Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc,. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Original Author: Karaii

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews! This chapter still belongs to Karaii!


Chapter 3Sour Taste of Barred Freedom

Harry came back into swimming consciousness many hours later, in the darkness of his cupboard, but he did not open his eyes. Everything hurt. Everything. His stomach suddenly erupted in reeling pain and he wretched his head to the side and threw up, heaving and heaving. His head was spinning, his throat was dry, and his muscles just could not go further. He was so tired…so tired

Oh God.

Oh dear God.

But Harry had stopped believing in God a long time ago.

He immediately was aware that there was countless belt welt on his back, bleeding freely. Once again, he felt helpless. But this time, he did not desire death. He would survive, he would save this ungrateful world from Voldemort, and by damn, he would KILL his relatives!

The stale stench of blood, sweat, vomit and sperm nauseated him. He was aware that he'd been raped—and although his body and child mind were used to it, Harry from the war was not. He'd been raped (while he was unconscious). Uncle Vernon had never raped him in his past life. He'd actually remained a virgin all of his past life. Just thinking about that fat lard of blubber on him disgusted him to no end.

First, Harry shoved the horrible memory into a locked space in his mind by using his Occlumency, where the rest of his five-year old bad memories lay completed barded off of his consciousness. He would not allow those memories to ever surface again. He knew suppressing these were bad, but he absolutely did not want to deal with those memories his mind so eagerly supplied just yet. Maybe when he was friends with Severus, like the times they traded childhood stories (both of them had been abused, but Severus to a more horrible degree, though Harry was inclined to think his now-childhood far surpassed Sev's own now), he would be able to get this weight off his chest. But for now, it would be forgotten.

Obliviated by himself.

Secondly, Harry became concerned with healing. He had to heal himself. If not, he ran risk of infection, disease, and finally, death, the thing he was avoiding like the plague now. He just could not die. It was not a choice (not that he'd ever had it as a choice). He had to live and fulfill whatever crap the Prophecy in this world contained, and by Merlin, he would fulfill it this time. He could not allow himself to witness the Light loose again. He would change that probability; make it impossibility.

He would triumph, damn it, and Tom Riddle would be no more!

Clearing his mind, the raven-haired lad delved into his mind, coming up with a synopsis of his new list of injuries. It was impossible to heal fully by himself, but he could arrange his limbs and wounds to heal naturally quicker than normal and reduce the chance of infection. It was quite a useful little technique, for in war—especially if you were a prisoner—you would have rarely any help while in action, except your own. It was a military command that you learn the basics of First Aid, magical and muggle (much to the dismay of many Aurors).

Quietly, he set to work. After he'd done all he could (stop the blood flow, get all the outside fluids out of his body and of course, wandlessly Scourgify the vomit laying innocently beside him) he settled into the most comfortable position he could and drifted off.

He came up again, wondering what hour it was. Deciding to practice his wandless magic again (he was in his cupboard, and he was sure he could hear Dudley's snoring upstairs, so he wouldn't get caught), he quickly muttered Tempus thrice, before making the specific wand movements with his hand (a mere flick) and was delighted to see that his powers were still available for him, despite all the Dursley's tried to 'stomp it out of him'. The spell told him it was four o'clock in the morning, May seventeen, 1986.

Huh. Two months until his birthday. Joy.

Waving away the spell, Harry tested his limbs. The pain had subsided quite a bit, for which he was thankful. Hopefully his Uncle and Aunt wouldn't worry about him for a while longer.

Suddenly, he felt a tug at his consciousness, a memory, a habit that surfaced when he was sure he was alone in the early hours of the morning. Happy place, his mind told him. The only time he could slip away and the Durlsey's wouldn't need him, hound him or beat him up. The door, without even thinking about it, swung open and Harry crept out. He walked to the front door and just as easily opened this door, no incantation nor spare thought except the one-minded task of getting to this 'happy place'. By now, Harry knew this place was the park that remained untouched until dawn, when older people came out to run.

It was amazing that Harry did not notice his accidental magic. He had twenty-five years of logic, but he was still a child (hadn't Albus said that before he died?). He didn't want to think about his past life. He wanted to live, not by some sort of guide, but by his own rules. He didn't want to live in the Dursleys forever, he didn't want to become Dumbledore's pawn or Ron's source of jealousy.

He merely wanted to become Harry.

Just Harry.

And here life was, open for him to revel in that possibility. He had a job to do, but it would be for another few years until Quirrel and Voldemort attempted to steal the stone. Perhaps Voldemort's return would be sooner than he thought. Maybe he'd take longer. Who knew, truly? Why was he basing his new life upon his other that had eventually led to his own demise and downfall, allowing Voldemort to rule supreme?

Wasn't the quote 'learn from your mistakes' enough warning bell?

Harry shook himself out of his stupor after noticing he'd arrived at the park. Quietly, he settled on a damp, dew-sprinkled swing, wincing as his injuries cried out. He sighed, and gripped the metal chains, swinging himself forward and back lazily with his legs, ignoring the pain after years of experience. Yes, he had so many open possibilities before him. He could abandon his supposed 'duty', and live a normal muggle life. Maybe he could swipe away with a regular Wizard life. He didn't really have to fulfill the prophecy. It merely stated that the person who had enough power to kill Voldemort was him, not that it was his utmost duty to kill the snake-face. For all he knew, maybe Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived here (even though he clearly had the scar).

