His life at the orphanage was neither comfortable nor awful.

It had been thirteen years since he had been living here. Hope Orphanage – the only home he'd ever known.

Fourteen was a comparatively higher age for a person to still be living in an orphanage, particularly when one had been there since infancy. However, as luck had in store for him, none of the couples who came for adoption went for him. Perhaps it was because of the ugly scar on his forehead, but he was never chosen.

He didn't know who his parents were. The warden had told him that he had found him on the doorstep of the orphanage thirteen years ago on a dark, Halloween night. Ever since then, he had been brought up under Mr. Campbell's tender care.

At least until the old warden's death when he was six.

The new warden was a diminutive old woman who had never been nice to him. Ever since he could recall, she always blamed him for whatever went wrong in the orphanage. Agreed that he didn't help his case either.

After Mr. Campbell's death, the other kids often tried to bully him. They started to hit him, chase him around, burn or throw his toys, and even trip him when he was carrying his food.

Harry didn't hesitate in retaliating. He didn't know how it happened, but the other kids often ran away crying to Mrs. Wilkins who would hit him instead. His young brain couldn't understand why he was the one getting punished when they were the ones bullying him.

It went on for months, and Harry stopped caring. They would bully him, and Harry would do whatever he somehow did. They would go crying to Mrs. Wilkins who would punish him. It became a cycle, never-ending.

At least until he had finally had enough.

A rich couple had come for adoption, but they wanted a young kid. One look and the lady had fallen for him, and Harry had for the first time in his life felt excited at the prospect of having a mum and a dad.

Mrs. Wilkins had filled the couple's ears with tales of how he was a terrible child who would be the shame of their good name. Harry's heart shattered when the couple went without a child and never came back.

He holed himself in his room for a full day without any food or social interaction until Mrs. Wilkins had the door torn down and forcefully dragged him out.

It was a stormy night and no one was out. Mrs. Wilkins was shouting at him, the cane she used to discipline him with broken and discarded near the staircase as Harry lay on the floor, battered and bruised. He didn't know why this woman hated him so much. He had never done anything to her. She never punished his bullies, never allowed him to have any sweets on Sundays, and never let him have a toy during the monthly haul. Instead, she punished him whenever those idiots went crying to her.

Yes, he did something to them. But he didn't know how it happened. One moment they would be kicking him, and in an instant, they would be crying out in pain as they rolled on the floor. Harry didn't even believe that they were in any pain. They could be acting for all he knew. But the woman didn't believe him. She didn't even listen to him.

As Mrs. Wilkins had finally had enough and she glared at him before turning around to retire for the night, Harry felt so much anger at this woman that he couldn't explain.

The next morning, Mrs. Wilkins' body was found at the bottom of the stairs. Her neck was broken as she lay there. The stairs had a slipper of hers near one-half of that accursed cane, and the authorities concluded that the woman had tripped over the wood in darkness and fallen over.

Ever since that day, Harry had withdrawn from everyone. He didn't talk to any other kid, and all the other children in the orphanage seemed to steer clear of him. It was an unspoken truth. Everyone knew what had happened to Mrs. Wilkins. No one dared to speak it out loud.

Harry had four bullies, and all of them left the orphanage within a month after that incident. The new warden was another middle-aged woman who quickly grew wary of him once she heard the tales and saw a few events herself. However, she never spoke to him. Harry was happy with that approach.

In his self-imposed isolation from the masses, Harry started to spend his time in the library. He loved fantasy books, and he often dreamt about gathering those orbs of power between his hands and throwing those energy balls at his enemies.

He knew there was something different about him. There was no way those things that happened around him were accidents. However, he had no idea how he did it all.

He recalled all the peculiar incidents that had happened around him.

Once, he was being chased by those bullies and he had somehow vanished from the field and appeared on the fifth floor of the orphanage building. Another time, he had somehow broken Mrs. Wilkins' pot of marigolds that she kept well preserved after a beating.

