The world was broken.
The skies above Britain were not dark because of the hour—they were blackened by ash, smoke, and the thunderous wings of monsters that didn't belong to this world. London burned, not with the orange flames of fire, but with green and violet hellfire. Where once stood Parliament now writhed a demon nest. And where once flew owls now circled gargoyle beasts with ember eyes and iron teeth.
Skies choked with black flame. The scent of ozone, sulfur, and blood thick in the air. Once-familiar landmarks—Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, even Hogwarts—were reduced to craters and ruin, buried under demonic spires and unholy glyphs that pulsed with red light. Magic had not been enough.
Harry stood at the edge of the battlefield, swaying. His skin was scorched. His robes torn to ribbons. Blood caked his temple. Every breath hurt.
He wasn't sure how long he had been fighting.
But there was no time to rest.
In the distance, the Black Gate loomed—an unnatural monolith of obsidian obsidian and writhing flesh, fused with bone and screaming faces. It pulsed like a heart, and at its base stood Voldemort.
Harry's lips parted, but no words came. His throat was raw from shouting spells, battle commands, and eulogies.
It hadn't always been like this.
There had been a time—brief and distant—when Harry thought they had a chance. When the Second Wizarding War ended, he believed peace would last. But peace was just the silence before the scream.
No one knew when Voldemort first made contact. Maybe it was in one of the countless rituals he'd performed to anchor his soul. Maybe he had whispered into the void and something whispered back. Whatever it was… he didn't just return.
He descended.
The Tom Riddle Harry had known—cruel, brilliant, power-hungry—was consumed by something older. He didn't want to just conquer the wizarding world anymore. He wanted to unmake it. The demons, bound to ancient contracts lost to mortal memory, had answered his call. And Voldemort, ever the opportunist, offered himself as their key.
He became the vessel.
The herald.
The gate.
And when the Black Gate was carved open with the blood of thousands, the Demon King descended.
They called him Thar'Zhul—the Ash-Eyed Tyrant, the First Flame. His magic wasn't like theirs. It devoured spells like candy. He twisted time in his hands and bent reality as a child bends clay. Nations fell within days. Muggles and wizards, once separate, fought together—not out of unity, but necessity.
In the final year, even Hogwarts was weaponized. Its hallowed halls turned into war rooms and triage centers. Its founders' relics turned into tools of war. Luna died protecting the first children's evacuation. Hermione died breaking the third seal with a sacrificial rite. Ron died in Harry's arms.
And Harry... Harry endured.
Now, here, at the edge of the Gate, he was all that remained.
He saw Voldemort—no, the thing that used to be Voldemort. His skin was cracked obsidian, veins glowing with hellfire. Spiked wings arched from his back. His voice echoed in an unholy choir when he spoke.
"Harry Potter. The Last Light. Come to fail as they did?"
Harry's hands trembled around the broken Elder Wand. "You were human once."
Voldemort smiled, and something screamed from within his chest.
"I evolved."
They clashed.
Harry hurled spell after spell—enchanted steel, raw lightning, sacred flame—but Voldemort tore through them like they were parchment. A single counterspell split a mountain in two behind them. When Voldemort struck, Harry tasted blood.
He kept going.
Every memory was fuel. His mother's lullaby. His father's proud grin. Ginny's tears when they buried Fred. Neville's broken arm after the fall of Ireland. The laughter of children too young to understand war.
He wouldn't let it end like this.
Then came the Demon King.
Thar'Zhul emerged through the Gate—a towering horror of burning bone and endless eyes. Just seeing him made the ground weep molten tears. Magic died in his presence. Voldemort laughed, triumphant, as his form began to unravel—becoming one with the monster he summoned.
And Harry…
Harry reached into the void of his soul and pulled out a single last spell.
Not an attack.
A seal.
Crafted in ancient druidic runes, empowered by the last Phoenix tear, and ignited by his very soul, the spell was suicidal. But effective. It wasn't meant to kill Thar'Zhul. Just to close the door and drag him—and his vessel—back inside.
Voldemort screamed as the chains of soul-bond wrapped around him. Thar'Zhul roared in anger, lashing out, cracking the earth in defiance.
Harry, bleeding and broken, threw himself into the Gate with them.
A moment of pain. A thousand voices screaming. Fire. Cold. And then—
Silence.
