Chapter Text
1980
He didn’t know why, but it always began at the moment of birth. As in, the moment his body became independent from his mother’s body. Given a choice, he’d honestly rather it started a week later. Or a month. Or even a year or so. The beginning was always so tedious. Well, the very beginning was really rather painful. It took a week before the aches and pains began to fade. Being born was such a violent experience. Everything hurt from the process of the birth. His eyes smarted terribly as they’d never before seen light. His skin felt positively frozen as it was the first time he’d been exposed to air and he was soaking wet.
And, of course, what he was waking up to was only half the problem. There was also the fact that his last memory was of dying. It wasn’t so bad when he’d died peacefully in his bed or something, but a sudden death was always so shocking. This time it had been a gunshot of all the ridiculous muggle ways to die. When he was old enough, he was going to summon the soul of the long-dead fool who’d situated the entrance to that particular magical alleyway in that neighborhood and make his displeasure known.
“Is he okay?” an exhausted woman’s voice inquired in English, though it was distorted and muffled in his newborn ears.
“He’s right as rain, mam,” the answer came from the woman holding him. He was, presumably, in England, if he was interpreting the accents correctly. A moment later, he was transferred into another’s arms and he looked up with blurry eyes at the face of what must be his mother this time. He could make out pale skin, red hair, and green eyes.
“He’s so beautiful,” she crooned at him lovingly.
Oh, good. He’d had a few mothers who were indifferent or worse when he was born. Once he’d been the product of a rape, which had made her hate him from the start. Having a mother so enamored of him was a good sign for a comfortable childhood.
Another face soon joined hers in looking down on him. This one male with marginally darker skin, black hair, and dark eyes. “Hi, Harry,” the man greeted, looking just as ridiculously in love as the woman. “I’m your daddy.”
Harry could have sighed in relief at finding them both so happy to see him. The early years of his life could be more than merely a trial without proper caretakers. His magic was almost useless with such an underdeveloped body with which to channel it and far too weak to do anything on his own. Many times, he’d died of excessive neglect or abuse before he was strong enough to take care of and defend himself. It sucked. A lot.
When a nipple was presented to him a short time later, he let go of his thoughts for the time being and let the comforting ritual of nursing lull his tired mind and aching body into rest.
* * * * *
England, apparently, was dealing with a Dark Lord. One powerful enough to actually succeed in his quest, unlike the average Dark Lord, who was little more than a nuisance until local law enforcement managed to destroy him. Or her.
Annoyingly, his parents were vehemently opposed, not only to this particular Dark Lord, but to the Dark in general. He, Harry now, had been around an incredibly long time at this point. He’d lived a great many lives. He understood magic better than most ever would. Ever could. His magic had never been other than average in might. The only reason he’d managed what none other, to his knowledge, had managed in extending his time within the mortal plane endlessly through reincarnation was because of his grasp of magic. What it was. And what it was not.
Magic was not Good or Evil. It was not malicious or benign. Magic was a giver of life and a destroyer of life. It was without conscience. Without morals or boundaries. To classify all magic and those who prefer it as fitting a moral standard was as childish as it was cruel. It was prejudice, pure and simple. Some people were just more drawn to certain types of magic because their magical cores resonated with it. Different kinds of magic were better for certain things.
As some muggles were stronger and thus better suited for labor jobs and others were very clever and suited for research and inventing. Some were aggressive and brave and well suited for military pursuits. With magic, it was the same. Light and Dark were arbitrary political categories used to sort what the current regime considered desirable types of magic from undesirable ones. And it changed by village, by country, by political leader. Necromancy, blood magic, evocation, illusion, enchantment, alchemy, potions, herbology, weather magic, elemental magic, transfiguration, and so many more. Some schools of magic were cut into pieces with some of it being considered acceptable and other parts evil whereas others were exclusively forbidden for no more reason than what was convenient to a particular ruler or political party. It was lunacy.
