The soft morning light poured in through the tall windows of the Gryffindor dormitory, casting warm gold across the room. Harry stirred awake, the unfamiliar canopy bed and deep red drapes a surreal reminder that he was no longer in Privet Drive — nor in the war-torn nightmare he had once called reality. This was Hogwarts. But not his Hogwarts.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, letting the quiet of the early morning settle over him. His body still felt light, too small, too soft. He was ten years old again, in a world where Voldemort hadn't marked him as the Boy Who Lived. That role belonged to someone else now — Neville Longbottom.
The boy he remembered as clumsy and shy had carried the weight of prophecy here. Harry couldn't help but wonder what kind of changes that decision had rippled through the world.
His thoughts drifted to his family. Lily and James. His parents. They were alive. So was his little sister, Lilian. She wasn't at Hogwarts yet — still too young — but she would be, one day. In the past year, he had done everything he could to repair the damage the previous Harry had done. The jealousy. The anger. The constant comparisons to a sister more gifted in magic. A part of him still burned in guilt when he recalled those memories.
He had apologized. Again and again.
It hadn't made everything perfect. His father still watched him with a wary eye at times. Lilian barely spoke more than a few words yet it was at least better then before. But his mother—Lily—she smiled now. She had hugged him tight before he boarded the train. That alone had made the entire second chance worth it.
Harry stood, pulling on his robes. The castle was quieter than he remembered it. He'd arrived yesterday among a tide of wide-eyed first years, and despite how familiar every corridor and portrait was, everything still felt different. Maybe it was because he wasn't the center of attention this time. No rumors. No whispers. No expectations.
He was just Harry Potter. No titles. No prophecy. No scarred destiny waiting to devour him.
And he liked it that way.
Down in the common room, he passed a few yawning students, most of them still curled up by the hearth or sleepily chatting before breakfast. He gave a polite nod and moved toward the portrait hole. The Fat Lady smiled as he approached.
"Up bright and early, dear?" she asked.
Harry gave her a grin. "Trying to make a good impression."
She chuckled and swung open. "Off you go, then."
The hallways were nearly empty. He wandered a little, letting his feet take him through memories both painful and comforting. The staircases were still just as chaotic, shifting lazily as if they could sense no urgent class schedule to disrupt. He glanced outside through the high arched windows. The lake shimmered with the morning sun, and Hagrid's hut sat squat and quiet in the distance.
A wave of nostalgia struck him. He remembered walking these halls with Ron and Hermione. Remembered arguing about homework, stumbling into forbidden corridors, and preparing for battle. Here, now, none of that had happened. Ron was just a cheerful boy from a large family. Hermione — he hadn't even spoken to her yet. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.
He wasn't ready to pull them back into it. Not again.
He reached the Great Hall, where the long tables were beginning to fill with students and platters of food. The enchanted ceiling above reflected the clear morning sky, dotted with a few drifting clouds.
Harry took a seat near the end of the Gryffindor table. He recognized a few faces from the train, but no one sat too close yet. That was fine. Better to ease in slowly.
His thoughts began to wander, as they often did — to the war, to the friends he'd lost, to the demons Voldemort had called down. That world had been brutal, almost apocalyptic. He had fought in the streets of Muggle cities alongside tanks and Aurors, battled corrupted wizards and demonspawn alike, watched entire villages vanish into fire.
He shook the thoughts away. He wasn't there anymore. That world was gone.
Here, Voldemort was dead or at least dormant. The demons had never been summoned. There was no magical apocalypse waiting on the horizon.
…Probably.
Harry still didn't know why he had been sent here. A second chance? A cosmic mistake? A reward for his sacrifice? He doubted he'd ever get a clear answer.
He looked down at his plate, only half-focused on his toast. This world didn't need the hero he used to be. It needed him to be a boy again. A student. A brother and a Good Son
He'd do his best to become that.
Even if the past never quite let go.
---
Classes began.
Harry had expected the nostalgia to hit hard, but the sensation was more surreal than anything. Everything felt like echoes—memories walking beside him, whispering reminders of a life no one else remembered.