But there was no such choice, Harry knew. His consciousness would plague him and eventually kill him. No, he would never abandon his 'duty'. It had been drilled into him since he was eleven years of age until he died at the age of twenty-five, and being in another world within the younger version of himself plus foreign memories did nothing to change that. He would always be denied the option of being normal. It was his fate, his destiny, he pre-written story. Such a Gryffindor, Mr Potter, Harry could practically hear Severus saying. Believing the whole world rotates around you.

"Why so gloomy?" came a sudden hiss.

Harry didn't jump, but he was startled. "Snake?" he whispered.

"At your service," the snake appeared before him, amused at his companion's surprise.

"Oh," Harry said somewhat dumbly, "Hello Snake."

"Have you finally left your…relative's care?" he asked, sounding distasteful at the mere mention of 'relatives'.

"No…" the parseltongue hissed quietly, "At least, not yet."

"Ah," the reptile nodded, "But you do plan on leaving, correct?"

"In the near future, yes," Harry confirmed.

"Was your past life similar to your present one?"

Harry blinked. "E-eh?" he stuttered, in English. This was quite the shock. How had the snake known that he was the combined spirit of two same people from different times?

The snake gave the equivalent of a laugh, and then slowly slithered up Harry to his arm (defying all gravity, if I may note), looking at him levelly. "Snakes are not stupid, youngling," he hissed, if possible, seemed even more amused. "I am aware of your double self."

"Oh…err…well, I suppose it's distinct to this one. I was in war, back then…" he trailed off, suddenly aware that he'd spilled his supposed secret out for a snake to know. He was suspicious, horrified with this new revelation. What if this simple garden snake was actually a spy sent to him by Voldemort? What if he reported these facts off to Nagini, or something? What if—

"Your paranoia exceeds mine," the snake laughed again, "No, I am no spy nor will I ever have anything to do with the other Snake-Speaker."

Harry looked at the snake closely, "How did you read my mind?"

"I did not. I simply looked at your face and confirmed my thoughts."

Harry did not like this. Was he so easy to read?

"Your eyes," the snake hissed, the smirk clearly in his voice. "They express everything."

Now Harry was irritated. How dare this snake criticize him? He had enough on his plate. He did not want nor need more strain upon himself. He'd actually been rather proud of his cold mask he'd eventually developed over the course of the war (amazingly enough, Severus had helped him develop a rather intimidating sneer, not unlike his own). Harry supposed the façade didn't work since he had the face of a child…he grumbled under his breath about the unfairness of it all, but he was not truly angry. The snake was like this, after all. Snakes, in general, thought themselves far superior to the human race. They didn't like people much.

Harry couldn't exactly blame them. He didn't like people much, either.

"Well, I certainly have not come for one of our rather dull chats," the snake said, pointedly ignoring Harry's somewhat hurt face (the boy hadn't thought their conversations were boring…he'd actually found them relieving and informative), "I am here to show you a rather neat Sign that'll help you."

Harry, despite his previous suspicions, found himself intrigued, "Sign?" After all, the snake (as cunning and snarky as he was) meant no harm. The young child knew now that, although being what seemed like a common garden snake, he was quite wise. The snake was not heartless, even if he was a little snobbish at times (and thought highly of itself). He would not play tricks or make a fool out of Harry's knowledge, for he was proud of his race and 'did not submit to such trivialities'.

"Yes, a Sign is what you wizards enjoy calling 'Parsel-magic', I believe."

"Oh," Harry said eloquently. He blinked, processing this information. He'd been aware of Parsel-magic, but had never attempted it.

Albus had deemed it far too Dark—and though Harry had found it interesting, he'd backed off. It would not do to consume himself in the Dark Arts and risk corruption…at least, that had been his thoughts way back when his naivety reflected the gullible and pawn he'd been. He loved Albus dearly, but the old man had been quite prejudiced against any form of Dark Arts, regardless of their usefulness. Harry had tried to filch some Dark spells off Snape some years into his adulthood (after all, one needed to understand the Dark to fight it) but it had abruptly stopped after a spectacular row in between Harry's two mentors and never attempted again.

After Severus and Dumbledore's deaths, the young man had once again tried to get his hands on some Dark spells (this time for revenge against Voldemort—would've served the bastard right, being bit by his own fire), only to find that most bookstores had been exterminated and all Dark-related stores themselves (that had once laid in Knockturn Alley) had either one, been utterly ransacked, or two, closed (burnt) down. The still existent ones were out of reach, especially for Harry whom was the epitome of Light for the Wizarding World. He'd eventually given up on the Dark Arts (after all, he'd merely hunted the knowledge down out of desperation) and mourned for a while, before flinging himself into his Commander position, following Albus's footsteps…

"Parsel-magic is simple, I am inclined to think, especially for a wizard of your stature," the snake continued, oblivious to Harry's deep thinking and flashbacks.

"My stature?"

"Yes, youngling. Your magic is weak now, but that is only due to exhaustion. I can taste your radiance for quite a few Saalers in distance."

Harry didn't know what a 'Saaler' was, though he suspected it was a snake-oriented measuring concept.

And what was this about his radiance…? Was the snake capable of tasting his magic in the air? This would prove to be a disadvantage, if he was sensed by his mere magic before he was even in sight…

"Anyways, I'm getting off-track. I suppose you are wondering why I've come to teach you some Signs." The snake coiled around his arm, settling into a mutually comfortable position. He didn't wait for Harry's nod and started to speak again. "You see, we snakes are bound to serve those who speak the Snake language—it is a tradition of sorts that has been passed down since the time of the great Slytherin Salazar. I'm naturally inclined to aid you, for I hold a grudge towards the other remaining Snake Speaker…"

"Okaaay…" he muttered, confused.

