Chapter Text
Magic has done many things to him in his short span of life on earth.
It gave him happiness, friends -- no a family, and a place that he can finally call home without receiving a slap on the face. Something that was his, a place that he knows he rightfully belonged and no one can say otherwise.
But magic gave him other things too, it gave him grief, sadness and pain like no other. It gave him fame he does not want, a power and mark he doesn't desire to bear but has no other choice since no one else is willing.
Harry Potter wore magic like a second-skin. He knows the heaviness of Her, the way She seems to dance across his sun-kissed skin and the way She seems to hum a tune – a song he doesn't know that made him as if his teeth were vibrating but the sheer power. He can feel her presence in the raised skin that's called scars on his body, he dances with her everytime he casts a spell from his holly wand.
It was a dangerous dance and Harry had loved every single moment even to the point of his 'death.
.............
Harry also forgot that he and Him were Fate's personals chosens.
When Harry woke up from his slumber, he did not wake up at Hogwarts grounds nor did he woke in St. Mungo's. Instead, the first thing he sees when he wakes up was darkness and for a minute, he didn't move a single muscle, not even though his eyes adjusted to dark and the surroundings became familiar.
Somehow he found the courage to look around and can feel the way his heart pounded against his ribcage, threatening to burst. His hands shook and suddenly he found it very hard to breathe when he took sight of a broken toy train and other random toys he managed to had at —
The Dursley's Household.
A sharp in take of breath left him as he curled around himself. That wasn't right, that's not right, not at all, not at all --
Why the fuck was he here?
He just knows he's not suppose to be here, it wasn't right, it made no sense.
He was Harry Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, the Quidditch Gryffindor Captain, the boy-who-lived, the chosen one; friends to Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley.
Harry closed his eyes and remembers .
He recounts a black diary with blood written on the walls and then he sees a green locket, a ring that tells tales and a gold cup that sits upon jewelry. But it didn't end there, he sees a serpent with blood dripping from its fangs and hunger in its eyes, and than, he saw himself –
He remembers gleaming red eyes, a battlefield where the both old and young cold bodies lay besides his feet. He remembers a castle on the hill — home, Hogwarts. He remembers Dumbledore and a white train station waiting for him; he remembers a prophecy, brother wands clashing together like thunder and lightening. He remembers a blue light coming straight towards him as he stood there watching the Dark Lord's body fade to dust into the winds, inside the very place he also claimed as his home.
How exactly did he get here?
(He was in the Cupboard under the stairs, Merlin — !?)
Get a grip Potter. His 'hindbrain hissed at him, now isn't the time for a damn panic attack.
Harry shut his eyes, breathing in harshly as minutes, or maybe an hour passed him when he finally managed to calm himself to think. He needs to get out, he needs to know what's going on.
Swallowing thickly, Harry pushed the door open as quietly as he could, surely he didn't want to alert anyone of his presence yet. The first thing he noticed was that this was not the hallway he was familiar with, not at all. A bad feeling stired in the pit of his stomach, clawing up its way to his throat.
He fought down the bile that tried to make its way up to his throat and the lightheadedness that clouded his mind and sight for a moment.
Hesitantly he lightly walked through the hallway, portraits of cascading waterfalls and gardens hung neatly on the wall. The more he walked deeper into whoever house he's in, the more disoriented he felt with evey step. There was even a white vase filled with fake flowers that sat on a tiny table and the rug under his feet felt soft and comfy. It was the kind of rug that you need to resist running your hand through it.
Distantly Harry realize that he didn't have his shoes on, nor did he have the same clothes he wore during the battle.
Harry himself could've fainted right then and there when he turned the corridor. Instinctively he stumbled back as he locked eyes with his Aunt Petuina.
She looked ...younger, he didn't how to explain it, but the wrinkles on her face when he last saw her, wasn't there anymore. She also seem to have jewelry on her — real jewelry, he thinks when he caught sight of a diamond incrusted necklace wraped around her pale long neck.
"You're still here?" She asks incredulously and Harry simply blinked at her owlishly, still here? He haven't seen his relatives in a complete year and he wasn't ashamed to say that he was glad about that.
"I thought you would've left by now, that's good," she murmurs in a soft voice, searching his face for something and by the looks of it, she found it. Petuina sighed deeply as if something heavy was weighing on her shoulders. "Come," his Aunt becons him like a dog, turning on her heel sharply and walking down the hallway, not looking to see if he was following or not.
He didn't know what to do or what to feel, so simply, he followed after her. What else could he do?
Harry stared at the pictures in his hand while he sat in his room for a very long time. His eyes traced the young vibrant features of his smiling mother and father, they were sitting on the grass with a blanket underneath them it seems, his father's glasses reflected of the sun and his mother's eyes - green, green eyes - always seem to shine everytime he sees a picture of her.
He didn't belong here and they weren't his parents.
Well they are, but they weren't specifically his. They were another Harry's parents and Harry himself couldn't make sense of what was happening to him. It was obvious something had happened during the battle but he didn't what exactly was it.
Was it a Death Eater that saw Harry kill Voldemort and acted on the whim to take revenge right then and there? It was the only thing that Harry could make possible sense to him.
