Don't Wake Up Dead by InsaneScriptist
Beta'd by the busy Umei no Mai
Summary: Being a martyr meant facing some hard truths. Those truths had consequences. So he left Britain and that world and that time of his life. Of course he'd end up in the mafia when it was forming, by accident.
XXVI.
Harry despite his glasses was not blind without them. He does however need them if he's going to be reading anything; he has an astigmatism problem and it distorts words and fine details into blurs.
Not that reading is possible with the low levels of light and general flurry of activity within the base that Harry is certain is burning down with whatever those Resolution Flames are or whatever they were actually called. It might be on fire properly now, so he should get out. Pronto.
Which would mean magic.
He does however know that he can latch and secure this door behind him, take out all the security and then apparate out of here and take a break in England so he can avoid Italy for a while.
Destroying technology is a fairly easy thing to do; Hermione said that magic could do something on the electromagnetic spectrum and as a person's magic fluxed based on how they felt... well, a watch battery could die in minutes or last for a decade and watches were simple compared to the wonders of technology that were video cameras.
Or technology that he really didn't understand but knew needed to be destroyed as thoroughly as possible.
Like time-traveling technology.
(And any other bit of technology in this room.)
XXVII.
Harry, despite being adept with wandless magic, couldn't create a shockwave of it and spread it evenly while ensuring it still had an effect. Any witch or wizard could learn how to show off their aura, their magic and so on, even use it to effects like intimidation or giving comfort.
Having a flare of magical aura destroy the room was not only impractical, but also beyond him. Harry had no lack of magical power, he did however have an ongoing fight with having it be precise and even enough to be useful in such a way to utterly destroy a room all around him; a semi-circle yes, but a full perfect circle? He hadn't managed that in years of attempts, once he had first learned of the possibility. He had tried and practiced and trained and still couldn't get a perfect circle.
He could however launch magical shockwaves and make these people think he escaped through more 'normal' means than say magically teleportating out better known as apparation. Best not to leave evidence of magic, considering that he's certain that is quite the violation of the International Statue of Secrecy. Somehow. The Flames the mafia already knew of are one thing, but actual magic? Best to leave no record at all if possible.
Hence why he destroyed the security center in the first place.
Best to destroy the technology -all of it- in this room, cast a disillusionment or a wandless equivalent thereof after and then get out of this place and Italy in general.
Harry gives himself rather good odds of avoiding an international incident so long as he's not caught in the act and not suspected of being involved, no matter how distantly. He knows how Aurors and other law-enforcement works and think; politicians too. Suspicion is very much like fact for some people.
XXVIII.
It's hard to tell, but he's certain that there's smoke coming through the magically barred door. That's not a good sign, even if the camouflage of the smoke would be to his advantage, even without the cameras -at least the obvious ones- being already destroyed to make sure. It's hard to find them in such low-light.
He could do a more thorough search for some hidden 'bugs' so long as he could avoid dying or getting set on fire. A flame-freezing charm is easy enough but he's not certain how it would interact with whatever mafia magic those Resolution Flames are. It's not exactly Cursed fire, but it's different enough from any other sort of magical fire that he's not keen to experiment in a life-threatening situation.
He's already been enough of a Gryffindor already today. It's clearly not the time for that now.
Harry knows that he's already taken out the cameras, so he ransacks the storage areas. There's lots of ammo that he dumps carelessly in a pile, away from the heat; having the ammo propel itself wildly because the powder in the shells combusted is not something he wants to happen to him. The weapons go in another pile, closer to the door.
Time to protect the sanctity of the timelines he mangles the weapons and to think, he once thought he wanted a normal life and that these adventures would stop once he was out of Hogwarts if he was lucky enough to survive school with Voldemort trying to kill him. His life has outdone itself several times since then, although there had been no other Dark Lord planning on genocide trying to kill him.
(His worst enemy was complacency and apathy in other people.
Evil wins when no one stops it.)
XXIX.
The amount of smoke building up in the room is concerning, Harry thinks, but a modified bubble-head charm forms a transparent gas-mask. He knows that there's fire outside of the room; he can feel the heat through the wall. Getting out now is more imperative than ever.
However that doesn't explain the tint of colour to it. He's not sure if there's a leaky canister of something -tear gas, mustard gas, some sort of airborne poison- but it's effecting the air-quality in here to a visible extent. Some sort of red-tinge that he can't make out through what little light is in the room.