Heresy even, to those who properly understood magic.
Unfortunately, Harry didn’t suspect that he’d be changing their minds without something drastic occurring. They were too convinced that they were right.
Admittedly, it sounded like the “Dark” they were fighting against were earning their reputation for the most part, as this Dark Lord seemed fairly insane, possibly due to misusing magic. Granted, that likely wasn’t his fault. From what he could gather, the current regime was so severe on Dark Magic that anything they considered thus wasn’t taught at all to children. Lacking that instruction, it wasn’t the smallest bit surprising that enterprising, intelligent, powerful adolescents and young adults who felt drawn to such magic would make foolish mistakes.
It was shortly after his first birthday that Harry learned of the prophecy due to his parents discussing it in the next room. He didn’t get the exact wording, but he did get that there was apparently a prophecy that pointed to him or some other boy his age being the only one capable of defeating the Dark Lord that was terrorizing the good Light-loving folk of the country. That’s why they moved around so much — every few weeks, a new house. A new safehouse.
But they didn’t want to run anymore. They were going under the Fidelius spell to hide. It was a spell that had been around a long time. A spell that had actually gone out of favor in the last few centuries. It had one colossal drawback that made it largely undesirable compared to other wards. It required the secret to be held by one individual that was not a part of it. Meaning that the secret of where their family lived could not be held by anyone that was a part of the family or lived in that location. It was a lot of trust to place in someone.
His parents chose to place that trust in a childhood friend of James. Someone that had been close to him since they were eleven years old.
It was six weeks after the Fidelius was cast and they were settled into the small cottage in Godric’s Hallow, that their trust proved to have been mistaken.
“It’s Him! Take Harry! Take Harry and run!”
Harry heard the words echo up the stairs and felt his heart sink as he sat up in his crib.
Feet thundered up the stairs even as a battle was audible below. Harry watched the door silently for long moments before it was flung open. Lily was only halfway across the room when the chilling words, “Avada Kedavra!” rang out below, followed by the distinctive sound of a body collapsing limply to the floor.
Lily screamed and ran back to slam shut the door of the nursery, as though it would slow down the Dark Lord. Then she ran back to the crib and scooped Harry up into her arms, holding him tightly to her chest as though she could protect him from the nightmare below through sheer force of will.
Harry processed the fact that his father was dead and he and his mother were sitting ducks awaiting their death. Lily didn’t have her wand on her, that much was obvious.
Merlin, what fools. Such trust they had in their friend. Their obviously traitorous friend. They’d honestly thought themselves safe. Safe enough to not have their wands on them constantly. Safe enough to have no contingency plan for such a situation as they now found themselves. No escape tunnel, either physical or magical. He silently cursed the wasted two years spent in this life. Nine months growing inside his mother — he was never conscious of it, but the gap between his previous lives was always the exact term of his mother’s pregnancy — and then fifteen months as a helpless baby. He wasn’t looking forward to starting it over again.
There was also a sadness for his parents in this life. They were naive children in way over their heads, but their love for him had been very real. They’d never shown any hint of conditionality to their affection for him. They’d always been patient and understanding, despite the fact he was too quiet, too watchful, too mature, too intelligent. These things had caused some of his parents and caretakers over the centuries to abuse him in their fear or distaste. James and Lily had shown some concern, but once assured of his health, they’d embraced his differences as “unique” and “special”. They were foolish and narrow-minded, but they were good parents.
And they were in the process of putting themselves between him and certain death. Even if they weren’t able to actually save him, the thought did count. He’d known enough parents, both his own and others, who’d have willingly offered him up in an attempt to save their own lives, even if they knew it would be pointless.
The door was blasted open behind Lily, who curved her body around him as a shield, before hastily depositing him back in his crib and turning to face the danger, once again using her body to shield him, even if it wouldn’t be enough this time.
“Not Harry. Please, not Harry. Have mercy!”