So snakes were under some sort of contract that had begun since the Founder's age…? What race of animals would be stupid enough to chain themselves down like that? It was suspiciously like House Elves bound to their assigned Master…nothing more than slaves. Harry did not like the sound of this 'contract' at all. He'd always thought snakes were too proud to serve mere 'scale-less two-leggers', as they constantly referred to the human race as. Sort of like Pureblood racism, except in a different scale. Who'd have thought snakes held parseltongues in high regard?

"…massacred my familiars for refusing to join him…"

Harry tuned out the rambling snake. He knew it was rude, especially when the cold-blooded reptile was speaking about such a somber topic, but he was simply too immersed in his own thoughts to stop and consider his manners. It was somewhat amusing to know that Voldemort had been refused by his most trusted allies, and he'd thrown a tantrum and killed them all…Actually, Harry thought, smirking. Voldemort enjoyed throwing constant tantrums back in the war, too…it was funny thinking of his abrupt raids against those that defied him as mere childish tantrums. A rather disturbing thought came to him…Voldemort in his cousin's body throwing a tantrum similar to Dudley's when he was refused anything…

"…and so I pledge my alliance towards you, youngling, as well as the hatchlings I may bare."

Harry blinked, surprised out of his inner stream of consciousness. It would be quite rude to say 'I'm sorry, can you repeat that?' when the snake had so obviously poured half of his life story and provided a lifetime bond with the five-year old in full seriousness.

"Er…I accept…thank you for the offer?" Harry felt foolish, inexperienced when he should be.

Here he was, a five-year old with a thirty-year old memory bank, supposed Savoir of the Wizarding world, about fourteen years of fighting Dark forces, more than half a decade's worth of intense warrior training, swinging lazily on a park swing and talking rambling seriousness with a garden snake. It was a hilarious situation, if one stopped to think about it.

A paradox that, by all means, should have never happened.

The snake laughed good-naturedly, "Very well then, Master Harry. ("Don't call me Master, please!" Harry begged, shuddering. It reminded him of Voldemort, and his much-loved rounds of torture that he'd endured during his imprisonment) I suppose I should seriously introduce myself then. I am Syriem (A/N: Sai-ree-em), or Syr, half-blood common garden snake who was showered with magic after being the familiar of a parseltongue several decades back…"

"W-what!" Harry sputtered, stammering in parseltongue, "I mean…how old are you? I was not aware snakes lived much further than a decade, maybe even less."

"You are not aware of many things," Syr hissed, his voice laced with that damning amusement that irritated Harry to no end. Before he could protest because of his 'lack of knowledge', though, the snake continued on undaunted. "And it is my job to make that statement untrue. Anyways, to answer your previous question, I am thirty-two human years. I, like wizards compared to muggles, live a much longer life than my regular snake companions. My previous Master hatched me, and I remained with him for half a dozen human years before his eventual death, henceforth I settled down in some familiar snake territory to mate…the other Snake speaker was just barely out of the Wizarding school he attended, where he gathered up his followers in the dark…he came to the territory I lived in, and after we peacefully refused his offer to join him in his rather pointless campaign of domination, he exterminated most of us…I, luckily, have some magical snake blood in my veins as well as the magic my previous Master left with me, even after his death, and I managed to survive…Riddle Tom, as he introduced himself, killed my offspring and my mates…yes, I have quite the grudge against that Snake Speaker."

Harry now paid attention, noticing that Syr had obviously re-told his tale for his benefit. He felt bad he'd forced the snake to tell what was obviously a traumatizing past (although the reptile didn't seem too bothered…he'd told the tale in a somewhat offhand voice, still 'amused'…Harry didn't think he'd ever understand snakes). Then another thought struck him.

"Your previous Master…you say he was alive thirty-two or so years ago? Was there another parseltongue when Riddle was a child? I thought he and I were the only remaining speakers…"

Syr bobbed his head up and down, "That you are correct, now. My Master was not inclined to flaunt his extensive abilities; especially with Wizarding prejudice and accusatory gazes at 'Dark' wizards…he died a regular citizen, another faceless person. He was seventy-six when he hatched me, I believe. He died early. Wizards usually live much longer, I think. Most of what I know came from traveling with him, as a mere hatchling." The snake hissed out fondly, as if lingering in a nostalgic memory.

"Do you miss him?"

Syr's unblinking eyes settled on his Avada Kedavra green, holding his gaze evenly. "I suppose I do," he said, surprisingly solemn, "But I do not linger on his passing. Rather, I remember his days of Living." Syr's voice faded into it's amused one again, "Much more interesting than his spectacularly boring death, I assure you."

"Was he a Dark wizard?" Harry asked.

The snake lay silent for a while. "Yes," he hissed eventually, "Yes, he was what you call a Dark wizard."

Harry did not ask further, but was strangely not disgusted or afraid of Syr's Master who had been a Dark wizard. He did not know if it was because of the fact that the man was dead, or perhaps something entirely different. He did not linger on it much, knowing he'd only end up giving himself a headache.