There were many other incidents to recall, but the moments when he had made those bullies feel so much pain that they rolled on the floor or when he had somehow made them leave the orphanage were the most prominent.

He tried not to recall when he had somehow made Mrs. Wilkins jump off the stairs.

Frowning, he tried to remember how he did everything, only to come up empty. He read through the books for any guidance, hoping against hope that these fantasy books had any answer, but apart from some nonsensical mumbo jumbo that always made him roll his eyes, there was nothing of note.

Stumped, he put the books back on the racks and shut the door to the library before walking out. A soft wind was blowing over the field outside, and he saw a few kids playing cricket. He had no interest in joining them.

The walk back to his room required him to cross the field, and with a soft sigh, he started walking. He crossed the field, ignoring how every activity stopped once he came in sight. He had almost made it to the end of the field when he felt more than saw something coming towards him at a rapid pace.

He didn't know how he did it, but his hand flicked back in an instant and he swatted the tennis ball away with a force powerful enough to make the boy behind him grunt in pain.

Blood poured down the boy's face as his teeth broke and a loud wail rang out around the field. The other kids were shocked still, staring at the wailing boy before two of his friends quickly ran over to help him over to the nurse's room.

Harry kept staring at the boys as they walked away. None would meet his eyes, not that he wanted them to. His mind was racing with the thought of what had just happened. His mind lost in his thoughts, he let his legs carry him over to his room and closed the door behind him once he entered.

He quickly sat on his bed and closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of it filling his arm at that moment.

He was in danger of being hit with that ball, and somehow, his body reacted on its own. He had felt it in his hand as he swatted the ball back. He didn't know what it was. He just called this power 'It'. However, now he knew how he felt when he was using it.

Harry decided to start small. He quickly pulled out a sock from the rack on his left and placed it on the bed before holding his arm over it. He willed himself to feel the same feeling in his arm with every fiber of his being. Eyes boring into the sock, he tried to force that feeling. Nothing happened.

Harry refused to give up. He had finally understood how it had felt when he was using it, and he was going to replicate it.

During the next week, Harry spent all his time trying to feel that feeling again. The other kids had thought that he would go after the kid who had attacked him out of nowhere on the field, but Harry didn't even think about it. Instead, all his time was devoted to feeling it once again. Nothing happened, but Harry didn't give up.

So far, he had used it purely by accident. However, he wanted to control it now. For too long people had treated him like dirt. No more. He would master it and become powerful enough that no one would harm him again.

It happened after six days of continuous efforts on his part, but Harry observed something. A small movement of the sock as it rose a few millimeters in the air before dropping again.

It was nothing, but the beaming smile on his face said otherwise. It was his first bit of progress, and Harry was not going to stop anytime soon.

Over the next few weeks, Harry continued to practice. Willing it to fill his arm, he was able to levitate the sock with ease after one more week. Once he finished with the sock, he progressed to two socks. Two socks were followed by one shoe which became two shoes by the end of another week. As the mass of the objects increased, so did the effort it required for him to do it. However, Harry didn't relent. He had finally found something, and he was going to master it.

Five years had passed since that month which changed his life forever, and a fourteen-year-old Harry Potter was running on the sidewalk as he hastened to fulfill the delivery.

He had taken up a job at a local eatery that had been looking for delivery boys. Life had taught him how important money was, and he knew he would not be living at the orphanage forever. The pay was okay for him to rent a small shared room with someone and pay for his studies when he officially started, and he was already saving.

Currently, Harry was studying on his own. He was by no means a prodigy but he felt he did alright, particularly when he realized he could help a few high schoolers with their homework when they came to the eatery during the evenings.

He quickly knocked on the door and waited. This order was a bit further from his regular route, so he had to take a bus to come over and deliver. An old woman opened the door.

"Your order, ma'am," he handed the parcel over. The lady took the bag and thanked him as she handed the cash over. Harry nodded and turned around as the door closed behind him.

"Well, another hour in the bus," he sighed as he started walking toward the bus stop. It was unusually sunny today, and Harry fixed his cap once again as he walked before he suddenly paused.