Harry sighed, pressing his palm against his eyes and recounted the conversation he had with his Aunt.
___
"I took them before it could get thrown away." She says, shoulders stiff and pale thin mouth set in a deep permanent frown as he holds a heavy midnight blue photobook in his hands, flipping through it.
Harry swallowed thickly, "I thought I won't get the chance to give it to you. You should have it more than me." She continued in such a soft voice that he knows Petuina reserved Dudley and her husband only.
Did his Petuina had one too? Harry felt like he was in a daze as he clutched the photo book tighter. "I see... Thank you Aunt Petuina."
Silence.
The woman inclined her head, "you should be heading back to your new house, yes?"
What the fuck.
He didn't answer, what the hell was he suppose to say? He had a bloody house?
"Do you want me to drive you? It'll be better than taking a taxi." His Aunt offers suddenly and Harry was already blurting a yes before he could know what he was doing.
She nodded swiftly, "get your bags then and give me five minutes to get ready."
___
Harry glanced over at the single black duffle bag in the corner, a bag he knows he did not pack himself, which means the other Harry was the one to do it. He couldn't be surprised seeing that it was one bag, its not like Harry had anything significant with his Durlsey's.
He hates this. He hates the situation he got himself in, he was suppose to be free, he was suppose to have a rest, he was going to be happy, not this bullshit.
What was this exactly? Some sick joke the universe decided to play with him? Haven't he gone through enough?
Magick could do many things, create anything, he knows not - to never underestimate Her.
Harry wasn't dumb, he may not be the brightest in his year but he also wasn't at the lowest either. He may not be book-smart like Hermione nor did he had strategical mindset like Ron, he was just Harry. He just wasn't sure if he was in some kind of different world, universe, a new Dimension? He didn't know, he didn't know anything.
Was He dead?
LATER THAT DAY
Number 12 Grimmauld Place the green sign says in bold white and Harry stared at it blankly, he didn't know long he stood there, on the street, but he knew that his Aunt had drove off without a word long ago.
The harsh glare of the sun beat down his frame, the sunlight reflecting off his glasses as he gritted his teeth. He haven't been in Grimmauld Place place in a long time and frankly he wished it would've stayed that way.
If he stepped inside... Would he see Sirius sgain? Would he be alive in whenever world Harry's in?
Harry opened the door with the keys, the door creaking at the intrusion and he frowned, it was already a sign that no one use the door often. Pulling his lips back, he ventured further where he knew where the kitchen was located.
"Sirius..?"
No answer, no sound of the soft playful tone that his godfather had, it was only silence and he instantly a wave of embarrassment wash over him. He felt like a child, he felt helpless.
Harry called louder this time, "Padfoot? It's uh, me, your godson, Harry."
Nothing.
Something heavy lays between his ribcage, tugging at his heart as disappointment coursed through him. Locking his jaw, Harry placed his bag on the table and tiny particles of dust danced in the air.
In fact, when he looked around, the tables and chairs were completely covered in dust, there were cobwebs that spiders made its home in the corner. The place appeared lifeless, lonely and so terribly grim.
Gripping his bag again, Harry turned on his heel and walked up the stairs, each step feeling heavy as if some kind of invisible force was pulling him down. There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind when he caught sight of a picture frame covered with a white cloth. Harry slowly reached his hand out, ignoring the way his hand tremble and pulled the cloth off in a swift movement.
He coughed lightly, waving his hand to move the dust away and finally focused on what he was looking at. Well, who he was looking at.
It was Walburga Black.
Harry stared and the woman stared unseeingly stared back at him. His hindbrain was screaming at him, he was missing something, something important. The longer he stared, taking in every detail, the realization poured over him like a bucket of cold water.
The picture wasn't moving. Walburga Black was not moving in her frame, like she was suppose to be doing.
No snarling, no twist of disgust, no hatred in her dark eyes. She was lifeless just like the rest of the house. It's almost as if it was a normal muggle portrait.
That's because it is, a traitorous part of his mind whispers and Harry breathed out shakily.
When Harry first step inside Grimmauld Place for the first time, he knew the place had breathed on its own, had its own magic, a life. He never felt alone, he always felt the eyes of the house watching him from the shadows, observing. Now, Harry felt nothing.
He didn't feel the wards, he didn't feel the dark magic that had once seeped through the walls, Grimmauld Place was just an ordinary abandon muggle home.
...............
Storm-like eyes snapped open with a sharp intake of breath, chest heaving rapidly as they sat up.
A mirror, a thin long mirror stood before Him, across the room - his room - his room?
The sun has not risen, yet, but soon it will.
They glided across – not noticing his wand was nowhere in sight – until he was standing right in front of the mirror as he simply stared.
Silence.
Curled black hair covered their forehead, sharp eyes, sharp features watched him through the mirror. His collarbone was exposed, revealing fine white skin that hid beneath the black half-button up shirt. They tilted their head to the side, admiring, observing the opportunity, the change, the chance.
Oh, how magic just loved Him.
Pale mouth twitched, curling up as storm-like eyes gleamed in the dark of the room - his room.
Lord Voldemort smiled.