Summary: You would think that being reborn with magic would be amazing.
Honestly? Magic is bullshit.
Even more bullshit than chakra; OC didn't actually think that was possible.
As if that isn't bad enough, OC is very badly traumatized, and was not expecting to be reborn again. On another note, she is deeply unimpressed by the seeming determination of the multiverse to give her a penis, and her early world-saving attempts are repeatedly accidentally thwarted by Dumbledore.
OC is Not Amused.
OC identifies as female, is physically male, and refers to certain body parts as:
"The Genitalia That Must Not Be Named"
She really is Just Done With Everything.
No main character pairing - OC makes a horrified vow of celibacy as a small child that later turns out to have been an accidental Vow.
Chapter Summary: OC finds herself reborn again, when she was expecting the Pure World.
She doesn't have time to completely grasp it before succumbing to oblivion; so it's definitely gonna come back to bite her later.
In the meanwhile, it makes her first few months rather rocky.
Eventually, however, she actually ends up enjoying the first year of her new life - all because of her amazing new parents.
But all good things must come to an end.
Prologue - A Nasty Shock
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter - the HP universe was created by JKR, and I can acknowledge that; even if I'm not always impressed by the way she treats it.
A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among,
O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung:
"The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll,
A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit pass'd,
A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast,
And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung.
"Green island of the mighty! I see thine ancient race
Driven from their fathers' realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place!
I see from Uthyr's kingdom the sceptre pass away,
And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely men decay.
But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,
And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms,
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung!"
Taliesin's Prophecy
My second rebirth was almost more traumatic than the first, simply because the first ensured that I was capable of recognizing what was going on.
The shock of a world without chakra, after being so attuned to it in my last life, was as jarring in its own way as the transition to a world with chakra had been originally. I felt its loss like a gaping wound in my soul; magic seemed such a poor substitute. Especially given that it took awhile for me to figure out what it was.
I went from being a Zen-like little vegetable in the womb, to experiencing the shock and trauma of childbirth combined with memories of reincarnation - always so fun - accompanied by a split-second of horrified, grief-stricken awareness and despair; followed by nothing. My conscious mind shut down along with my body, and by the time they stabilized me, my awareness was back in hibernation.
I imagine it must have been just as bad for my parents - Mamaí had just given birth when I let out a sharp, agonized cry and promptly started dying.
I can't imagine how traumatizing it must have been for them to go through that; to have the joy and excitement of their baby coming into the world turned so abruptly into terror, to have to sit and watch, helplessly, while the healer cast frantic spells to keep the child they hadn't even had a chance to hold alive.
I have a vague recollection of crying and overwhelming sadness; but I'm fairly sure that was actually me - even after I was out of danger, I was by no means an easy baby. While I no longer knew or understood why I was upset, my grief was still present. So I mourned, unaware that was what I was doing; only that I was desperately unhappy, and it seemed nothing could change that.
Of course, time is relative for a newborn. While my period of mourning lasted forever from my own perspective - no doubt my poor, exhausted new parents agreed with the sentiment - it tapered off after a couple of months.
My new Mamaí and Tadi - my Mummy and Dadi, or Daddy - along with my Padfoot were all bona-fide saints. At the time, I was much too young to really consider it; but looking back I'm pretty sure that they actually could have been canonized just for the way they put up with me.
I was just so determinedly, unrelentingly miserable. All I really did for those first months was cry, scream, and occasionally sleep. I even cried while I ate, fussed in my sleep, and never stayed down for long. Unlike other babies, I never stopped, and never offered them a moment's peace or a single sign of feeling anything other than misery. Nothing they tried worked at all.
While largely driven by my subconscious grief, there was also the fact that I kept on instinctively reaching for my chakra sense, panicking when there was nothing there. I eventually managed to reach for my magical core and began attempting to use my magic the way I had my chakra - but no matter how well-trained my magic started to act in the way that I wanted it to, it still wasn't right.
