Chapter Text
The first time Harry Potter died wasn’t when he was one.
Not when his mother had just laid down her life in order to protect him, and in doing so activated an old blood ritual that promised the unsuspecting Voldemort a pain far worse than his beloved crucio. Not when the Dark Lord stepped over her still warm body to look down at the child and point his wand towards the child now crying in his crib. His prophesied enemy was too young for his accidental magic to truly identify the other being as a threat.
When Voldemort cast the killing curse, it was not Harry Potter’s magic that protected him, but that of Lily Potters. The threat to her son's life activated the runes painted and hidden throughout the room that acted as little Harry’s final line of defense.
And as Tom Riddle started to disappear; atom by atom, he remembered why he heard so many of his Death Eaters curse the name of Lily Evan’s of the battlefield.
When the news of the Dark Lord's defeat spread through the wizarding world everyone's eyes turned to the son of Lily and James, for surely it was his power that ended the Dark Lord that night.
Everyone’s eyes but three. A traitor who fled from the ghosts of the people he betrayed; a star who had fallen from his constellation and was shackled to the cold stone of Azkaban; and a lone wolf that could only applaud Lily Evan’s brilliance when he was broken from the lonely transformations and the grief threatened to drown him.
And prior to Voldemort's death, one James Potter died knowing that the Dark Lord would come to regret underestimating his wife.
So, the first time Harry Potter died was not when Lord Voldemort made an attempt on his life on that Halloween night; no, it was five years later, when he was six.
At that age Harry hadn’t yet understood that no matter how much he wished for it, or how hard he tried to be normal he would never fit in with the Dursleys. At that age he had already been doing most of the chores by himself and he liked to think that he was quite good at them for a boy of the age of six, no matter the fact that he didn’t think that any of the other boys in his neighborhood his age were doing any chores at all, let alone the majority of them.
At the moment his aunt Petunia was in the process of teaching him how to cook.
Well, he says cook, but it was more hovering over his small form and shouting at him when he messed up. In Harry’s mind he liked to pretend that his aunt was teaching him to cook because she wanted to spend time with him, like a mother, he liked to admit only in the safety of his mind, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t how normal mothers and sons acted, so he tried his best to follow her instructions in hopes that she would at least tell him he was doing well.
He had not done well. Harry’s wandering mind had drawn his attention away from the eggs he was learning to cook, and they were burnt. His aunt's long fingers clamped around his upper hand and yanked him from the stool he was standing on. With a wince at the twinge in Harry’s knee he tried to keep up as she dragged him out of the kitchen. He had hurt his knee the month prior when he fell out of a tree trying to escape his aunt Marge’s dogs. He had landed on his knees and a month later they still ached.
(Harry doesn’t think about how the Dursleys reluctantly took him to the doctors because one of the Neighbour's saw it happen. He didn’t think about how the doctor told them to keep him off his feet for a week or two and to make sure his legs were elevated and stretched out to avoid future cramping. He didn’t think about how instead of doing those things they locked him in his cupboard for two days where his legs began to burn with the position they were forced in. He didn’t think about how after he was let out, he could barely move his legs from the all-consuming burn they ached with; how his aunt merely sniffed at his shaking form before handing him his list of chores for the day. He learned that if he wished hard enough the pain became manageable.)
“Look at what you’ve done! Dinner is ruined because of you; you useless boy!” She snapped and Harry could feel the familial build-up of tears in response to his aunt's harsh words but tried to squash them down because he knew by now at least that he would receive no sympathy from the woman.
But Harry was only a boy of six and unable to hold back, tears began to roll down his face. His aunt as predicted only looked more disgusted at the sight of his tears as she dragged him out the back door and into the yard. A small layer of snow had settled over the porch and immediately the cold began to seep into Harry’s limbs and his knees throbbed more violently.
“We’re going out to eat because you ruined dinner and while we’re gone, you’ll stay out here,” his aunt's voice grew quieter as if scared the Neighbour's would hear, “If you get cold go in the shed and don’t let anyone see you. If they do, you'll be in a world of pain, got it?” Petunia’s voice was harsh and unapologetic as if locking your child out in the cold was an acceptable punishment for burning dinner.
But Harry didn’t yet know that, so he could only offer a meek, “yes Aunt Petunia,” before he was left alone in the cold winter night. Tears of frustration began to fall as Harry curled up into a ball. Why did the Dursleys hate him so much? Dudley had a horrible temper and refused to even take his plate to the sink after meals so why was he treated so much better than Harry? Was it truly only because he was their son and Harry wasn’t? Did having the same blood really matter that much?