"Anyway," the snake said, carefully wrapping itself around Harry's neck and tasting the air in front of the boy, "Your magic is healing you nicely, I think. But a Sign or two would be useful, especially since you yourself will do the spell, and know the Snake language. Signs are usually not good for healing spells towards others—actually, not many Signs are good for the general population. Parsel-magic is quite Dark, in a way, because it is a destructive form of magic. Deadly useful when you're in a tight situation, though."

Harry contemplated this. He was still sore (more than sore, really. His bones and muscles screamed injustice) and some help with his magic would be helpful, in the long run. Even if he had no real intentions of using the destructive 'Signs' in the future, they would be useful just in case. As a backup plan, or last resort.

"I don't have much magic to spare," Harry admitted, reluctantly, "I don't think I can manage much more without coming dangerously close to magical depletion, especially without my old wand. I still need to reserve quite a bit to continue healing myself. You yourself have been laid witness to the consequences of merely the mention of magic in the Dursley household…if worse comes to worse, I'll need all the energy I can spare. And parsel-magic is probably difficult and consuming, despite how simple you make it sound."

Syr nodded, understanding Harry's predicament. "I'm sorry," he hissed softly, but not in pity. "They are foolish muggles."

"That they are," Harry murmured, in English. He did not…hate the Dursleys, per say. At least, he did not think so. Hate was a very powerful word. He preferred to reserve it solely for Voldemort, and perhaps Wormtail and Bellatrix. The Dursleys were merely a family so tangled in their one-minded goal of being normal that they became the strangeness they so wished to avoid. It was funny, in a morbid way.

Foolish muggles indeed.

He felt sorry for them.

"Still, I insist on teaching you a particularly useful Sign of healing," the snake said stubbornly, "Even if you do not wish to use it now."

"How much of my reserves will it deplete?" Harry asked. He wanted to learn, but he couldn't risk exhaustion.

"It depends on the force behind your spell. Like Wizard magic, your emotions play a key role. Healing oneself is both harder and easier than healing another. For one, you are converting your own energy into speeding up your own healing, so you tire faster. But, since your magic is familiar with your body, it is probably more effective. It is in reverse for healing another. The other's magic is mostly used when healing a wound, you just merely guide it. Yet, it is harder to access another person's magic, for your magic is foreign within their body, and you run the risk of your magic being rejected forcefully, tiring out the harmed individual and yourself."

"Ah," Harry nodded.

Wandless magic usually came out with more magic, more force, since it was not concentrated like at wand-point. It tired out the body much faster than if one were to use a wand, since you could not really control how much raw power you used. If he wished to heal himself with no wand, he would have to be extremely careful not to over-do it (which he wouldn't have to worry about if he used a wand). Then again, he would also be careful not to waste magic uselessly pouring small amounts that would do nothing. It had to be a perfect amount, which, once again, would've been taken care of if he owned his holly companion…

"Do you wish to try the spell?" Syr asked, again.

A few moments later Harry hissed a negative. "But I would appreciate it if you told me the words, in case I am in dire need of it."

The snake gave an accepting hiss. "Very well. The Sign is merely stated out loud as follows: 'Aa'regs'. You must be clearly thinking of what you wish to heal within your body, be it a paper cut or a large flesh wound. Infection and other diseases are also usually taken care of with the same word, with different picture in your mind. It's not exactly a picture…more like feeling what you wish to heal. It's…difficult to explain, since I have never used Signs myself. I only have my Master's words, his feelings that were echoed onto me because of our bond. I suppose you will come to understand once you do the spell yourself."

The raven-haired five-year old nodded, understanding. Most spells were usually only truly understood after you cast them—unlike Hermione's bookwormish tendencies, Harry preferred doing the practical work rather than reading it off as theory (hence his intense dislike of Umbitch in his fifth year…her constant denying of Voldemort's return was just an added plus to what was one of Harry's worst years in his school life).

Suddenly, Harry realized just how late it was. "Shit!" he cried out, standing up abruptly, causing the snake gave a startled hiss and fall to the floor clumsily. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"What's wrong?" the snake asked sourly, albeit a bit alarmed.

"It's late!" was all Harry said, and tore down the street like a lightning bolt, leaving the snake behind. Syr shook his head, still annoyed after being shoved off so rudely, before slithering away.

All that was going through Harry's head was that he was late, late, late! Uncle Vernon would have his head if he discovered Harry wasn't there! Especially if he realized the boy had left his cupboard and gone outside…at four in the morning. Mr Dursley didn't care a whit for Harry's well-being, but if the raven-haired child were to be seen by the neighbors…it would be tragic. So naturally, he'd explode once again if he ever found out about Harry's early morning adventures.

The wind whistling as he ran for all he was worth, Harry wandlessly cast a Tempus spell in mid-run, banishing it instantly after seeing it was a little past seven. Oh shit! The boy swore outloud, quite creatively.

It would've concerned any reasonable person to see such colourful language spouting out from a mere child, but there was—thankfully—no one there to witness it. Once Harry reached number four Privet Drive, he slowed down to a halt and peered cautiously into the house. Just as he turned around to look, he noticed the master bedroom's light flickered on. Knowing he was still not out of the fire, Harry swiftly entered the house with no noise whatsoever, closed and locked the door, and slipped into the kitchen.

Instantly, he began breakfast, his magic summoning up ingredients and other things to him subconsciously, zipping in the air to his little grasp without harming anything. Harry made sure, once he heard Aunt Petunia's footsteps slowly descending down the stairs, that no things were flying around in the air. It would not do for her to see his magic at work, especially not as a reminder of his previous 'offense' that Dudley had witnessed.