Of course, my frequent reaching for my magic meant that my poor parents also had to deal with my magic being powerful and hyper-sensitive to my emotions. It gave an added (and slightly perilous) dimension to parenting that they handled with just as much grace as they did everything else.
They were just so patient with me; no matter what I put them through, their love for me never faltered.
Oh, sure - they cried with me sometimes, or managed to get one of their friends to look after me so they could take a break and sleep for a while; they were human and it was very discouraging to have such a completely unhappy baby.
But they never took it out on me - they always, always, put my needs above their own. They were at a loss for how to help me - but that's just it.
They always wanted to help me.
No matter how miserable I made them by proxy, it was me they were concerned for; my pain was what distressed them the most. Their own tiredness, sadness, and worry mattered less to them than the desire to make me feel better.
As unhappy as my subconscious made me, this kind of unconditional parental devotion was utterly foreign.
It was also indescribably comforting; a balm to my wounded soul.
Their joy was incandescent the first time I settled, and stopped my endless crying. They heaped me with such praise and adoration; I had never experienced anything like it. I had been loved before, but James and Lily... they cherished me.
To this day, I honour them by calling them Mamaí, Tadi, and παπά. I've never given those titles to anyone else; even if I'm in a household where they might be expected, even before remembering fully, I have an instinctive aversion to doing so. They earned the right to hold their own titles without having to share them several times over. No other family I've had, no matter how loving, or wonderful, could ever replace them.
Other parents have since cherished me, but they were the first.
Mamaí, Tadi, and Papá were just so loving and encouraging; I quickly grew enchanted with them. My behaviour began to change more and more rapidly, until it was nearly the opposite of what it had been before.
I rewarded all their efforts with smiles and laughter, and an enthusiastic outpouring of infant affection. It was as if I were suddenly attempting to make up for the past few months by giving them everything they had been denied before - as much as I could, as fast as I could.
They rewarded each and every one of my efforts by treating it like a priceless gift. Rewarding me with such joy; such genuine pleasure and gratefulness I sometimes found myself crying even as I laughed. I was just so happy.
Those early days were blissful, and infinitely precious. Even the memories of those first months of torment are dear to me now, because they were there, and their love never faltered.
In the end, I may have only had them for 15 short months; but they were some of the most pivotal of my existence, and they impact me still.
We were all happy, that first year after my misery eased. Despite the stress, the demands, and fear of the war outside; we were happy.
Mamaí was utterly lovely - with her long, flame-red ringlets and green eyes that were so very lush and vibrant, she could be mistaken for one of the Fair Folk. Her beauty was almost otherworldly; so ethereal, and her magic so strong and wild. Tadi liked to tease her, tugging her curls and calling her a precious changeling, and teasingly name her either "Gwyllion" or "Ellyllion"; a water-sprite, or an elf.
Where Mamaí was half-Irish, Tadi was Cymric (Welsh), and while he'd been taught to speak like a very proper and posh English gentleman for interactions with the high society of British Pureblood Wixen, his voice had a rich Welsh lilt unless he made an effort to change it.
He liked to call Mamaí Lilïau, rather than simply Lily; though I later learned he only did that at our house, or among close friends. His private titles for her were "Lilïau wyr Y twylwyth teg" - sometimes swapping out "Gwyllion" or "Ellyllion" in the title for "twylwyth teg", or calling her "fy nhrysor tylwyth teg fy hun".
His eyes twinkled and his smile shone with affection, his adoration of her clear as he titled her "Lily of the Fair Folk", "of the Elves", or the Forests, Waters, or Shadows. His eyes turned darker, and his smile turned softer and more intimate as he called her his very own Faerie Treasure.
There were many more terms of endearment he used, but they were not so personal, and he would often use versions of them for me as well as for her.