Charms class was first, and Professor Flitwick looked the same: barely taller than the desk he stood behind, bright-eyed and excited as ever. The man gave Harry a warm smile as he marked his name off the list.
Harry returned it politely and sat near the middle, careful not to draw too much attention. He remembered acing this class before—he'd been quite good at Charms. But now, he let himself fumble, mimicking the clumsiness expected of a first-year student. He wasn't here to impress anyone. Not yet.
Across the room, Hermione raised her hand at every question. Neville sat near the front, a little stiff, as if trying to live up to something. And Ron… Ron was snickering at Seamus's failed attempt to levitate a feather.
The trio.
But not the same.
Harry kept to himself, answering when called, laughing softly at the right times. It was strange, this deliberate effort to stay small. But he'd made a promise to himself. No more rushing into spotlights. No more leading charges.
The world didn't need him to be that version of Harry anymore.
After Charms came Herbology, where he was paired with a Hufflepuff girl who cheerfully did most of the work while he nodded along. In Potions, he did his best to avoid eye contact with Professor Snape. But Snape's cold gaze didn't skip him entirely. There were brief moments where Snape's eyes lingered on Harry longer than the others—an undercurrent of something between contempt and reluctant interest, the kind that only those who remember his mother could feel.
Snape's scorn was sharper toward Neville Longbottom, but the flickers of attention toward Harry unsettled him just enough.
Harry caught the subtle tension in the classroom. It was like seeing a familiar play performed with the roles swapped. Once, that hatred had been aimed directly at him. Now, it had shifted onto the Boy Who Lived.
Still, it felt wrong to see Neville stumbling through answers while Snape needled at him. Unfair. But Harry didn't step in. Not yet.
By lunch, he was tired — not from the classes, but from the careful balancing act of pretending to be someone new. A normal boy. A quiet one.
In the Great Hall, he ate alone again, though some of the other Gryffindors had started to greet him in passing. Dean Thomas offered him a seat, and Harry joined, making small talk. He wasn't unfriendly. Just guarded.
He couldn't afford to get close too quickly.
The afternoon was free for first years. Most students wandered the grounds or explored the castle. Harry slipped away to the edge of the Black Lake, sitting under the shade of a tall pine tree. The air was crisp, the breeze soft. Peaceful.
He leaned back against the trunk, watching the reflection of clouds ripple in the water.
This wasn't his fight anymore.
But the thoughts crept in anyway. Not of war. Of family.
He hadn't written to them yet.
The sun had dipped low when he finally returned to the common room. Students crowded the fireplace, playing chess, studying, laughing. A few nodded to him as he passed. He nodded back.
As he climbed the stairs to his dormitory, he felt the weight of the day pressing down. The effort of pretending to be someone smaller. The ache of memories that didn't belong to this world.
But he was here.
He had time.
Tomorrow, he'd try again.
-------
The castle buzzed with whispers and excitement as Harry entered the Great Hall for lunch. The chatter was mostly about the same thing: Draco Malfoy had challenged Neville Longbottom to a duel.
Harry scanned the room and spotted Neville, sitting stiffly with Ron Weasley at his side, looking nervous but determined.
Hermione, ever the peacemaker, was already talking to the two boys as Harry approached.
"It's ridiculous," Hermione said, arms crossed tightly. "Malfoy's just trying to get you all into trouble."
Ron frowned. "But if we don't show up, he wins by default."
Neville bit his lip. "I just want to prove I'm not some joke. But… dueling at night? It's dangerous."
Harry nodded slowly. "Malfoy's probably counting on that. He wants us caught and penalized, and for his own house points to stay clean."
That night, under the cloak of darkness, Neville and Ron crept through the castle grounds, wands at the ready.
In a shadowed courtyard, Malfoy waited smirking, accompanied by a few Slytherins who chuckled quietly.
The duel began, spells flashing faintly in the moonlight, but the nervousness in Neville's movements was clear.
Suddenly, the distant bell of the caretaker's rounds echoed—someone was coming.
Malfoy's grin widened. "Looks like trouble's coming."