Harry sighed quietly, hoping that this Dark Lord would at least make their deaths as quick as his father’s had been. Lily didn’t deserve torture or rape. Personally, Harry preferred an Avada Kedavra if he was going to die. Quick and painless and less disorienting than dying in his sleep. Just a sudden cessation and then his next conscious thought would be about nine months later as he began his next life.
“Stand aside, girl! You don’t need to die. Stand aside.”
Harry frowned curiously at that. The Dark Lord was going to let her live? An avowed enemy, pawn of the Light, and a muggleborn to boot? How very curious.
Lily and the Dark Lord went back and forth a few times, with him trying to get her to stand aside and let him kill Harry and her begging for mercy and offering herself instead.
Harry was touched by her devotion, though he really wished she’d just stand aside. There was no way Harry was going to live through this, but he wished that Lily could. Still, having been a parent himself many times, he understood well that living with her husband and son murdered may well be a punishment worse than death.
Finally, as Harry had expected, the Dark Lord grew impatient with her and gave in to her pleas to die in Harry’s place with an irritable, “Very well,” followed by the bright green light of the Killing Curse. Harry silently gave thanks for Lily’s quick and painless end, turning his eyes up to meet those of the Dark Lord. The man was definitely suffering severely from his misuse of magic. His skin was waxy, pale, and thin. His hair a sparse collection of frail strands swept back over his skull. His features sunken as though with a prolonged sickness, far too gaunt for any semblance of health. His eyes a burning crimson that fluctuated like actual fires burned within him, a sign that his magic was wildly unstable. His thin, chapped lips pulled into a rictus of mad glee.
“You don’t look so impressive,” the man hissed to himself.
Hah, he was one to talk.
Harry frowned a bit as he considered the rising tide of magic in the air as this Dark Lord lifted his wand to point at Harry. The tip glowed the brilliant green of the Killing Curse and Harry found himself more and more intrigued by what he was feeling. His body was still so young and undeveloped that using his magic in any deliberate way was almost impossible, but he was able to sense, to some degree, the magic around him. And this felt like...
His eyes widened as he played it back in his head. Three times his mother offered herself in Harry’s place. Three times. A powerful magical number. Three times she offered, and then the Dark Lord said... Very well, before killing her. It was... But surely not.
“Avada Kedavra!” the Dark Lord said for the third time that night, his voice filled with elation.
And the magic that Harry had been feeling in the air suddenly multiplied exponentially and the blinding green light caught in that magic and was flung back into the Dark Lord along with the rest of the angry magic.
Harry watched in amazement as the Dark Lord came apart in front of him, literally falling into particles that floated on the air like dust, his wand and robes dropping to the floor. He’d been around a very long time and that was one of the most incredible things he’d ever seen. How degraded had that Dark Lord been to have not felt what must have been an incredibly painful warning from his magic as he prepared to break the magical contract he’d unintentionally made with Lily?
Before Harry could more than have that thought, the magic swelled again and there was a ripple to the air and a strong scent of sulfur filled the room as a shade shoved its way through the veil back into the Land of the Living.
Harry's eyes snapped wide in shock, but before he could even process what was happening, the shade turned on him, still vital enough for those manic red eyes to shine out of it, fixed on Harry with infinite rage. It launched itself right at him and he flinched back, just managing to turn his head enough that it collided with the side of it rather than the front, and then everything dissolved into endless depths of agony that lasted an eternity.
* * * * *
Harry’s next lucid moment was being jarred harshly as the large basket he was lying in was all but tossed onto the floor. He blinked open his eyes to a shrill voice screeching for someone named Vernon. He looked around uncertainly, identifying muggle light fixtures and what looked to be a very muggle home. He had a vague recollection of a flying motorbike, a very large hairy man, and... He couldn’t pick apart anything else. It was a blur. His head was still throbbing furiously and that woman’s horrid voice wasn’t helping anything.
