A/N: Well, here I am again.

I do not want to write a sub-par fic if I continue writing this in the long run.

This is unbeta'ed, so there will be errors.

This fic will be rated T for now, but I may raise it later.

With that solemn statement, welcome to A Threnody for Life. Do stay a while.

EDIT 220218: Cut for clarity.

XxXxX

My first memories were not of that traumatic experience – birth – where I breathed air for the first time.

They went much further back. I remembered cars. People's faces. Train whistles. The ticking of clocks. Love and hatred. Everything bundled together by an inexplicable fragrance – an attar of roses.

But why? Why would I remember all of that if I were not five minutes old, wrapped in a warm cloth and handed over to my mother – my new mother – for the very first time?

There were words to describe the possibilities.

The Hindus spoke of Reincarnation,

The Buddhists spoke of Samsara, the cycle of lives and deaths.

The Greeks spoke of Metempsychosis, the transmigration of the soul.

Did I die in my previous life before I came here? I knew only shades of grey, vague notions that amounted to nothing whatsoever when I made any attempt to concretize them. Everything was blurred, as if gazing through a frosted window.

There I was, an adult trapped in an infant body. What could I do but cry out loud? My mind held little power over my juvenile, fragile form. I would react as a baby would, though I was as fully cognizant of my surroundings as my body would allow.

I was afraid then. I was frightened then. But as the days slowly passed, a new sensation, one not consonant with my very being made itself present. I had felt it before, but it was not as omnipresent as it was now. I could feel it in the air and in my very bones. It was peculiar and irritating, I cried much in my first year of a new life.

I could not help but try to push it away, assert my control over that strange sensation with my slowly awakening mind to ensure that I would no longer have an alien presence wrapped around every part of me. I learnt to suppress my reactions, to get accustomed to that eerie feeling that pervaded all of existence. It was everywhere.

I learnt to accept it even as I interacted with another infant that I later learnt was my step-brother. And it was his name that set alarm bells ringing furiously in my ennui-afflicted mind.

Blaise Zabini.

I immediately stopped crying. My caretaker assumed that the presence of another infant soothed me.

I knew that name. As most teenagers were – are? will be? – I had read the books. Was I truly in the Potterverse now, or was I simply in a reality where a person named Blaise Zabini existed? I could not make a general conclusion from one piece of evidence. I had to know more.

And so I spoke my first words as early as possible, and made sure that I displayed a capacity for accomplishing much more than my peers could. As a so-called child prodigy, I had access to more resources.

I had to accept the truth when the swish and flick of a wooden stick made me float upwards.

XxXxX

At age five, I knew and had decided on the following five facts.

Number One. The version of the Potterverse I was in was, as far as I could tell, faithful to the books, with the exception of my presence.

Number Two. My name. Evan Zabini. My new father, one of Blaise's mother's multiple husbands, was of Welsh origin, and died when I was just two. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Blaise was only my half-brother and the only resemblance we shared was the features we had both inherited from our rather.

Number Three. I was apparently a pureblood. Not that I was too concerned about it, but it would make my self-assigned task of befriending certain individuals – Harry Potter, Hermione Granger for instance – harder as I would be perceived as one of the blood purists. The initial introduction was simple enough to begin influencing their perception of my self, but being in Gryffindor would increase their wariness towards me.

Number Four. The strange sensation was actually magic. Having lived a life without magic, I was exceptionally sensitive to it. I discovered this only at the age of three, when my second-mother took me to St. Mungo's in an attempt to discover my ailment. It was hypersensitivity to magic. My family and relatives promptly celebrated the fact that I was not a Squib.

Number Five. I would ensure that I enjoyed myself (before attempting to fix everything that went wrong, naturally). I had, as so many others, dreamt of actually being in this reality. And I had every intention of playing around with everything.

But what did I need to do first before I could enjoy myself? I had to study. My memories were an incalculable advantage. But I would forget them in time. However, they could be retrieved more easily than if I had lost them via Obliviation. I need to study Occlumency. I had to protect them. I could not risk anyone finding out anything about myself. I could not risk losing them either.

Occlumency would protect them, and learning Legilimency would only supplement my knowledge of the mind. Another advantage to be added to my fore-knowledge. Normally, one as young as I was would not be able to learn both Arts. But I had the advantage of having an adult mind, one more suited to focus and patience.

Being a scion of the Zabini family had its benefits. All pureblood families had a niche of some sort – even the Weasleys had one before they sunk into near-poverty – and the Zabini family was not an exception. They were smugglers. Professional purveyors of illegal goods and services in and out of the United Kingdom, Ireland and Continental Europe. It was not a monopoly, but it was a lucrative trade that afforded much profit to make the Zabinis one of the richer European families, and I had adequate access to the coffers.

I studied the theory for both beforehand in the small library of the Zabini residence. It helped that I was already immensely bored. I learnt meditation techniques and practiced them liberally, to the extent that Blaise had taken to using an antique walking stick to awaken me from a trance to play with him.

When I turned six, I approached my mother about learning the practical aspects of Legilimency and Occlumency. She promptly cast the Legilimens spell on myself and was rather surprised to find a relatively solid barrier – though one that would give way to moderate mental prodding – barring her way to my mind.

To my surprise, she did not question my desire to learn Legilimency. Blaise would be her heir to all that she controlled, while I would serve the dual role of being the acclaimed prodigy, attracting people's attention away from Blaise, who would have a greater degree of freedom, and as a spare – if Blaise were to have an unfortunate incident. Legilimency was useful, and no one could deny its benefits. I simply ignored the questionable morality of using it.

I would visit Ollivander's the day after to obtain my wand. One could not practice Legilimency without a wand, after all. The Ministry diapproved of children having wands of their own before they received their Hogwarts letters, but in practice it was entirely legal.