So it was how Aunt Petunia found the boy settling plates calmly on the table, struggling a bit to reach the countertop for it was taller than he. She barked out some orders and made herself a cup of coffee, cursing herself for oversleeping (she was usually awake by six forty. Her precious Diddy Dumdums, of course, woke up at seven thirty. Couldn't have him loosing his beauty sleep!)

Harry was careful not to sigh in relief aloud—she hadn't suspected a thing. Precariously, he removed some leaves and crushed twigs that were under the sole of his shoe, quietly disposing of them so no evidence could be pointed to his short-lived escape. Dudley was woken (throwing a horrible tantrum because of it) and sent downstairs so he could gobble down his breakfast. Eventually, Aunt Petunia and the fat lard of blubber that was his cousin went out the front door to get on the bus that was patiently waiting outside.

Five-year old Harry cleaned up the kitchen, washed the dishes and slowly retreated back into his cupboard, as usual. One might've wondered why Harry himself did not go to school—he certainly was old enough to at least head to kindergarden. But no, the Dursleys were not keen at all on spending money on the freak (nor allowing anyone else to set eyes on him, for they might track down the Dursleys for the blatant abuse on the poor child) so he remained home, locked.

Usually he spent his day being run ragged by Aunt Petunia for his chores, banged around a bit by Uncle Vernon, beaten up by Dudley and his gang, and then shut into his cupboard. Sometimes, when him and Uncle Vernon were alone in the house, the beefy man came to 'visit' Harry. It was amazing Aunt Petunia had never realized her husband had been cheating on her weekly—on her own five-year old nephew of all people.

Once inside of his 'room', Harry pondered his future. He would have to start training himself again—it would not due to get out of shape, especially for what he was now considering on doing. He would leave the Dursleys before his first decade—that much was for sure. Harry would have to survive in the street, preferably with his war-honed skills of muggle fighting. He was actually quite good with twin knives…but it would be useless if he allowed himself any form of relaxation. He had to set up a sort of schedule, one that would allow him to train inconspicuously and prepare for his escape.

And even before that, Harry had to get a new identity. A new name that he could wear without being bothered in the least of discovery—it had to be Moody-proof (it had been an ongoing joke between Ron and him, back in the days when they were training under the paranoid auror). His scar would be a nightmare to hide, but he would have to do. Not for the first time in his life, Harry wished for some good Metamorphmagus skills.

Setting up his internal alarm clock for half an hour before nine so he could catch up on a little sleep and wake up before Uncle Vernon to make him breakfast, Harry quietly fell asleep, exhausted and excited all the same.

° ° °

Harry's birthday came and passed unnoticed, as it always was. He wasn't bitter about it, though. He'd never enjoy a birthday party with the Dursleys, anyway. And if he ever did, he'd eat his invisibility cloak.

Actually, he'd spent most of the day mourning the fact that it had been his first birthday he'd spent without receiving the trademark Weasley sweater from Molly, whom had continued to make him one every year since his first year at Hogwarts.

Remarkably, she'd somehow managed to continue doing so despite the blatant war raging everywhere, and it had always warmed Harry's heart when he opened up the parcel containing Mrs Weasley's present. Harry knew Molly had still been alive when he and his friends had been captured—but she had been mourning the loss of Arthur, Percy, Charley and Fred (leaving a heartbroken George to spiral into depression and eventually take up the hardest jobs of the order to keep his mind off of it) for quite some time then, and her joy had never been as heartening as it had been when Harry was still at school.

Molly Weasley should've never had to bear the pain of out-living her children, especially with the constant reminder that her family's murderer was untouchable and the fact that she was not strong enough to get some form of revenge. Death had always been a constant in Harry's short-lived life, but the loss of so many members of the closest thing he had to a family had served only to fuel the never ending guilt he endured.

Harry had every intention to prevent that from happening this time around.

° ° °

It was early September when Harry discovered something amazing.

After a particularly nasty beating, Harry had been left home alone for the day. (The Dursley's plus Aunt Marge had taken Dudley and his friends somewhere as a gift for scraping a pass in his report card). He'd staggered into the guest's bathroom, hoping to steal some salve for his cuts and burns made from Uncle Vernon's belt and punches (he'd discovered, to his surprise, that muggle medicine combined with healing magic was extraordinarily successful and had since then used both of them whenever he could).

He'd ended up staring at his reflection, seeing a near-broken, battered boy with haunted eyes, hating his image and wishing so hard to be someone else, someone who was not Harry Potter or the beaten up Freak. Just simply someone else. It was then, with that desperate wish, his appearance…changed.

It was nothing radical, nothing remotely close to what 'Dora Tonks was able to do with her power fully developed. But it had been a start.

His eyes had transformed into an interesting greenish hazel—thankfully nowhere near the gleaming, Avada Kedavra emerald they were naturally—his skin going from the usual deadly pale to a slightly healthier tone. His hair had lightened a tiny bit, forming a complex dark brown, curling slightly at the edges. The shape and size of his face was the same, as well as his stature and posture, but it had been a startling change. Harry hadn't exactly had a perfect mental image in his mind, but his form had changed to his will, and that was brilliant.

Who'd have known the Harry in this world had been born a Metamorphmagi?