"Huh? What was that?" He muttered to himself as he looked around. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. He was about to walk away when he saw it again.

"Wait what?"

Wide-eyed, he walked off the main road into the alley beside the demolished building and his eyes widened.

There was no demolished building. Instead, it was a dingy-looking pub with some weird people loitering around.

"Where did this come from?" He whispered as he looked around. He didn't know when he had started walking until he was already inside the pub.

Wide-eyed, he took in the people milling about and his eyes instantly focused on a boy slightly older than himself holding a stick and levitating a plate of bacon over a table.

"He's using it," Harry whispered to himself. He had so many questions. How was this possible? He thought he was special, but so many other people could use it as well.

Harry's brain took a second to reboot as he took in the sight of this pub and all the instances of people using it. A bright green flare to his right prompted him to look over, and his eyes widened further when he saw a man emerge from the flames.

'Just what is going on?' he thought in disbelief as he walked forward.

"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, lad. My name is Tom. How can I help ya?"

Harry looked at the barman who was staring at him with a crooked smile.

"Err… I… uh…"

"Ah! Gotcha, lad. Yer not the first to be tongue-tied. Many muggleborns I see every year. First year, eh? C'mon then, over here."

Harry didn't bother correcting Tom as he followed behind. He saw the man stop in front of a brick wall and pull out a stick from his coat.

"Alrighty, look closely so ye can do it on yer own," the barman said and Harry looked as the man tapped the bricks.

"Three up and two across," Tom said as the wall slid open, and Harry's eyes widened.

The barman chuckled.

"Ah! That sight never gets old. Happy shopping, lad."

Harry nodded, thanked the man, and walked in. He abruptly turned around when the wall closed behind him. His hand touched the brick wall softly before he turned around and took in the sight.

'Just what the hell is all this!?'


Groups of people and families clad in long robes that looked right out of some medieval fantasy novel were walking about the alley, entering and exiting the various shops that lined up the alley as Harry walked between them. His eyes took in everything, from a pet shop to an apothecary.

He walked past a broom shop, seeing kids and young adults lining up near the store and staring at a nice-looking broomstick in adoration.

'Admiring a broom so much?' he thought in confusion before he saw the shop's name.

'What's Quidditch?' he wondered.

Realizing he needed information first and foremost, Harry started looking for a bookstore. There must be a book that could tell him something at the very least. He spotted one in the distance and walked over to it.

Remembering what Tom said about muggleborns being tongue-tied, he looked at the girl at the counter and smiled uncertainly, "Excuse me miss, I'm a muggleborn. Can you tell me where I can find a book that could tell me about all this?"

The girl looked at him with a smile as he gestured around and nodded, "Sure. Come with me."

Harry followed behind the girl, looking around critically at the other people who were reading the books. His eyes widened as he gazed at some of the thicker ones, something the girl noticed as she giggled.

"Don't worry, you won't be reading those books until you're at least a third year. You're a firstie, right?"

Harry nodded.

"I don't remember you shopping for the first-year supplies," the girl remarked.

"I just came over. I thought I should get to know a little about all this before doing the shopping."

The girl frowned.

"Shouldn't you be with the professor then?"

Harry came up with a quick lie, "I lost them somewhere."

The girl frowned before a sigh escaped her lips.

"I bet it was Hagrid. He's a good man, but too forgetful at times. Well, here you go. This one is an introductory guidebook that all muggleborns purchase with the first-year materials."

Harry nodded and thanked the girl, who smiled at him and walked away. Instantly, he opened the book and started leafing through it. The more he read, the more his eyes widened. Fifteen minutes passed and he slowly put the book back on the shelf.

Magic. His 'It' was nothing else but magic. How many times had he read about it in one of his fantasy books? And it was real.

Eyes wide, Harry looked around. An entire society, hidden from the regular people who were called Muggles, with its unique culture, traditions, and even governance. They were, in a sense, an entirely different race of people, and he was one of them!

