Great Hall, the sound of the Gryffindor common room fire, the particular way Ron said "bloody hell" when something went properly wrong.
He remembers all of it. Seven years of magic, the people he lost, and the desperate, furious love. He remembers the Horcruxes. He remembers the prophecy. He remembers who betrayed whom, when, and how, and what it cost.
And he remembers that he is one of them.
The knowledge settles into him like a stone dropped into dark water. He is a Horcrux. A fragment of Tom Riddle's soul is lodged behind his scar, nestled against his own.
He has already decided what he is going to do.
The years pass in a crawl of helpless waiting. He learns to walk again at thirteen months. He learns to speak at two. The Dursleys are exactly as he remembers them: Petunia's pinched mouth, Vernon's meaty fists slamming the table when Harry makes too much noise, Dudley's screaming tantrums that rattle the house. He endures it all with a patience that frightens even him. He has already survived worse than this. He has already survived everything.
The hardest part is the waiting, lying in the dark at three years old, perfectly still, listening to the Dursleys move through the house above him, and knowing that Sirius is in Azkaban right now, tonight, at this very moment, screaming in his sleep while Dementors press their rotting mouths against the bars of his cell. Knowing that Peter Pettigrew is curled on a pillow in Percy Weasley's bedroom, warm and safe and breathing, while an innocent man suffers for his crimes. Knowing that he could stop it if only his body would cooperate, if only his muscles would obey his commands, if only the world would take a three-year-old seriously.
He tries once, at age three. He walks to Mrs Figg's door, but when he opens his mouth, the words come out tangled and childish. She gives him a biscuit and sends him home. He lies in the cupboard that night and clenches his fists until his fingernails leave marks in his palms.
A few more years. He can wait a few more years.
At night, in the cupboard, he catalogues what he knows. The diary is at Malfoy Manor. The ring is in the Gaunt shack. The locket is at Grimmauld Place, hidden by Kreacher on the orders of a dead boy named Regulus Black. The cup is in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts. The diadem is in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts. Nagini is just a snake. She will remain just a snake, because Voldemort will never get the chance to make her anything more.
And then there is him.
He pushes the thought away. There is work to do first.
Harry waits until he is five. His body is small but functional. He can walk, run, and speak in full sentences. The Dursleys have long since stopped paying attention to what he does during the day, so long as he stays out of sight. On a grey Tuesday morning in late October, he walks three streets over to the home of Arabella Figg.
She opens the door to find a small, thin boy with round glasses and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. He looks up at her with eyes that are too old, too steady, for a child his age.
Harry(calm): "Mrs Figg. I know you are a Squib. I know you work for Albus Dumbledore. I need you to contact him immediately."