He always managed to fluster her and make her blush, and it never seemed to lose its novelty. Her eyes would light up when he entered the room, just as his eyes did for her; while her cheeks would flush with pleasure whenever he said something particularly earnest and sweet.
The memories of how deeply, and how helplessly besotted Tadi and Mamaí were by each other, are ones I hold quite dear. They tell me that my beloved parents were happy together, no matter how briefly; and that I was born in that life out of a pure and abiding love.
English and Welsh were spoken almost interchangeably in our house, along with a fair amount of Irish from Mamaí.
When Sirius - my Padfoot; my παπά, my Papá - came to visit (which was a misleading term, since he actually lived with us, and just went out for extended periods due to the war effort), he would usually take me aside and talk to me in Latin, Ancient Greek, and French.
Mamaí approved; particularly of the Latin and the Greek, which would be useful for spells later on. She therefore tried to continue those with me on occasion as well.
Tadi promptly responded to my introduction to old languages by beginning to chat to me now and then in Brythoneg - also known as Common Brittonic - and Mamaí was happy to join him; even if she wasn't quite as fluent. He also murmured to me in hen Gymraeg; old dialects of Welsh - modern Cymraig.
He used those ancient tongues to teach me about our Family history, weaving tales of the Potter Family - y Crochenydd nhylwythau. We were Crochenwyr; and ours was a rich and colourful history. He told me about Y Crochenwaith; the ancient family homestead called The Pottery.
He also taught me hudau Y nhras - the family Magick.
Of course, he didn't expect me to learn or comprehend as much as I did as quickly as I came to - he was merely intending to lay a foundation, and starting young would aid my ability to develop fluency.
That was the goal they all held, actually; starting my language studies early to encourage fluency.
They only devoted as much time to it as they did for two reasons - first, that we were in hiding and it was a good, engaging way to pass the time.
Second, that I was quite obviously fascinated by our polyglot household. Each new language I was introduced to made my eyes widen, and I would listen for hours, completely enthralled. Even after I began speaking extra-ordinarily early, they still only assumed I was only really learning the three primary languages of our household.
While they enjoyed indulging me, often sharing snippets of family lore or educational discussion with one another as they practiced their own fluency, they only began to grasp how much I understood when I began attempting to respond to them in the same languages they spoke to me.
My attempts with the more unfamiliar tongues were clumsy and halting; a lisping baby tongue attempting to master a wide variety of languages at once. But they were somewhat understandable, or at least recognisable, and my three parents were all very suitably impressed and amazed at my apparently budding genius.
The memory seal from my last life gave me an eidetic memory in this one, and helped me retain some of my old processing speed and heightened cognitive development. I didn't remember this yet, however, and soaked in their multilingual praises and expanded lessons like a particularly satisfied and eager sponge.
It was around then that I figured out that Padfoot was not actually encouraging me to say a babified form of his nick-name; he was teaching me to call him Papá - technically, παπά; the Greek word for Daddy.
I was initially confused; when he recognised my confusion he laughed, tucking his face into my neck and nuzzling baby-soft skin as he crossed the room towards Mamaí and Tadi with quick strides. When he reached them he wasted no time in pulling each of them into a quick kiss, then smirked at my wide-eyed expression.
He bopped me on the nose and simply told me that I was lucky, because our Family was very special. I had a mother and two fathers; a Mamaí, a Tadi, and a Papá, and they all loved each other very much.
The other two laughed as well, and wrapped their arms around us both. They all reassured me they were happy, and I hadn't noticed only because Papá had been gone so much since I was born that he tried to spend all of his time at the house with me while I was awake.
They told me that Papá had performed a ritual with them before I was born to make me a Black as well as a Potter. I was equally the child of all three of my parents.
I was slightly curious, but mostly just happy - seeing the three of them so close together now allowed me to notice the signs I'd overlooked before. I could see that my Padfoot was not just family; a dear and precious friend with whom my parents shared an unusual closeness, but Family. He was my παπά; my beloved Papá, and he was just as much my parent as Mamaí and Tadi were.