In an effort to make sense of his new circumstances, he tried to pay attention to what was happening around him. His parents had been murdered by the Dark Lord, he remembered. The Dark Lord had accidentally made and then immediately violated a magical contract that saved Harry’s life and disintegrated the Dark Lord. He still didn’t know what to make of that last bit. There was some kind of soul magic at work, that kept the Dark Lord’s shade among the living, but what he had done to Harry in that last moment... That, Harry could not work out.
A large man with an overlarge mustache had joined the shrill woman now and they were both looking at him like he was some kind of diseased stray dog they’d taken into their house and now wanted to quietly dispose of.
This didn’t seem promising. How had he ended up with these people? And why?
The woman reached down toward him and he pushed himself further into the basket as his only means of escape. His body still felt abominably weak after whatever had happened. She drew back with a letter clutched in her hand and Harry realized that it had been tucked into the basket with him.
His mind struggled to process what was happening to him. His parents had been murdered. Sirius, his godfather, had apparently betrayed them to the Dark Lord. And then someone had collected him, tucked him into a basket with a note, and dropped him at this muggle place with these people that simply screamed “horrible” at a mere glance?
Why?
“The spawn of my horrible sister!” the woman was hissing, looking at him like he was some sort of demon.
And Harry had seen that look before. He was always born magical, but not always to magical parents. Twice he’d been born to human parents who had thought him a monster or a demon or possessed due to his magic, which he could not control or suppress entirely in his youth, even if he tried.
He had a feeling that his comfortable childhood was at an end.
He just hoped that he survived it. That or that they killed him soon.
When he was unceremoniously shoved into a dark cupboard under the stairs a few minutes later, he did his best to brace himself for the worst.
* * * * *
Shortly after Harry turned two Petunia held his head under the water in the bath until he was on the verge of passing out before she leapt away from him like she’d been burned and promptly ran from the room, leaving him to regain his breath and make his own shaky way out of the tub. He’d honestly thought she’d kill him then, but it seemed that she had not the courage to take his life, after all. Not like that.
From then on, he was expected to bathe without assistance.
He was four when his magic slipped his control during a very painful and uncalled-for spanking from his uncle. He wasn’t exactly sure what it had done, but he’d felt his magic surge and then his uncle had flung him to the floor and finished his punishment with hard kicks that had definitely damaged him inside. He’d been thrown into his cupboard after, and he’d watched the blood pool beneath the skin of his stomach and he’d fallen into unconsciousness, expecting death. He’d woken late the next day with a lot of pain, but the worst of the damage apparently healed by his magic while he slept.
Future spankings were carried out with a cane from as much distance as Vernon could manage.
When he was five, Dudley shoved him down the stairs. He’d ended up with a broken ankle, at least one broken rib, and a plethora of bruises, but he’d survived it. And he’d learned that the poison spouted by his parents had been sufficient that Dudley would kill him without thought simply because he’d never been taught it was wrong. His parents consistently encouraged him in his torment of Harry with no more explanation than that he was a Freak and a Burden.
Harry soon learned to be always on guard and to run fast.
When he was six, Petunia caught him upside the head with a frying pan. He was then tossed into his cupboard, vomiting, dizzy, disoriented, with a splitting headache, and certain only that there was a high chance he was going to die. Amazingly, he’d woken late the following day, a scab, a bruise, and a cake of dried blood stuck to his face, but his skull seemingly back in one piece and his brain unscrambled.
He’d learned to take more care to duck fast after that.
He couldn’t remember his magic ever being so proactive in healing him so early in his life before, without the aid of any sort of rituals to direct his magic. Though his body had to grow into his magic in each life, the magic itself was always exactly the same. The same magical signature. The same strength, honestly a bit below average. The same natural talents. Which meant the change had to have been affected by something that happened during this life. He could only guess it was related to his run-in with the Dark Lord, but he couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a result.
At seven, his uncle chucked him out of a moving car in London, and Harry figured he’d officially been kicked out.