Chapter Text
Let me start off by saying this; no one wants to be Harry Potter. Not even Harry Potter wants to be Harry Potter. I most definitely don’t want to be Harry Potter. But here I am, a full grown adult stuck in the body of a newborn Harry Potter. Faced with grown-up feelings, I do what all babies do. Cry.
Life with the Potters is good, as far as I can tell. Consciousness comes and goes, but that's to be expected. My first word is ‘foo’, which my father vehemently denies is for Padfoot, but a tiny baby pointing at Sirius (and god, he’s so handsome!) dispels that notion. Mama is my second, but I take pity on James and ‘dadi’ is my third. I then absolutely abuse the fact that James will respond to it, and every time I see him it’s ‘dadi, dadi, dadi!’ If I were not so irresistibly cute, I’m pretty sure Lily would’ve strangled me by now. And look; I’m walking! Ha! Mobility!
Mom chases me around the house, Sirius makes the decision to get me my first broom, and I look at him like he hung the stars in the sky. And then I take to the skies (it’s like, 3 feet, but c’mon, I’m a baby) and everyone regrets it. I am a menace. I chase our ugly ginger cat around, dart between furniture, and then. And then. My first bout of accidental magic. I’m sitting on the broom, which I have designated as my favorite spot in the house, when Wormtail makes an appearance. Ugh. I am taken off of my broom (rude!) and deposited into the Rat’s hands. I look him dead in the eyes, and sneeze. Fire.
Yeah, I fuckin’ Iroh’d the Rat.
Unfortunately for the plot, he lives due to James’ quick thinking with an aguamenti. There’s some token worrying over the Rat, but then there’s cooing. Baby’s first accidental magic is apparently a big milestone for Wixen. One that’s not expected until they’re five. I am not five. I am somewhere around 14 months old. A look passed between my parents, who have certainly heard Dumbledore’s whole ‘one with the power to vanquish the dark lord’ spiel by now. They seem to be buying it, and we go under the Fidelidus the very same week. With the Rat as the secret keeper. Fingers crossed the timeline doesn’t speed up or we’re all screwed.
A month later, it’s Halloween. And what’s fated to happen happens. My father is killed on the stairs, buying precious seconds for my mother and I. In the nursery, holding me close, is mom. She tells me she loves me, and puts me in the cot. She stands in front of it. She begs Voldemort to kill her, not me, and he refuses. A bolt of green later, and she’s gone. My mama is gone. Beautiful, kind, loving Lily is dead. And I may still be a baby, but I look at Voldemort with all the rage I can muster, a snarl on my face. If I die today, it will be known that I fought to the bitter end.
But I don’t.
The killing curse rebounds, hits Voldemort, and all hell breaks loose.
If you’ve ever wondered what having a parasitic soul shard embed itself into your head might feel like, I can tell you. Pain. Nothing but absolutely gut wrenching, burns so hot it’s cold pain. This must be what the cruciatus feels like. All consuming, like fire ants and being flayed. That’s what Sirius walks in to. A mother dead, a tyrant vanquished (temporarily) and a baby, his godson, screaming in pain. He does what little he can do. He picks me up, rocks me, speaks gently. But nothing will fix this. My mama and dadi are dead. Gone forever to a place I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go. I will never see them again, and that hurts almost worse than the physical pain. But what hurts the most, out of all of it, is when I’m helpless to stop Sirius from handing me over to Hagrid. I scream louder, I call for ‘Pa’foo!’ but an enraged Black with a bone to pick is nothing to be trifled with. Blood will out, I suppose. I close my eyes, and then there’s nothing.
When I wake up, it’s to a screech. Petunia. I’ve been here a second and I already hate it. I look up to her with Lily’s big, watery eyes. ‘Please love me’ they say. Nothing. No response from the Harpy. There will be no love in our relationship. Okay, fine. I tried. Your loss.
I’m not a fussy baby. I take what’s offered, let Dudley play with all the toys, and try not to think about my Godfather. Get yourself together. He’s having a much harder time. My adult brain tells me. My baby brain hates this, and just wants it’s Padfoo.
The first time Dudley pushes me to the ground, he’s congratulated by Vernon. The Walrus. Petunia does nothing, as always. I want to cry. This is not how families are supposed to be. This is not right. I feel the tell-tale fire in my blood that comes with rage, and a picture frame drops straight onto Dudley’s fat head. Maybe it’s willful blindness, but I am not blamed. “The picture wasn’t hung right, Vernon!” the Harpy screeches, coddling her crying son. In the face of his wife, the walrus pales, and does what he does best. Make things worse. “Now listen here,” he begins, when another picture frame falls off the wall and smacks him in the back of the head. Petunia and I both snort, and then she’s laughing so Dudley laughs and Vernon sighs in defeat. The picture of a perfect family. (If you pretend I’m not there.)