Ecstatic, Harry and attempted to change again, slightly altering his image. To his vast pleasure, he hadn't been tired out in the least. Apparently metamorphmagus skills were blood talents, such as parseltongue, and did not take up much (if any) magic. After about an hour of testing out the limits of his ability (he made a mental note to practice them every day, wanting to get much better, so he could perhaps transform into the version of himself he'd been before he'd died), Harry decided he wanted to go outside again.

The Dursleys were not coming home for another couple of hours or so, and the poor boy had had enough of his cupboard. He needed fresh air.

Harry settled on the first image he'd been able to form, concentrating harder so he could make his hair a curly, rust-like brown, with calm, honey-coloured eyes (no green this time!), as well as tanned skin. It was a success. Bouncing happily, Harry made sure to heal up his bleeding injuries as best as he could, as well as discreetly cast the most powerful Notice-Me-Not charm he could wandlessly, targeted especially on his visible bruises and cuts.

After months of practice, Harry was able to control his wandless magic to an extraordinary degree. It was truly amazing—Harry couldn't wait to see Albus's reaction to his power! He'd also been training under Syr daily (whenever he could, mostly when he was outside doing his garden chores), who'd become an even closer friend. Syr could not become his familiar because the snake had been bonded once already, (an animal familiar's bond was only shared with one human companion in a lifetime) but that was okay. That post was exclusively preserved for Hedwig, whom Harry was sure was still alive in this time and whom he would buy the moment he could. Harry was proud to say he was quite adept at Signs—more popularly known as parselmagic. He had much more to learn though, and that made him all the more excited.

Harry slipped on an over-sized shirt that once belonged to Dudley, making sure it was long sleeved. He still could not shrink nor enlarge things without extensively tiring himself, so Harry settled with rolling up the sleeves to his wrist. He slipped on some jeans that he'd previously spelled into his size (and smuggled into his cupboard, hidden under his cot so the Dursleys wouldn't find it—he only wore it when he wished to go out) and checked once more to make sure he was still looking like another person, and quietly slipped out of number four, Privet Drive, heading for the street filled with vendors and packed with people, were he could blend in easily.

Young Evan Thatcher had been born.

° ° °

Freedom was amazing.

Even if it was temporary freedom, the feeling of knowing that you were just another face in the crowd made butterflies soar in Harry's stomach. He was just another kid weaving expertly through the horde of people, normal face, normal eyes. No one would recognize him, and that made him happy. He did not want to think about the Durlsey's, twenty-five years of grief, strife and loneliness plus another six that were useless to his redemption.

Harry expertly nicked a purse's contents from a prissy-looking woman, snickering as he dashed away unnoticed. He'd learned the art of stealth and thievery along with his lock-picking skills, and though he rarely abused them, he just wanted to feel the elated happiness of free will. For the first time in a long time, he actually had a choice. It was his decision to make.

There were a few credit cards and large wads of money, which 'Evan (which was the name he'd taken for this particular disguise, for he was sure he would use it in the future again) slipped into his pocket, casually ridding himself of the wallet in a waste bin after eradicating any evidence of his fingerprints with a wave of his hand and a mere thought. He was more powerful than he'd ever expected, and his magic was developing nicely, growing with his body. Two powerful wizard's magic (one developed and the other large potential) had combined into one that abandoned day several months ago, and from those mixed ashes, a Phoenix had been reborn.

Harry had risen from the ashes of his death, a being with no one to control him except his own reluctance. He would not remain with the Dursley's much longer.

Evan bought himself an Oreo Ice-Cream, sipping on it with delight as the treat passed down his raw throat. It was a delicacy he had not tasted in a very long time. He found he had tears in his eyes, and quickly wiped them away when the store's owner looked at him quizzically, silently wondering why such a small-looking lad was on the verge of crying when he was beaming.

The curly-haired boy was aware that he had a considerable sum of money in his pocket, but he did not intend to use it any more than some good food. He did not have further than an hour or so, for he needed to get back faster than the Dursley's (they had the advantage of a vehicle) and he had to prepare them their dinner. It would not due to be caught so early on slipping out of the house, especially when it meant that he was 'exposing' his 'freakiness', as Aunt Petunia put it so adequately.

Evan suddenly bumped into a person, himself being shoved onto the floor accidentally. "O-oh! I'm sorry," he said immediately, looking up at the perpetrator.

And froze like a deer in the headlights, paling.

It was Aunt Petunia.

The bony, horse-faced woman looked at him strangely, anger flashing in her eyes at the scruffy-looking boy. She then was utterly startled when the child leapt to his feet and fled in the opposite direction, disappearing into the crowd. Petunia Dursley felt a shiver run up and down her spine. She could've sworn the street rat's brown eyes glowed an impossibly familiar green for a split second before his retreat.

Shaking herself, she settled for glaring in the direction of where the brat had vanished, and walked briskly in the other direction, trying to ignore the prickle of recognition her mind was attempting to make her realize.

Harry's heart was beating frantically in his chest, and he did not realize his disguise was slipping back into his original form as he tore down the street like a madman. He was not exactly sure why he was so scared, so worried. He could take care of himself perfectly by now—but for some reason, he had no wish to leave the Dursley's just yet. And he had a feeling that Aunt Petunia had somehow recognized him, and that frightened him.

He reached Privet Drive after a good fifteen minutes of literally sprinting at breakneck speed. His breaths were coming in deep, shuddering gasps, and only just now he was aware that he'd transformed back into Harry Potter. Wheezing, he dazedly leaned against the front door, panting, regaining his breath. He stayed there for a couple of minutes before nodding to himself and heading inside.

