Summary: I tried my best to help. However, I ended up making things much, much worse. I guess that's what I get for trying to meddle with the story. Woe is me. Self insert.

-Crocus-

So I did this out of complete boredom and for my own amusement. Don't expect regular updates, is all I'm saying. This is for fun and I intend to keep it that way. Anyway, if you're reading, I hope you enjoy and if not...well, I don't know.

ooOOoo

I'd like to say I died in some flashy, dramatic and heroic way. But unfortunately that's not true. There were no explosions, gunshots, screeching cars or even a raging fire.

In reality, I died a boring, albeit, embarrassing way. All it took was a misplaced slab and a crooked plastic chair to kill me. One moment I was stepping into my backyard, a glass of water in one hand and a book in the other and before I knew it, my foot was jammed in between a poorly placed piece of slab and I was falling. I barely had time to register the sickening snap of my ankle before I noticed I was hurtling toward the ground where a slightly broken and squint chair laid.

In the next moment, I was gone.

You're probably thinking; how is that even possible? A plastic chair can't kill you.

However, in reality, it is entirely possible. I wasn't sure if it was the chair itself that had killed me, but I was more than positive it played a huge role in it. It was embarrassing, to say the least. I had always pictured myself dying from old age, tucked in bed somewhere with my loved ones surrounding me. That was never the case, as you can see.

I would also like to mention that once you die, there is no void, no eternal darkness and no floating in the middle of nowhere. It's as simple as that. One second you're enjoying a sunny day and the next you're thrust literally—no pun intended—head first through a bright tunnel.

There was no confusion, surprisingly. It was like once you die, you know exactly what is happening and it's your choice to believe it or not.

At first I wasn't sure what was going on. Was I remembering something or what I simply experiencing it all over again? Because in truth, reincarnation wasn't something I really believed in. No, this was something far more complex. Because, if reincarnation was an actual thing, then passed memories should have been wiped clean, a clean slate, you could say.

But no, I wasn't that lucky. I had to endure the embarrassment and humiliation of childbirth, followed by months of helplessness and degrading torture of having to rely on my new mother for everything. In return, I would I scream relentlessly until the gruelling task of changing my soiled nappy was over. I had made it a personal mission, after the first time my new mother changed me, that I would work hard to get up and moving as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, it was a lot harder than it seemed. The body of a newborn wears out faster than the body of an adult. Half an hour of kicking my twitchy and stubby legs ended up with me falling into a three hour nap. It was exhausting. I couldn't even continue kicking after waking up, since hunger came first. I would be given bottled milk (thankfully I wasn't breastfed) and I would succumb to my own drowsiness soon after, followed by another three hour nap.

It was beyond frustrating and on more than one occasion had I broke down into a screaming and crying fit.

It went on like that for a long time until I was finally able to sit up and support my own body. It was better than nothing, I suppose but I was still angry with the fact it took a long a time to actually make it this far. I still couldn't crawl or walk around, all I could really manage was an awkward butt shuffle across the floor.

My mother, it would seem, was rather impressed with my development. Though, any mother would be proud of their child and would encourage them to go further. And I did just that, though, not so much for her, it was for me. I knew how to walk and crawl, but the fact of the matter was that this body was very weak and very fragile, my muscles hadn't properly developed so I had to continue working with them in order to move.

By the time I was seven months old, one month after I had mastered the art of the butt shuffle, I began a shaky attempt at crawling. It was uncomfortable, at first, the movement felt weird even though I knew I was doing it right. Though, after a good five or ten minutes I would collapse in a heavy heap.

It wouldn't stop me though. After a short rest, I would continue off where I started.

It took me an additional two more months to master crawling without feeling tired or sleepy. That's when I decided it was time to start walking.

At first, I would use a chair to help me pull myself up to get me used to the idea and feeling of being upright. I would stand there, occasionally bobbing my knees while planning out a way to freely move around with falling down. Though, the plan quickly flew out the window when I attempted to start moving without support.

I had taken a small step forward before tumbling onto my hands and knees. That was followed by me screaming in frustration, thumping my tiny fists against the floor.

All I wanted was the freedom I deserved and damn it, I wasn't about to give up.

So I continued to practice, trying my hardest not to fall over and soon enough, I found myself waddling around in search of new amusement. Since the stages of sitting up, crawling and walking were through, I had to find something else to occupy myself through babyhood. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything worth my attention, it would seem. Any books were already stuffed up high, which I could even reach and anything interesting looking was also locked up tightly away.

The only thing I could do was play with the soft toys supplied by my mother. Though, I would bitterly throw them around in spite, hoping to knock something over. That was never the case, my mother always made sure to keep me within sight in case something happened. I didn't know if she was paranoid that I would hurt myself, or break something.