Using the bubble-head variant means that Harry's not breathing it in but he's well aware that not all things have to be ingested or breathed in to be effective. In that case, he's most certainly fucked.
Twice over, since there will no doubt be some political fallout from this, should he get connected to this incident. Hopefully it would remain local and no one would know about his involvement other than him and whoever he tells. He'd rather not deal with that sort of mess. It would be a nasty, international and frustrating business at best. If he's really unlucky, someone would send Hermione after him; marriage may have worked wonders on how tense Hermione usually was -which said far too much about his best friends' sex life- but in some ways she had only gotten more vicious. It was scary and Harry was scared of that possibility.
Should you know, he get caught up in this mess. That's a big if.
He wasn't planning on that, and so decided to apparate out as this colored smoke was curling around his knees.
(Magic and technology really don't mix.
The ammo is the key to the ten-year bazooka's success. The bazooka just makes what happens consistent and safe enough to be used by even children.
Even then accidents are inevitable, but at least using the bazooka means that it's reversible.
Accidents with time and space have a frustrating tendency to be permanent because no one understands them.)
XXX.
Apparation while uncomfortable was something that Harry had adjusted to years ago. Extensive practice and so on of a very useful skill. He didn't even have to concentrate all that much nowadays, especially to certain locations that he was very familiar with.
A momentary squeeze of pressure and a small pop of displaced air and Harry would be home free.
Except his luck isn't that good and Harry knows his life has taken another unexpected twist. This is worse than the Floo, portkeys and apparations combined. There's no hook behind his navel, but there's the whirring sensation of portkeys, the falling twisting feeling of using the floo with enough of a sense of compression that has Harry feeling claustrophobic.
It's enough to make Harry feel an immediate sense of relief when he finally lands somewhere. He thinks he didn't splinch, feels certain of it and then feels the need to hurl.
XXXI.
After vacating whatever he's eaten for the past week from his stomach, Harry finds himself shivering as he dry heaves; it's worse than actually puking. Nothing's coming up now but it's painful how weak he feels because of the need to do it and no result. It's already all out on the ground, spreading into a puddle and Harry sidles backwards on all fours and away from his puke puddle.
He had felt the excitement of adrenalin leave him during his heaving, which means it is time for discipline. Harry drags himself into a sitting position, brings out his wand and casts some basic spells. Vanishing his mess, setting up a notice-me-not and other basic wards.
He's not sure where he's at beyond it being vaguely forested but he could probably rest here for a bit. Wandless magic was always more mentally tiring than physically, but the mafia's magic flames have put him into a state where he can feel tired down to his bones the way that a three-day cross-country chase of a wanted criminal or dealing with a serial or spree-killer could.
Who knows, maybe he had avoided an international incident that would involve something like the mafia. He doesn't even want to think how treacherous it would make the usually muddy waters of international politics.
XXXII.
Maybe he could avoid an incident if he's lucky. Something has happened, will happen and Harry's had years of evidence that if he's lucky one way then what happens next will be worse.
Finding out he had magic gave him a prejudiced world, relative freedom from his relatives for most of the next seven years and a Dark Lord after his life. He knows full and well that for him, no good deed goes unpunished; even if some of the punishments are more obscure and seen as 'rewards' by people who don't have to live with such things.
(What would he do with more fame? He despised it.
And what would he do with more wealth? Spend it on his non-existent family and extravagant social life?
Hermione stop saying that I'm whinging. He remembered saying years ago now. There's a reason I'm not staying. If I stay, I'll be trapped and die by inches. I'll be buried under expectations and remembered for nothing more than surviving the killing curse twice and then one day I'll find myself waking up to a dead life, living out empty and thoughtless expectations from the masses, from myself, from my family instead of being myself. I don't want that Hermione. I don't want to be like that.
Don't wake up dead? Hermione repeated, with one of those pensive and furiously thoughtful looks.
That's a nice motto. Harry decided. Simple, meaningful. It's a goal.
Honestly Harry, she said while gently giving him a playful punch on the shoulder, isn't being an auror going to be enough? And what about Ginny?
And that, Harry told her, is exactly the problem.
Oh. She uttered before she hugged him. Oh, Harry.)
XXXIII.
''Oh, Harry' indeed,' he thought. 'Just what have you gotten yourself into?'
XXXIV.