I might not have seen it before, but the way he and my other parents looked at each other was very familiar to me, now that I knew to look for it.
My precious memories of the love shared between my parents expanded to include all three of them, and I found myself mesmerized by watching them interact with each other. They were all so different, yet they each seemed to fill a need the others had just by being there - their ways of showing their affection to each other were as different as their personalities; and even differed between Mamaí and Tadi, and Tadi and Papá, and Papá and Mamaí.
Yet somehow, each of them gave the others something they needed; something different and irreplaceable.
Tadi was much more mischievous and playful than Mamaí, also far less serious and studious and more prone to dramatics.
While Papá was no less mischievous and dramatic than Tadi was, and just as playful and disinclined to studying, his upbringing had also been very different; much stricter, less happy, and far more demanding - it left its mark, even if it wasn't immediately noticeable.
I didn't know that at the time - only that despite Papá often giving the impression of having such boundless energy and enthusiasm he seemed nearly uncontrollable; he was somehow also capable of sitting calmly and being quiet - much more so than Tadi was.
The two of them tended to aim their bouts of hyperactivity and silliness towards one another, sharing a love of pranks and jokes that would have driven Mamaí spare if she'd been dragged into it more than occasionally. This arrangement allowed her to play the role of amused spectator and only get involved if she wanted to.
Papá's occasional talent for stillness, however, allowed him to have long conversations with Mamaí on a variety of highly intellectual subjects which he had once been required to study in depth. Despite resenting it at the time, he was grateful for it now - it made Mamaí happy, and Papá loved making people happy.
If Papá started to become melancholy, Mamaí would pull out her subtle sarcasm and sly, biting wit to encourage him to respond. The two of them would end up laughing at each other through their mutual abuse of intellectual humour, and it never failed to pull Papá out of his funk.
Tadi loved making people happy, too; but he wasn't always able to help when Papá began brooding. Practical jokes and prank wars sometimes helped, but otherwise he would transform into a stag and go running with Padfoot. Sometimes they would simply curl up by the fire together, leaning on each other in wordless comfort.
Since his parents had been much less strict in their study requirements for him he had been allowed to place most of his focus only on topics that interested him. However, this limited his ability to offer Mamaí the stimulating conversations she sometimes craved.
He showed his love for her in other ways; doing things for her and saying particularly sweet things to her, and helping her gain fluency in the languages where his skill currently surpassed hers. He also made an effort to learn Irish; wanting her to have the comfort of speaking her Mathaír's native tongue in her home.
I quickly grew to understand that Tadi and Mamaí would never have been completely happy without Papá, and he would have been much less happy without them.
But they did have each other, and they were all very happy together.
I was perhaps the happiest of us all, having no idea as yet what the war they whispered about referred to, or of any of the horrors that were occurring outside the safety of our cottage. How could I, when I was still so young, and none of it had ever touched my world?
So I played and learned and grew; experimenting with my magic and watching my parents with a nearly-worshipful adoration and devotion. And, of course, enjoying their own adoration and devotion to me in turn.
In my world, all was well. Then the end of October arrived - and with it, the end of everything I held dear.
A/N: I'm going to post the prologues I've finished for the stories I've outlined and started for this series, after giving them all a quick tidy. They're a bit rough, and I only intend to update the stories in order, primarily focusing on the first story until it's finished; but each is meant to stand alone despite the continuity.
Reading them all concurrently shouldn't be too spoilery - though it will be a bit, so decide to proceed at your own risk!
I'm posting them as-is because I've been in the hospital for the last two weeks, and will be going back tonight. I'm not sure what my updating will look like until I get back out, unfortunately.
I've already explained my lack of beta; please see the previous story's end notes for details. Also, see the first in the series "Introduction" for details on adding to the series yourself.
Wyrdfyre has very graciously helped me by beta-reading this chapter for me. :)