He made sure to change back into the attire he'd been wearing earlier, and stuff the bills he'd stolen under some floorboards that were loose in his cupboard (which immediately made him remember the loose floorboards in Dudley's second bedroom, Harry's former room in his past life), cramming them beside all the other neat trinkets and cash he'd managed to smuggle in the empty space. All it had taken for the room beneath the floorboards to be suitable for storage was a quick cleaning charm and a mild Expanding spell that allowed him to hide a great amount of things.

Hopefully, Aunt Petunia would think nothing of the strange boy she'd bumped into.

But somehow, Harry knew she'd do the exact opposite.

° ° °

Harry could not have been more right.

Petunia Durlsey had tried to remain on task, keeping an eye out for Dudley and his little friends at the same time, but her traitorous mind had other ideas. She constantly found herself wondering about the green eyes she'd encountered, and no matter how many times she told herself she was merely imagining it, her nephew's face came crashing into her thoughts, alarms erupting all around.

Finally, she declared that it was high time on heading home. Her husband gave her an incredulous look, but did not argue. Dudley, on the other hand, began to wail, attracting attention from others. But, for the first time, Petunia ignored her child's cries and they hurried into the car. All it took to convince Vernon was that she thought she'd seen the Freak, and they were promptly setting on the street towards their home.

Vernon Dursley was not a man to believe in the unnatural, but he had little choice when he saw all the things his wife's freak nephew could do. He was not a man to be easily swayed, even by his wife. But his beloved Pet's eyes were wide in fear and in shock, pleading him—just a simple check. It would be horrifying if the Boy had managed to get out, and it would be even worse if the neighbors caught whiff of the brat's freakiness and it led them strait to the Dursley's normal household. No, it would not due to have that happen at all.

And, in case the Boy hadn't really been out, he could still use the excuse that his freakiness deserved punishment. He'd needed a good fuck for some time now (Petunia always seemed to be too busy, and that frustrated him), anyway.

° ° °

Harry's life continued on after the first incident of Metamorphmagus ability. He'd received punishment despite the fact that there was no further evidence, and his Uncle had visited his cot that night, but this time took the effort to gag the boy so he would not make any sound. Thankfully it had been a quick experience, no more painful than before.

Further weirdness ensued from the metamorphmagus incident, however. Harry came to realize that, if he wished hard enough (tapping unconsciously into his magic supply that was extraordinarily gaining more power every day that passed), he could make his relatives utterly ignore his presence and forget about him. Exactly like a Notice-Me-Not charm. It was deadly useful when he needed to heal his wounds, especially after the now-occasional harsh beating. The only problem was that, if he left the house, the 'charm' would wear off far too quickly to be much help (he'd gotten himself into trouble that time, since he'd been caught by his cousin).

Strangely enough, Dudley was harder to control than his Aunt and Uncle. Harry supposed that, either Dudley was remarkably strong-minded (which he strongly doubted) or he had some traces of magical potential. In the long run, however, Dudley's resistance helped Harry develop further. The challenge to make his cousin bend to his will with no words nor movements made his own magic flex and adapt so Harry would be able to temporarily control a muggle, and have a basic idea of how to do the same to a squib or any weak wizard's mind.

Additionally, Harry managed to turn himself invisible. He'd tapped into the same feeling of the Notice-Me-Not charm, but attempted to pour more power into it, willing himself to actually disappear. He'd received a shock when he found he couldn't see himself in a mirror—but quickly, he had whooped for joy. The only problem was that, even if he remained invisible, anyone could still bump into it. He'd come up with a rather ingenious theory to counter this as best as possible—namely, combing the Invisibility and Notice-Me-Not charm, so people would unconsciously walk around an invisible Harry. He'd had been pleased to realize he no longer needed to use the Disillusionment charm that gave him goose bumps, for his new combined-spell was much more effective.

After realizing the power of combining spells, he concentrated on his memory of apparatition. The end result wasn't exactly apparition, per say…it was more like a silenced sliding from one place to another. It wasn't nearly as instantaneous as apparition, but it didn't tire Harry and he found it quite pleasant to somehow 'glide' from one place to another. And, as time passed, it became easier and easier to travel both short and long distances in seconds.

The latter came much later, for Harry had to find a way to bypass the wards without disturbing them of his leave. It had been tricky, but he'd eventually managed to breach them without alarming any tendril of magic that served its purpose to prevent his escape. It had taken a many nights of work during the space of six months to learn to recognize ward 'magic' and slide through them effortlessly. It was sort of like a wall, in a sense.

And Sliding (as he'd taken to calling it) allowed him to float through it, without anyone the wiser. Harry had actually managed to discover how to get through the supposedly powerful wards Dumbledore had placed around Privet Drive by connecting the 'breaking through' action to Legilimency, which was similar in the idea of breaching things—in this case, a full, pure-magic barrier. (It was a real wonder how Voldemort had never managed to breach the wards—they were pathetic because they were based on emotions of love and protection towards Harry from his blood relatives…which was obviously zero in quantity).