It was sad if telling that he had turned a spot not that far away from his landing spot into a temporary camp. It wasn't that far of a walk and he did maintain a sight line of that spot. A just in case, sort of monitoring that he was rather certain was unnecessary but still doing to distract himself from what he had discovered in the nearby town.
It was the same town, just much smaller and much younger. By over a hundred years.
He was currently in the eighteen-hundreds! Well over a century before he was even born!
Just his fucking luck.
(He knew he couldn't avoid something if he managed to escape the international political scandal. He just wasn't expecting this as his fate and fortune.
Time-travel had never been something he wanted to do. His experiences in his third year at Hogwarts had been headache-inducing enough.)
XXXV.
The only conclusion he can come to is that the smoke did something. He knew it wasn't the right color and being thorough in his destruction had cost him a trip through time.
He really did not want to deal with that fact.
Like he did not want to deal with the fact he has no idea if it's possible to get back. He has no idea how to get back. He hasn't looked much into time-travel and related studies, leaving that to the Unspeakables. He doesn't know the technology that clearly turned a simple apparation into a trip into the past.
He does know that he has to get back somehow. He doesn't have the Bovino technology but he does have magic. People have been using magic for longevity for nearly as long as recorded history documents. Probably for some time before that even.
He doesn't know how to get back. Has no clue how, either. So despite wanting to, all he can do is wait and hope not to die.
Elixer of life? Flamel is alive at this point but Harry is currently a utter nobody with nothing but the possessions he currently has. He has nobody to vouch for him to even try to obtain a meeting with the famed alchemist. No brilliant school records to incite a possible apprenticeship from the famed alchemist.
Horcruxes are fundamentally flawed in the fact that while the spirit doesn't pass on, the body will still age. Just no. He's learned he has no problems killing those who try to kill him and his, but it is still a weight he's uncomfortable bearing outside of the flow of battle, although slaughter was a more effective word for what happened to the Bovino that went against him.
He's not sure how else to do anything else. Sure there's always getting petrified or the Draught of Living Death but that would be reliant on someone else to revive him nearly a century and a several decades of excess years later.
He has no one and no option to do anything other than survive and thrive.
(Don't wake up dead, right?)
XXXVI.
That's going to be easier said than done. He had looked through the little town, clad in notice-me-nots and a disillusionment. Not the cloak; useful, oh so useful but it is still a layer of fabric that can get in the way. The disillusionment and notice-me-not cover each other's weaknesses well.
Things had been very different and that was very obvious. Not just visually but by scent; people stank in a way that he hadn't expected them to. His nose had been forgiving and adjusted quickly but it was still an unexpected bit of sensory processing. The people looked more or less the same, but how they dressed was a huge clue that he wasn't where he had been as was the considerably more dilapidated architecture.
He had first thought he had wound up in some other country or maybe in some area that hadn't gone and gotten plumbing yet. No, that hadn't happened.
He had overheard some things in town. Little things here and there but it was mostly daily gossip. There was no handy newspaper to read.
In fact, he was almost certain that even if such a paper existed, the majority of the town wouldn't be able to read it. Maybe a few could read a few words, maybe their names and so on but more than that was just a statistical impossibility.
The town was a small backwater of poverty and desperate people who were trying to eek out a living as best they could under all the burdens they were crushed by. Those they knew about and those they didn't.
It was a depressing existence, that sort of life in this sort of time.
Which he was now stuck in.
XXXVII.
The year is currently not important. Harry's trying not to think about it. He's thinking about other things.
Like getting back to his life. The one he had chosen. Traveling, experiencing new things, helping not only Britian as an Auror but other magical nations through his 'expertise' on muggle technology and how to keep magic a secret despite it. Spending time with Teddy and Andromeda, speaking in French with Fleur and Hermione over the Weasley dinner table, discussing all sorts of topics with Luna, and even discovering new favourite foods in foreign places. Talking to Neville about all sorts of plants and how teaching classes went and how Neville went and got engaged.
There's so much more that he had wanted and he hadn't even realized it.
Until now.
XXXVIII.
He doesn't have that life anymore. He doesn't even have a chance at it.
From what he remembers of the Bovino's invention -what he found out about it anyway- it is only supposed to work in sending a person forward. An exact measurement of ten years and only for five minutes. There are various eh, ways to tamper with that but generally it just muddles with the exchange of present and future in odd ways. The future possibilities can stay over just five minutes, as can many of the various mishaps but... it's always an exchange.
Somehow.