And sure enough, a group of professors appeared, led by Professor McGonagall, stern and unamused.
"What is going on here?" she demanded sharply.
Neville and Ron stammered explanations about the duel, while Malfoy feigned innocence, claiming he was only defending himself.
The professors' eyes narrowed, but they quickly realized what had happened.
"Dueling on school grounds without permission, and at night? This is serious," McGonagall said firmly.
Malfoy's face paled when she added, "And you, Mr. Malfoy, are involved in this mischief. This won't be overlooked."
The students were led inside, the air thick with tension.
Back in the common room, Harry looked at his friends. "Malfoy set this up to get you in trouble—and to throw house points around."
Hermione sighed. "We'll have to deal with the consequences, but we can't let him think he's won."
Ron clenched his fists. "Next time, we'll be ready."
Harry felt a quiet determination settle inside him. This wasn't just about house points or petty rivalries—it was about standing up, even when the odds were stacked.
The next morning brought with it a heavy silence. The news had spread—Neville, Ron, Malfoy, and, surprisingly, Harry Potter were all to serve detention. House points had been deducted, tempers were high, and the Gryffindor common room buzzed with whispered complaints.
"Midnight. Forbidden Forest," Ron read aloud from the notice pinned outside McGonagall's office. "We're not even allowed near it, and now we're going in?"
Hermione shook her head disapprovingly. "Honestly. Malfoy tricked you, and now you're all paying the price."
Neville stood stiff and pale. The scar on his forehead—a zigzag barely hidden beneath his fringe—seemed to throb.
That night, the four boys gathered near Hagrid's hut. The half-giant was already waiting, holding a lantern.
"Right then," Hagrid rumbled. "Yeh broke school rules, so it's into the Forest. Something's been hurtin' the unicorns. We're goin' to find out what."
"Unicorns?" Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "You're joking."
"If yeh don't like it, I'll just leave yeh out there alone," Hagrid muttered.
The groups were split: Hagrid with Harry and Neville, while Ron was paired—unfortunately—with Malfoy and the boarhound Fang.
The forest was darker than night. Twisting branches loomed overhead, and the thick air muffled even their footsteps. Hagrid's lantern swayed, casting long shadows.
Harry said little, his eyes scanning the gloom. Neville walked beside him, lips pressed in a tight line, fingers twitching around his wand.
"Yeh see that?" Hagrid whispered, pointing at silver liquid glistening on a leaf. "Unicorn blood."
Neville swallowed hard. Harry frowned. There was something off—something wrong with the silence.
Not long after, a piercing scream tore through the woods.
"Ron!" Harry gasped.
"That came from the other group!" Hagrid yelled. "Run!"
They bolted through the thickets and brush, crashing through roots and low branches until they found Ron, out of breath and pale.
"Something—it was drinking from a unicorn," he gasped, pointing back through the trees.
They reached the clearing and froze.
The unicorn lay in a silvery pool of its own blood. Above it loomed a dark-robed figure, crouched and feeding on the shimmering life beneath.
Neville suddenly let out a sharp cry, grabbing his forehead, eyes wide with pain. He stumbled backward.
"Bloody hell—Neville!" Harry caught his arm.
The figure turned. Its face was hidden, but the air grew colder, heavier, as if something ancient had stirred.
Before it could approach, a centaur burst into the clearing. Firenze. Golden and powerful, he reared and charged, and the shadow hissed before vanishing into the dark.
Neville panted, clutching his scar. Harry glanced at him, alarmed. "You okay?"
"It—it hurt," Neville managed, wiping sweat from his brow. "It hasn't hurt like that in years..."
Firenze looked at him seriously. "You bear the mark of a prophecy, young Longbottom. But this night was not meant to be your end."
Back at the castle, the boys walked in silence. Even Malfoy said nothing. The detentions had turned into something far more terrifying than losing house points.
That night, Harry lay awake in his four-poster bed.
Neville had the scar. Neville had cried out in pain.
In this world, Voldemort had chosen someone else and I need to do something about it before everything goes to hell lest what happens repeats again in this world
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