Harry didn’t know how long he sat there curled up under the only porch light, but it was long enough for the sun to completely set and for harsher winds to blow into the Dursley’s back garden. The only heat seemed to come from the burning sensation in Harry’s legs and he suddenly remembered his aunt told him to go in the shed if it got too cold.
He needed to go to the shed. Surely it would be warmer there, and maybe his uncle Vernon had left his lantern in there and Harry could use it to warm his freezing fingers. Harry nodded to himself from his position under the porch light and began the painful task of unfurling his legs.
A far harsher pain started to radiate from his legs, almost worse than when he first hurt them. Harry knew that couldn’t be good, but he knew there was no way the Dursley's would take him back to the doctor. As usual he scrunched his eyes closed and wished as hard as he could for the pain to go away, but unlike the usual reaction it seemed as if the cold rested harder on his shoulders and the pain in his legs became agonizing.
Why wasn’t it working?
Breathing harshly through the pain Harry slowly but surely positioned his body to stand up and suddenly the biting cold turned into a raging fever that left him sweating in his too thin clothes. He could vaguely recall reading a book that warned him about suddenly feeling warm in cold weather, but he couldn’t recall why it was so important. He just knew that he needed to reach the shed.
Harry couldn’t remember the last time the backyard felt so large; surely, he should have reached the shed by now. Opening his eyes he realised he hadn’t remembered closing them and he looked up to see the roof of the porch. He had fallen over.
His tears of frustration quickly turned to that of pain as he gingerly picked himself up off the floor, a throbbing headache quickly joined the rest of his worries as Harry clung to the railing surrounding the porch. Taking a deep breath Harry began his slow movement towards the shed, making sure to not close his eyes for too long when he blinked.
The full moon lit his path, and Harry silently thanked it in his head, he knew he always liked the full moon.
And finally, after what seemed like hours, harry made the final stumble towards the doors of the shed and he leaned heavily on the handles, once he got inside, he could warm up and maybe the throbbing pain would disappear but as he fumbled in the added darkness of his shadow, he knew something was wrong.
Looping cold metal joined the two door handles together and a familiar lock ensured Harry wouldn’t be able to get in. The Dursleys had forgotten to open the shed doors for him.
The panic that had subsided when he reached the shed built up fast and harsh breaths forced their way out of Harry when he realised he had made the trip for no reason. He should have stayed under the porch light in his little pocket of warmth. As surely there was no way for him to get warmer if he went back now, the falling snow had lightly coated his form as he made his way across the lawn and had begun to melt.
A sob forced its way out of Harry’s throat as he pushed himself away from the shed and back to the porch, he was cold and tired, and everything hurt and no matter how much he wished for it the pain wouldn’t go away.
His vision began to swim halfway back to the porch and by the time he made it back to the step up to the porch he was shaking so much his foot caught on the lip of the step and before he knew it his eyes were looking up at the same roof as he was just five minutes earlier.
Although he wasn’t old enough to completely understand what death was, he knew that what was happening wasn’t good, something bad was happening and Harry found himself unable to do anything to stop it. But tears of frustration wouldn’t fall because very quickly his body began feeling quite numb and the pain that was agonizing him started to stop bothering him.
Harry quite liked the feeling as he began to calm down and could finally take some time to admire the beauty of the full moon. Its glowing light seemed ethereal to Harry and sometimes at night when everyone else was asleep he liked to sneak out of his cupboard to sit at the window and look at the moon and the stars.
But at this moment Harry had felt closer to the moon than he ever had before, a floaty feeling came over him and he liked to think that he was flying towards the moon.
Slowly a comforting darkness began to creep around the edges of Harry’s vision, and he felt the familiar sensation of sleep settle over his eyes. Surely it would be okay for him to close his eyes for just a bit; just until the Dursleys came back and let him inside. Harry felt comfortable with this decision and as if agreeing a blanket of warmth settled over his limbs and for once, since being left on the steps of the Dursleys house Harry Potter felt no ache of pain settling in his bones.
So, in the comforting light of the moon and on the first snow of the colder months of the year, exactly five years and one month after Lily Potter gave her life to protect her sons, Harry Potter closed his eyes and death settled over him.