Harry is in the past. Not stuck ten years in the future with no idea what he's doing or why with the potential to cause paradoxes for a previous self; Harry hasn't even been born yet! His father hasn't and he's almost certain that his great-grandparents haven't been born either!
He did not exchange with a previous or future self. So assuming that whatever bit of technology causes the switch had malfunctioned so magnificently and due to his own arrogance with the random effects magic had on technology...
XXXIX.
He had made such a mistake with no way to fix it. He wanted to, oh, how he wanted to.
There was so much that could be done, and that warred with what should be done. He wanted to do something about blood-prejudice, wanted to prevent that war before those seeds ever reached fruition under Voldemort's bloody reign of terror. He wanted to protect and serve the vulnerable members of the magical community; the children, the elderly, the poor, the diseased, the unseen and the disregarded.
He wanted to give out the recipe for Wolfbane, write laws protecting house-elves and so much more but he couldn't. Not without doing something terrible to history, potentially even his own 'history' as miserable as it was in the beginning. If he would even be alive that long.
That there was so much that he wanted to do but couldn't did cut down on his 'plans' such as they were. He had no idea what to do.
So he grieved for his loss.
XXXX.
He spent the night grieving.
He mentally flayed himself open again and again for being so stupid and arrogant. He wept over the fact that he might not even live long enough to see his loved ones again. He cried and begged magic and Merlin for an intervention or a sign.
None came.
XXXXI.
He didn't wake up dead, but he did feel off-balance to the point that trolls doing ballet were probably more graceful. It was, he figured, only proper to feel such now that he was so far away of his responsibilities and unable to do something to influence what he knew of as history. Not unless he wanted a paradox and...
Harry also knew that he did have to go to Britian again. See to a few errands like establishing an identity that had the means to attend schooling. Possibly even to a university, as he was otherwise too over educated even with his basic formal muggle schooling; Harry knew at least that much, considering the times. Harry had also been learning a lot of things informally since graduating Hogwarts but that didn't mean he was taught such or knew anything about what his 'classmates' would have known. So he'd have to learn all the mannerisms and so on typical to the era. In person, as he had no Google or Wikipedia to help him understand otherwise.
It was still the eighteen-hundreds! There were plenty inventions, slang, discoveries and more within the time of his childhood and turning into wandering world traveler, reporting on the danger of technology made him notice the importance of contemporary knowledge that wasn't just history.
People, he had learned, were always advancing somehow or trying to. People, he had also learned, often didn't agree about which direction to advance in. Most people muddle through things, but some can direct what will happen and when, along with the impact. Sometimes through subtlety and sometimes through force of personality.
Harry knows he's not subtle. Sneaky and suspicious but he lacks subtly and frequently sophistication in many regards; sometimes intentionally. He's learned to employ sophistication in many ways, but that's not everything. Not nearly enough to make up for the fact that Harry knows he's a polite if blunt hammer. All time and experience have done is give him a chisel and a chance to practice precision at times. For all of that, he's still a hammer.
He's going to need all the subtlety and precision he can get. So he needs to get this right.
Someone born in nineteen eighty-one is obviously out of place in the year of eighteen seventy. Harry is twenty-eight and it will be one hundred and eleven years before he will even be born.
It's going to take him a while to get this right, but he has time and motivation to.
(He can only get back to his proper time through one method he's sure about. One day at at time passing.
There's plenty of magic to circumvent aging and its effects after all. He doesn't know it, but that doesn't mean he can't learn it.)
XXXXII.
Harry recalls pretty much nothing from his history of magic classes and he's not sure if it's a blessing or a curse. He does recall his years of traveling in very exact detail. He transfigures clothing out of the modern muggle style and into something a bit more old fashioned. Well, modern by this time period, even if people in his time would term it Victorian.
It was the Victorian era in Britian after all. That much he remembers from history. It's eighteen seventy, so it's about a decade after her husband had died. He remembers that Queen Victoria lives for another thirty years and dies around the change of the century. A new King for a new century, or something like that.
Time to see what the witches and wizards are like once he gets to England.
XXXXIII.
Harry arrives in England before Christmas. He had checked out magical France of this time, which had appeared to have and not have changed. Still elegant, with careful artistic touches and a touch of scandal. Scandal for this time period anyway.
Magical France in a sentence is more or less the same. Different yes, especially in terms of what's socially appropriate but it does prepare him for a few things like the prejudice that he's going to find in Britian.
Harry does not socialize overly much in France but he does learn this much.