This was his world – a world to which he belonged. Not the other one. Not where no one wanted him. Not where he was abused. He had people like him here.

For the second time in his short life, Harry felt he belonged somewhere.


The guidebook had basic instructions which told a muggleborn how to go about during one's first visit to Diagon Alley, and Harry followed it to the letter. His eyes took in the magnificent white building that was the Gringotts Wizarding Bank and the creatures that stood guard.

'Goblins. The books say they are greedy creatures who like to take advantage of people.'

There was no way he was going to trust them firsthand. He walked up the steps, feeling their eyes on him as he stared at the poem that was inscribed on the wall.

'Yeah, no stealing from them,' he thought with a chuckle as he walked inside.

A magnificent hall greeted him, and it was so opulent that Harry felt he was inside a royal palace. With tapestries that looked as expensive as the queen's gown and a chandelier that glittered like diamonds, Gringotts' foyer was screaming money. He recalled what the guidebook said and walked over to the teller.

"Business?" The goblin asked in a scratchy voice. Harry pulled out the notes the old lady had given him and handed them to the goblin.

"Vault key for conversion and deposit?" The goblin asked as he took the notes from him and ran them through some kind of scanner. The small screen flashed 7 Sickles. He recalled the conversion rate that was mentioned in the guidebook and realized it was the value of the 20 pounds he had handed over to the goblin.

"I don't know if I have a vault here. It's my first time in Gringotts," Harry replied. The teller looked at him with a keen eye.

"Go to counter number 11 for the verification," the teller handed his notes back. Harry frowned as he pocketed the money and walked over to the aforementioned counter. Luckily, there were only two people in line.

"I hope I am the heiress to some family," the girl whispered excitedly. The woman beside her smiled as they waited.

"You are a muggleborn. No family heritage found," the goblin replied as he handed a parchment over. The girl took it roughly from the goblin and looked over, before walking away, disappointed. The woman followed behind. Harry ignored the pair and walked over.

"The teller there asked me to get the verification done here," he said.

"Put your finger on the needle," the goblin replied. Harry saw a needle magically appear on the counter and placed his forefinger on it. The sharp needle pricked his skin and he watched as a few drops of blood trickled down into the vial below. The goblin grabbed the vial and poured his blood on the parchment, and Harry watched as it glowed.

"Vault 687, Vault 103 and Vault 104. Belonging to House Potter. Three keys currently in circulation. Do you want new keys and cancel the already issued ones or continue with the keys in circulation?"

Harry's mind was reeling. His parents were magical! And he was from House Potter. Harry Potter. That was his name!

"New keys and please cancel the old ones, thank you."

The goblin handed him three keys and the parchment, and Harry reverently looked at the items in his hand. The keys were golden, inscribed with the Gringotts logo and the vault number on either side.

"Get moving, wizard."

Harry absently nodded and walked over to the side, reading the parchment.


Born: 30th of July, 1980

FATHER: JAMES POTTER (DECEASED: 31st of October, 1981)

MOTHER: LILY POTTER (DECEASED: 31st of October, 1981)


His fingers traced the names of his parents and his eyes closed in pain at the 'DECEASED' remark. He knew his parents had died, but seeing this was something else.

Harry took a couple of minutes to steady himself and walked over to the teller again and handed over his key.

"I want to visit the vault."

The goblin looked the key over and nodded.

"Griphook will take you to the vault."

Harry saw another goblin walk over and gesture for him to follow, and he took the key from the goblin before following behind.

His eyes widened when the goblin sat in a cart that looked like it would take them down into the depths of the bank, and Harry sat down.

The ride down to the vault was over before Harry could even fathom, and he got off once they came to a stop.

"Vault 687. Key?"

Harry handed the key over to the goblin, who inserted it in the keyhole and twisted it.

The door opened and Harry's eyes bugged out. Rows upon rows of gold coins were sitting inside the vault as far as he could see. He couldn't believe all this belonged to him.

With this much gold, he could live comfortably without working a day in his life.

"How much is in there?" He asked softly.