The combined effort had produced marvelous effects. Harry was now able to Slide through most wards, which made him very happy. He'd actually seen how far he could Slide—and managed to reach a very, very long distance. Too bad he'd been horribly tired later. He'd had to wait a few hours until he was able to get back, and then wait another hour to regain enough power to Slide through the wards. The good thing was that he'd attempted Sliding at midnight, so he'd managed to get home before seven in the morn. Too bad he hadn't slept at all, causing him to blunder many times during the day out of drowsiness…

Animagus work had been rather easy. Harry had already been aware of his Animagus form (black panther), so he'd merely gone into himself and meditated, then slowly shifted into his animal form. The freedom experienced by releasing his inner animal had been breathtaking, but it had been sadly cut short by the coming of the sun, bringing another round of his chores. Harry, to his eternal surprise, had discovered he had several other animal shapes, but he was in no condition nor did he have the time to experiment with them. It took a long time for an animagus to take their form, especially when you had many (which was quite a rare ability).

His war training had been tested and tried after a long time of inactivity. He would not allow all of those years of experience to disappear because he did not keep himself in shape or in practice. He 'borrowed' two kitchen knives and took to running a mile in the morning, training with the bad replacement for daggers and flexing his skills that he had honed so long ago. His schedule was not nearly as harsh as it had been in his past life, for he did not have much time to slip away from the Dursley's. Still, his skills were, thankfully, still with him. He made absolutely sure he would loose no ability by locking all of his training directly into his subconscious, ready to be freed whenever he escaped so he could once again start the rigorous job of getting back into his former shape.

He would not be caught unawares.

As Harry's seventh birthday loomed near, he'd managed to master parselmagic as best as he could with the guidance of a garden snake, develop his familiar Animagus and Metamorphmagus skills quite marvelously for being self-taught, learn to wandlessly cast most of the spells he already knew, regain most of his former training and a great deal of other things. One of the last things he made utterly sure he was capable of achieving was casting mind-magic, such as Legilimency,wandlessly.

It had been a painstaking job, but it would be extremely useful in the future.

° ° °

Harry's first attempt at Legilimency (tried on Aunt Petunia) had been a spectacular failure. The reason he'd even considered attacking her mind had been because one, he needed to be able to cast it without a wand as easy as he could with a wand, and two, he wanted to know what was in the letter Dumbledore had left as he was a child. She'd burnt it the second she'd finished reading, and Dumbledore nor her had ever revealed what was in its contents.

Curiosity was, after all, a running trait in the Potter family.

He'd muttered under his breath and tried to breach Petunia's mind barriers, but, unfortunately, he hadn't been able to direct his magic into his Aunt's mind to use the spell, despite his experience with wandless mind magic. To add insult to injury due to his failure, he'd managed to get himself caught in the attempt (muttering was apparently listed as magic in the Dursley household) and received a huge lashing (which included belt whips and other arrays of painful weapons). Harry had refrained from much movement for another week after that…

Eventually, he remembered that combining charms with spells was incredibly useful. He'd had the urge to hit himself over the head because of that.

First, he'd discretely cast a wandless Cheering charm on his aunt from a distance a day when only they two were present in the house. Now, with a bit of his magic influencing her (besides—Cheering charms were a form of mental magic because they twisted people's emotions), he'd immediately cast Legilimens. It had been a huge success.

Aunt Petunia's mind was, unsurprisingly, extremely organized. Her mind had been neat, several blocks floating in the air. Harry 'floated' up to each one of them (it was actually his magical substance doing all the floating) and subconsciously got a message that told him what each block contained. There were blocks within blocks, too. 'Dudley' (a rather big block) was divided into smaller blocks that were recorded in Petunia's memory, such as 'Food' and 'Friends'. It had been hilarious and somewhat disturbing when Harry had bumped into a huge block looming menacingly above him that screamed 'Vernon Durlsey', which contained rather inappropriate blocks as subtitles.

He'd quickly floated away from that.

The letter's contents had been nowhere in sight. There was a tiny, insignificant block that shrieked 'Magic' far in the distance, but thunder was rumbling over there. It was dark and obviously dangerous, and Harry had no intention of getting his magical self-injured as of yet. He had much to learn about other's minds, after all. He'd never gone into another person's mind so deeply before, so this was all a new experience. He hadn't been aware there was a mental, physical-looking plane within a person's mind.

Severus had taught him powerful Legilimency, yes, but they had never truly gone into the true potential of the spell. There had been a war raging just outside, after all.

He'd eventually realized he could magically 'grab' of some of the smaller blocks. After wandering in Aunt Petunia's mind for what seemed like hours (which was actually only a few minutes), Harry glided over to a modest-sized block that said 'Languages', which contained two blocks within. One proudly proclaimed 'English' and another, a tad bit smaller, merely stated 'French'. He'd always wanted to learn French…

Instinctively, when he touched the wispy, transparent-like block, he somehow transferred it into his own memory, and found himself assaulted with a horrible headache. He'd immediately exited Petunia's mind, jerking away fiercely, slamming back into his body. He'd rushed into the bathroom and thrown up, gasping heavily.

Aunt Petunia had only seemed dazed, but, still affected by the Cheering charm, she'd skipped back into her work without further thought. She was pleasantly humming under her breath, indicating she remembered nothing.

Harry took an aspirin, groaning softly.

The headache was nothing compared to pain he'd been able to deal with before, but it had nonetheless been shocking and unexpected. He'd dropped his guard. Now, however, he was not particularly surprised to realize he knew fluent French, courtesy of Aunt Petunia's memory. Rubbing his temples, Harry decided it would be best if he refrained from copy-pasting anyone's memories into his own for a while, at least until he got this new, intriguing ability under control. He had no desire to experience the sudden tearing headache again.


Author's Note: Please review!