See, in these times, before modern plumbing, before electricity was common, before education and health-care was for every citizen... the muggle-born, the mudbloods were almost exactly what bigoted magicals said they were.
Filthy, stupid beasts with no breeding, no class, no manners and somehow had been gifted with magic. Some who didn't even know how to read before Hogwarts and had seemingly never heard of regular baths. They could have fleas and lice!
He was from a time where such prejudice was dying. Where muggle-born could and would out-score their 'better bred' peers. Where advancements for equality were making headway under Hermione's crusades and Kingsley's ministry.
In this time, pureblood society was at its last peak of proof. The golden years, a last glorious golden time to be a pureblood in. Where such a dogma about the worth of a person being based on their breeding, the amount of magical blood in their veins could be seen as true. They'd raise their children to believe this and it would still be 'true' for a few more decades at least.
By that time, it would be a belief they'd cling to and privately doubt; something that the performance of their lesser-born peers would cause due to early education and increased standards of living. The idea that they could put the 'mudbloods' in their place would occur, and that they'd fight and kill and torture for that once Voldemort came to be. Once Voldemort preyed on that belief and their vulnerability there; Hogwart's house of green and silver had held some of Voldemort's first victims, because Voldemort had no problem threatening what his fellow Slytherins wanted to protect. Voldemort profited after such behavior, but the Slytherins were just further trapped by the Dark Mark and other factors. It was not a pretty change to have happen among some of the magical's most sheltered.
People adapted in order to change, but not all managed such gracefully. Some fought it tooth and nail; others worked more subtlety.
Harry knew he'd have to face such prejudice soon and it rankled.
XXXXIV.
The timing of his arrival is fortunate.
He had spent a few days in France. A rented room that he had slept in, having spent the rest of his time out and about, scouting and learning. Fashion, mannerisms, and if heard one more remark about his messily-styled hair... well, the idea of growing it out was growing on him. Better than trying to use gel -no the people in this time used wax or grease- to style it. It'd still be a mess, he knew that, but maybe it'd be less wild than the constant case of bedhead that people thought he sported.
He had robes and clothing from France. Nothing spectacularly extravagant, because Harry didn't like the amount of attention that would give him. It was a little different from the usual high-priced styles but not by much. Magical fashion hadn't changed much, except by cultures. Harry feels that he doesn't attract too much attention in his robes. They're long enough to cover his trousers; that would really give him away.
His timing is fortunate precisely because of the holidays. He can break into offices, unnoticed and undisturbed, and create an identity.
XXXXV.
He's had time to think about his new identity.
He can't be Harry James Potter, Chosen One, Boy-Who-Lived and so on. Harry James Potter doesn't exist in this time. He can't.
He had muddled over his name for a few hours one night. He'll still be Harry, but choosing between what it's short for is another issue. Harrison is not something he's fond of and Henry less so. Potter is a common enough surname, so he'll keep that.
His new name is inspired by the Romans and Hadrian's Wall. Hadrian becomes Harry. No one had to say nicknames had to make sense, otherwise Bill might have been a Will instead of Bill.
He's still Harry Potter, but he's not the Chosen One or the Boy-Who-Lived anymore.
Hadrian "Harry" Evan Potter is a nice enough name.
He's also going to get a lot of practice writing it down the next few weeks, between a few spells and some tracking.
XXXXVI.
One of the better things about this time is that Hogwarts being an elite school institution actually is true. It's lacking in the muggle sciences but since Hogwarts actually teaches subjects instead of just making sure people know reading and writing and basic arithmetic its superiority is true.
The problem is that Hogwarts is practically alive and has a long memory. Teachers would remember students, students would remember classmates. Still, he hadn't been a Hitwizard for nothing and it's not like he didn't remember the more estoric knowledge that most people don't know. Like the best way to alter someone's memory was to let them do it for you. Not like Slughorn did, as that was very obviously wrong but... psychology had proven that people could make up memories and then believe them. Which makes the memory seem true.
People are very adept at lying to themselves. Memory is a strange substance. Very malleable, yet strong enough to motivate and bind people for the rest of their lives.
Thankfully he can look up all sorts of information at the Ministry.
XXXXVII.
Harry Evan Potter was a bright student even if his written work didn't always show it. His parents died when he was young. He pens that his mother was a widow who raised him, with support from her family; his aunt and uncle.