I’m three when Petunia puts me in front of the frying pan and tells me to cook. I am balanced on a stool, but still manage to give her a look. Gurl, I am three. I do not know how to cook. I mean, I do, but I don’t wanna and I’m gonna milk this being a baby thing for as long as I can. Petunia sighs, and sharply explains what I am meant to do. She doesn’t bother telling me the frying pan is hot, or that I could burn my hand. Bitch. The first two eggs are a disaster, brown edges and raw in the middle. I can tell her patience with me is thinning, so I get the next one right.
I’m five when Dudley and I start Primary. Dudley doesn’t like me, and because he’s a big bully no one wants to be my friend. Not that I wanted to be friends with five-year-olds, but it would be nice to have options. So when recess comes around, I climb high into the trees and read. The teacher tells my Aunt that I’m not very social. Petunia doesn’t care, but pretends she does for her vanity’s sake. I put on my best good boy voice, and tell the adults that I like books more than people, because people aren’t very rational. Aaand now I’m a bitty genius. Fuck. Petunia likes this, because isn’t she a saint for putting up with her weird nephew? She also thinks, now, that any weirdness will be attributed to my intelligence and not my freakishness. Plus, I’m no longer expected to associate with my classmates, which is brilliant because holy frick five-year-olds are annoying. A win-win.
So here’s the thing; I know when I’m about to do magic. It happens when I’m angry. So when I’m seven and Marge comes over, Ripper biting at her heels I know it's going to be a disaster. The dog hates me. Despises me. I want to love the dog, but he obviously is evil incarnate and I’m not touching that. Dudley and I are shuffled outside with him while the adults talk. Ripper makes a show of sitting, but as soon as the adults are gone he’s off like a rocket, chasing me around the yard. Dudley is delighted, this is prime entertainment for him. And then I trip, and the hellhound is on me, and I feel the blood-fire and wish Dudley was in my place. A cold second later and he is. We switched places. I shuishined. Holy SHIT I can do Jutsu! Is my first thought. My second is ‘oh shit’ because Dudley had just been bitten by Ripper. So I shake myself off and rush inside, yelling about Ripper going crazy. “He was chasing me and then all of a sudden he went after Dudley!” Dudley, who has never had anything more than a skinned knee, is bawling. “He, he was there-” sobs “and then he was here-” more sobs. “It was, it was like Magic!”
Suddenly everything is quiet. You could hear a pin drop, and it’s a full three seconds before I hear myself saying “Don’t be ridiculous, Dudley. There’s no such thing.” Petunia whips around to face me, incredulous. Could it be, her mind whispers. Dare I hope?
Vernon backs me up, surprisingly. “Of course, yes, no such thing. You’re in shock, yes. We think oddly when we’re hurt. No magic. Not here.” He glances at me, and I roll my eyes. As if to say, obviously, that’s not logical and I’m all about science and stuff.
I’m treated much better after that. I’m moved into Dudley’s second bedroom with minimal fuss. Petunia seems convinced that she has managed to do the impossible. Make the freak normal. So I indulge her, pretending right along. She plays the doting Aunt in public and I play the shy genius. I memorise lots of astronomy facts, and help Dudley build his solar system for class. I, on the other hand, turn in a paper detailing the history of the discovery of the solar system. From Ptolemaic theory to the bit where Galleleo was was killed for publicly agreeing with Copernicus, who had mathematically proved the heliocentric theory first put forward by Aristachus of Samos (Greece) about a thousand years earlier.
It went way, way over everyone’s head, but firmly cemented me as a genius. And life continued on.
So, here’s the thing. Once I had figured out I could do Jutsu, I wracked my head for every Naruto memory I could find, and focused on that. Memorised the hand signs, did some chakra exercises like the leaf-sticking one, and built up my reserves. At first, my magic was a little hesitant. Like it wasn't exactly sure it was allowed to do this. But slowly, begrudgingly, it adapted. ‘Power the dark lord knows not’ and all that. Besides, it’s magic, which as far as I can tell is limited only by your own creativity. And I am nothing if not creative. One is forced to be creative when they’re bored 24/7. And bored as I was during classes, I began doodling. Circle, circle, bigger circle - wait. Dug up from some dusty part of my brain, I had accidentally recreated the Owl House glyphs. And then the science part of my brain caught up. Atoms. Electrons, that’s what the Glyphs looked like! And if magic can influence elemental materials… I can learn Alchemy. Amestrian alchemy. A devilish smile appears on my young face.
Oh no, no no. Fate seems to say. Please don’t do that. Harry. Harry no.
And somewhere in France, Nicholas Flamel shudders.
By the time I was about to turn 11, I had accomplished a lot;
Mastered the academy three (kawrami, bushin, and transformation)
Re-created all of the Glyphs, and written them onto notecards for easy use
Memorised a shit ton about elements, the periodic table, and created a ‘guidebook’ of Amestrian Alchemy.
My magic had adapted to mold chakra, eagerly filled the glyphs (and god, was the little light bubble great!), and took to Alchemy like a fish to water. Firmly confident in my abilities, I was ready to re-enter the Wixen world. And take it by storm.