She was a flighty woman, always looking over her shoulder and the smallest of noises would cause her to shuffle closer to me. At one point I swore she was getting ready to rugby tackle me to the ground when a loud thump from outside caused her to freeze up. I really don't know what her problem was, but I just went along with it.

That brought me to another thought. Where the hell was my father? Because, as far as memory served, I had not once met the man. Unless I was just a product of an accidental one night stand, it wouldn't really surprise me. People these days are giving birth left and right. But it would be nice to know who my dad was.

I quickly let my thoughts drop and instead I began to practice talking. It was difficult, since my vocal cords were heavily under developed since I had practically forced myself through the crawling and walking stage, ignoring the fact that I should have also been using my voice. If you ignore the fact that I would constantly scream out of frustration, all I could really muster was a gurgle and babble.

I knew my mother was waiting for me to say my first word which is why she recently decided it would be a good idea for her to constantly repeat the phrase 'mama' constantly. Every time I opened my mouth in an attempt, her golden brown eyes would sparkle with hope and I felt disappointment every time I gurgled my poor attempt. But mother never gave up and would praise me for trying.

It was just a little after my first birthday passed that I managed to splutter out a broken 'mama'. To say my mother was pleased was an understatement, she was completely ecstatic and in return I received a bowl of vanilla ice cream. That's when I learned something important.

I had never been outside, or even saw any sunlight.

The curtains were always drawn shut and the doors were always locked. The only rooms I had ever been in was my own and the living room. On top of that, there was barely any furniture littering the house. The only thing in the living room was a ratty old brown couch, which if you sat on quick enough, would cause a cloud of dust to emerge. There were also bookshelves, but I was still too young and short to reach up and of course, there was a small brown box in the corner of the room with my very little selection of toys resisting inside, left untouched most of the time.

As for my bedroom, there was literally only a small bed tucked in the farthest corner of the room.

I wanted to ask my mother why it was like that, but unfortunately I couldn't find the words to ask and even if I did know, how did I go about asking? But in the end, I just dropped it and instead, focused on my mother's odd and skittish behaviour.

For the most part, my mother played the part of a doting mother-hen rather well. She was fussy and terrible at coddling me. If I hadn't had the mentality of an adult, I would have probably turned out to be a bratty kid, but that wasn't the case. I resented it, often throwing her a nasty glare her way—which was little more than a childish pout on my behalf.

But at the same time, it was just me and her. No one else, which I found slightly suspicious. Mother rarely left me alone, and if she did, I was probably asleep at the time and wouldn't really notice her absence. I mean, she had to supply us with food somehow, right?

I clung to the attention she gave me. Mother was my only source of social activity, and my only playmate, as oddly as it sounds. She did what she could, with what very little we had.

By the time my second birthday rolled around, it became the turning point of my life.

At first I didn't know how to react when my mother came barrelling into the living room, a sobbing wreck, looking like she was on the verge of a mental breakdown. I sat there, frozen on the floor with wide eyes. She had only left the room briefly, barely even five minutes.

Not a second later was I scooped up into her arms while she squished me against her body, her face burying itself in my short hair. Her body shook and she eventually crumbled to the floor, with me still in her embrace. I awkwardly patted her back, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. I had never saw my mother cry, so it was a huge shock to me.

She stayed like that for a solid fifteen minutes, her grip never loosening while she continued to cry. It was at that point that my muscles began to cramp and I wiggled uncomfortably in her grasp.

"Mama?" I mumbled, attempting to lean back in search of her face. "What wrong?"

Her body vibrated softly, rumbling against me. My eyes widened further.

She's laughing.

She's fucking laughing.

Mother leaned back gently, placing me in front of her while her hands pressed against my cheeks. I looked up at her. Her watery golden coloured eyes shone brightly, brighter than I'd ever saw them. Her smile was wide and genuine, pulling away any wrinkles that had begun to form.

"He's gone..." she chuckled out "The dark lord...gone!"

Was she talking about my father? The one I hadn't gotten the chance to meet? Was he some sort of wife beater? Because, in all honesty, I would probably join in too if I found out my supposed wife beater of a dad had died.

She suddenly crushed me against her body once again. "Thank that poor boy, oh thank him! Our saviour, Harry Potter, has saved us all!"

I blinked.

What?

What?

Had she been reading Harry Potter? I've read it before, but never have I had this sort of reaction. I didn't exactly find the book to be a tear jerker. Perhaps a little saddening, but nothing to cry over.

My mother is a strange woman.

If only I had actually listened to her, maybe I would have stood a better chance against the impending future. But, unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

I would remained blissfully ignorant until I received my acceptance letter. But that was still years to come.