Then his mother was murdered when he was young, so custody went to his aunt and uncle. He'd have to make some police records for that, as there was an actual police force in Britain even if it was still very young, but that would be simple. His uncle was paid well... fuck. He's going to have to modify financial records too since Hogwarts had a rather dated system for how much muggleborns pay for their education. A mental note to break into the Headmaster's office later...
Wait, who was Hogwart's Headmaster at the moment? Wasn't Phineas Black the Headmaster of Hogwarts at this point? Harry knew that Phineas had been around at some point around this era, so he had to be a professor at least. Didn't Sirius say that he had been the least popular Headmaster of Hogwarts? Modifying old records wouldn't be easy then. The Blacks weren't the most pleasant people and having spent quite some time with Phineas' portrait he knew the wizard to be clever, someone who hated cocky young brats. Would Phineas have been as paranoid as Sirius' father who had warded Grimmuald before Dumbledore put the Fidelius up on it?
Who had been Headmaster before Black?
Harry couldn't recall the name. However he could learn it later. He still had the rest of his background to fabricate and that would take a few days.
XXXXVIII.
Harry Evan Potter was twenty-eight years old, and had graduated with high marks from an old private school in Scotland he had got into by luck and mostly paid for by scholarship.
He had then became an investigator for the police. Forging those records was less easy because of the sheer amount of work involved, much like 'his' tax records. Even altering memories was easier; a nudge here, an idea there and an entire event that never happened was remembered. A decade was enough time for memories to blur should anyone ask after him then.
Harry Evan Potter was also a widower, one who had loved his wife very much. It was a convenient way to explain persistent grief away. Childbirth being the cause, where the child didn't survive either. A tragic but not uncommon situation. Ron and Hermione were killed by illness, their children hadn't survived past childhood either because a marriage without children in these days meant they weren't sharing a bed or she was barren. Kids that hadn't survived to adulthood was common though, no matter a person's station or magical ability, so that's what happened.
Harry Evan Potter had a lot of dead friends and family, the detectives at 'his' police station were willing to swear. They'd whisper about too much loss being too much and Harry leaving to travel, to get away from the memories.
His friends weren't dead, they hadn't been born yet but each day he woke up it felt more and more like they were dead.
It wasn't a nice feeling.
XXXXIX.
This only leaves the question of what he's going to do. He knows he can't stay in Britain. He could change and effect too much. Just by being there.
Never mind the temptation to actually do that. To change it all. See if he can get rid of the senseless blood-prejudice that only lived on through fear because of the threat the ever-present "they" could be to everyone.
He could be an academic of a sort, but he's not Hermione; the idea doesn't appeal. He knows enough languages to make a living translating, but it's not something he really wants to do.
Being able to travel is a must. Being tied down is not. Wanderlust is something he's become very familiar with. There are jobs that allow travel. Working the rails?
But with his sort of overly-generous-education for the time period? Even with just the general knowledge, he knows more and is sure of more than even some of the most educated of the time. The knowledge of languages alone at least mark him as upper-class and his behavior would and could only be from an eccentric.
There's still only a few jobs left to his sort of qualifications. A scientist of some sort, studying something like Darwin's finches or sea life or whatever or perhaps a doctor or even a lawyer.
Being a scientist seems less than ideal. A lawyer would be even worse. A doctor would work. He knows first-aid, anatomy and even a bit of psychology. He could study medicine, use what he can do of Occulmency to retain the material better. Doctors could easily travel in this time period.
Magical careers in Britain and abroad are out of the question. He'd be too tempted to meddle. Best to remove himself entirely.
L.
Harry leaves Britain.
France is familiar, close-by but still far enough away that he can fight the urge to go to Diagon and do things like killing the idea of blood purity.
France has those issues too, but maybe it's some distinct national pride influence that he doesn't feel the need to work on those issues. Doctors need medical school and experience on top of knowledge. He does need more schooling than what he has; knowledge of basic first-aid without magic and how to heal with a wand is not the sort of skills a doctor should have.
It's going to be a lot of work but he's got nothing but time. A hundred and ten years, with a few more months and then he'd be born again.
That is if he doesn't wake up dead from old age prior to then.
It's possible after all.
A century is a long time.
I know that some people are very fond of the 400-year old Vongola thing, but I'm not. Plus haven't they seen paintings and drawings of people from the 1600 and 1700 hundreds?
Giotto's pinstripe suit would be very much out of place amid all the tights and heavily embroidered doublets and so on.