"Potter Trust Vault contains fifteen thousand galleons, replenished to fifteen thousand every six months from the Potter Family Vault," The goblin replied.

"The family vault has even more money?" Harry asked, surprised. The goblin sighed.

"Family vault is controlled by the lord of the family. Trust vault is for the children. Access to the family vault is allowed to the lord only."

Harry frowned, "My father is dead, which means there is no lord to my family. Can I access the family vault?"

The goblin eyed him shrewdly but replied nonetheless.

"You are the heir, so you can access the trust vault. You are the last of the line, so you can access the family vault. What you do with your money is of no business to Gringotts, wizard."

Harry nodded and deliberated whether to visit the family vault as well.

"May I know the balance in the family vault as well?"


Harry handed over the key to Vault 103 and saw the goblin scratch his nail on the surface.

"Potter Family Vault contains one hundred and twelve million galleons, twelve sickles and twenty two knuts."

Harry's eyes widened. Yeah, there was no need to visit that vault.

"Okay. I'd like to withdraw some money from this vault."

The goblin shrugged, "Your money, take whatever you want."

Harry ignored the tone and started grabbing some coins. He cursed that he didn't have some bag to put more coins in. A hundred galleons seemed like a good amount, and Harry walked out. The goblin locked the vault and handed over the key to him. Harry pocketed it, sighing when he felt them. They were brimming.

"Bottomless bag. You can fit anything inside. The price is three galleons," the goblin held out a silk bag with a nasty smirk on his face. Harry glared.


A visibly frustrated Harry Potter walked out of Gringotts with a bottomless bag inside the pocket of his pants. The nerve of that bloody goblin to grin at him like that after telling him that something like that existed after he had filled his pockets with those hundred galleons.

Now three galleons short, he walked out and looked over at the alley. A self-satisfied smile came over his face as he took it all in.

This was it. He was a part of this world. A wizard. One who was set for life as well. In a few hours, his life had turned on its head.

However, now he had to move forward. He had been fascinated with those wands, and now he could have one of his own. Hogwarts started at fourteen, which meant he would be going in a few months as well. Why wait for that letter to do some of his school shopping? He could come back when he received his letter on his birthday the next week for the remaining items.

Harry walked around the alley at first, taking in the shops properly. It was a truly intriguing world, albeit a bit backward-looking, but Harry couldn't complain. He was sure many things were as good, if not better than the muggle world.

His eyes fell on the wand shop, and he smiled as he read the name.

'Ollivanders. Makers of Fine Wands. Since 382 B.C.'

'Old,' he thought as he walked in.

It was an odd shop, and he couldn't identify the smell apart from dust that gathered in a closed room. Shelves adorned the walls until they reached the ceiling, and small boxes lined them. He couldn't see anyone around, so he simply kept looking around.

"I must admit I expected to see you next week, Mr Potter," a raspy voice came from behind him, and Harry abruptly turned over to look at the old man who smiled at him and walked behind the counter.

"How do you know my name?" Harry asked with a frown.

The old man chuckled.

"There is no witch, nor wizard who does not know your name, Mr Potter. Not after what you did that night. However, that is not something we need to delve into right now. Am I right in assuming you are here to find your faithful companion?"

Harry furrowed his brows.

"I am here for a wand."

The old man smiled condescendingly at him.

"Alas, I am afraid I cannot help you right now."

Harry's eyes widened.


"The Ministry for Magic prohibits the sale of a wand to any witch or wizard who has not attained the age of fourteen. You shall return on your birthday in six days and you can buy your wand. My sincere apologies, Mr Potter."

Harry looked at the old man and sighed, before nodding.

"I understand. I'll come next week. However, can you help me with something?"

The old man smiled.

"You want to know what I meant when I said every witch and wizard knows who you are."

Harry nodded, "You can't expect to say something like that and not find me intrigued."

"Take a seat, Mr Potter. I believe we shall need some time," Ollivander intoned softly, his eyes gaining a faraway look as Harry sat down and looked at him.