Harry floated in darkness.
He felt… tired. But warm. A strange comfort settled in his chest.
Maybe I did it, he thought. Maybe this is enough.
The last face he imagined was Ginny's, smiling in springtime.
Then—
A pull. Like something grabbing his soul and yanking it sideways, not up or down. A lurch. A twist. A scream of the world bending to an unknown will.
Harry gasped—
He awoke in a bed. Warm sheets. A strange ceiling.
"Harry!"
A voice. Female. Familiar.
He turned. Lily Potter burst through the door, eyes red with tears. Behind her, James Potter shouted in anger. "You could have killed her, Harry! What were you thinking?!"
Harry blinked. He looked at his hands. Smaller. Softer. Then the memories hit him like a flood—memories that weren't his.
A second Harry. This world's Harry.
Selfish. Jealous. Bitter. A boy who resented his younger sister for being more gifted, who tried to curse her with their mother's wand—only to backfire and fall unconscious.
This wasn't heaven.
It wasn't even peace.
Harry's breath hitched. His mind reeled. He tried to speak, but everything blurred. Lily's arms were warm around him. And it wasn't fair.
Because he had died to save the world.
And somehow, he'd woken up in the body of someone who didn't deserve it.[A/N: To Harry Potter his family was the most important thing. He didn't have one and if he ever had someone to grant him a wish he would wish to have his family back yet seeing someone have the most important thing he couldn't have yet not caring about it makes this Harry feel angry]
Then—
Darkness again.
He passed out, overwhelmed by two lifetimes crashing into one fragile mind.
Pain bloomed slowly behind his eyes as consciousness returned. A rhythmic beeping accompanied the sterile scent of potions and magical antiseptics. The hospital ward. But not St. Mungo's. This wasn't the war zone he remembered. This place was quiet. Clean. Intact.
Harry stirred, and immediately, a sharp throb at the back of his head reminded him—this wasn't his body. Not the one that bled in battle, not the one that held the weight of a war. This one was smaller. Softer.
Ten years old. He could feel it in his bones.
The door burst open with a slam that made his heartbeat spike.
"Harry James Potter!" James Potter's voice cracked through the quiet like thunder. "Do you even understand what you were doing?!"
Behind him, Lily appeared—her eyes red from worry, her hands wringing nervously as she tried to catch up.
Harry blinked, dazed. He recognized them both. They looked so young. So alive.
His mother. His father. Both of them.
Memories of a different time clashed with the present—fire and blood overlaying comfort and concern.
"I—I don't…" Harry sat up weakly, trying to collect his thoughts. "What happened?"
James stalked closer, eyes furious. "You tried to levitate your sister with your mother's wand! You nearly broke her arm!"
"I…" Harry's words caught. He didn't remember doing that.
Because he didn't.
That must've been this world's Harry. The jealous one. The one who'd tried to hurt his sister.
Lily grabbed James's arm. "James—stop. Let him talk."
"I don't remember anything," Harry lied, grasping the only lifeline he could find. "I swear. I don't even remember coming here."
His mother's eyes softened instantly. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"
The mediwitch stepped in just then, flipping through a small parchment chart at the foot of his bed. "Well, it could be true. The magical backlash from that wand misfire was severe. He was unconscious for nearly four days. Mild memory disorientation is common after such accidents."
James scoffed but looked uncertain now. "You don't remember anything?"
Harry shook his head slowly. "Just… pain. Then I woke up."
Lily took his hand gently, visibly relieved. "It's all right. You're safe now."
Safe. Was he?
Harry stared at their faces, his heart a storm of emotions. It was too much. His parents were alive. This world—so wrong in the right ways.
And he was here.
In a body that didn't belong to him. In a life that wasn't his.
They discharged him later that afternoon with instructions for rest and a follow-up with their family healer. James remained distant during the trip home, glancing at him with suspicion. Lily stayed close, occasionally brushing his hair back from his forehead as if reassuring herself he was still there.
Harry sat in the backseat of their enchanted car, staring out the window as they approached their home.
It was strange.
Cozy.
Alive.
He didn't know what to do with that.
What did a dead war hero do in the life of a bitter child?
What could he do?
He would have to figure it out—and quickly.
Because this world wasn't what he expected.
And he wasn't who they thought he was.
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