"There was a wizard – a very brilliant one. Whoever knew him believed that he would be one of the greatest wizards to ever live. His teachers loved him, his headmaster adored him, and his peers looked up to him. He graduated from Hogwarts with some of the highest scores the institution had ever produced and vanished. Years later, he returned a completely changed man. Calling him a man anymore would be incorrect if I am being honest.

"Slowly, he started to convert people to his ideology. You see, Mr Potter, our society is a fragmented society. Discrimination on the basis of race and bloodline is rampant. Creatures are marginalized, and so are those who people of the so-called pure blood consider their inferior. Such was the influence of this wizard that a civil war erupted in Magical Britain. No one was untouched. Countless lives were lost, entire families torn apart as brothers and sisters stood on opposite sides, all relishing in slaying blood without any care for what was right or wrong."

Harry listened to the tale in fascination. Whoever this wizard was, he was bound to be very powerful.

"Can you imagine the vileness such a man possessed? Or how vile his cause was, that turned family against family? No good can come out of such cause, Mr Potter, no good. The war continued until one fateful night. This wizard targeted a particular family. He killed the parents, but could not kill their child. Too lost in his hubris perhaps, but his curse couldn't touch the little child of one. The killing curse – a curse that leaves nothing apart from a corpse, rebounded on this wizard. All that remained in that family's room was the cooling body of the mother as she lay dead, and her one-year old child with nothing but a scar on the forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt."

Harry's eyes widened as Ollivander stared at his scar, and his hand involuntarily went to trace the mark on his forehead.

"It was me," he whispered. Ollivander nodded.

"That is why every witch and wizard in Britain and beyond knows who you are. The only person to survive the killing curse. You are worshipped in our world. A beacon of light who did away with the ultimate being of darkness and cast a new dawn upon Wizarding Britain."

"But why? Why did he do it? What did my parents do?"

Ollivander smiled sadly, "Your parents were brave, brave people, Mr Potter. They defied him. Thrice, they defied him. And he tried to pay them back for every defiance. He killed your father, valiant as he was. He killed your mother, who died shielding you from him, standing steadfast in the face of death as she asked him to take her and spare you. He tried to kill you, but he couldn't. No one knows what happened that night. You survived, but no one else did."

Harry's heart was racing. He stared hard at the counter, eyes boring through the wooden surface as primal rage boiled inside him. This dark wizard had taken everything from him. He was the reason why Harry didn't have his mum and dad. He was the reason why Harry had to grow up abused and humiliated.

Eyes alit, he looked up at Ollivander who stared at him sympathetically. Harry hated that look. He didn't want anyone's sympathy.

"He is dead? This dark wizard?"

Ollivander shook his head and answered honestly, "The entirety of Britain believes he is. However… there are those who disagree. Who believe that he is grievously injured and biding his time to return. Return and cast Britain into an even bigger shadow."

Harry looked at the wooden counter with a determined look. He didn't care whether this dark wizard was alive or not. He would become the greatest wizard this world had ever seen. And if this dark wizard ever dared to show his face, he would deal with him the way he deserved.

"What was his name?" He asked in the end.

Ollivander hesitated for a moment, before he whispered, "No one dares to say his name. Such was his terror that people fear to speak it even to this day. Please do not ask me to repeat his name, ever. I shall do so once."

The old man took a deep breath and steeled himself, before looking at Harry seriously.

"His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. However, the world knew him by another name. A name so terrifying that people still live in fear of it. He was called Lord Voldemort."

"Voldemort," Harry whispered in rage, and his eyes glowed a menacing emerald for a second.

"Thank You, Mr Ollivander," he stood up a moment later, and the old man looked at him. Harry smiled.

"I'll be back next week. I hope to find my companion then."

Ollivander nodded and stared at the young wizard who walked out of his shop. He turned around and stared at a particular box in the back, before looking at the entrance to his shop once again.

"Great things, Harry Potter. Terrible, but great," Ollivander whispered and closed his eyes.


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