DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER
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|PROLOGUE

The pain in his head was unlike any he had ever experienced before.

It was as if someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull and was relentlessly pounding away. His brain felt as though it had pulled a Grinch by growing three sizes too big, stretching his cranium to the limit. He grunted in agony, trying to hold back the screams that threatened to escape his lips. But despite his best efforts, a gasp of pain managed to slip out.

"Ah!"

And then suddenly, he realized he was somewhere else.

He was on the ground, looking up at a strange car parked beside him. His vision was blurry, and his head was pounding so fiercely that he could barely make sense of what was happening. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt weak and uncooperative, refusing to obey his commands.

It was then that he noticed his reflection staring back at him from the soapy window of the car. His skin was pallid, and his jet-black hair was untidy, but it was his eyes that puzzled him the most. They were no longer his own familiar common brown, but instead almond-shaped and startlingly green.

"Mr. Potter?" someone called out, their voice distant and muffled.

He blinked and waited for the face to change, but it never did. All he could see were the striking green eyes staring back at him, unyielding and unchanging. Is that me? he wondered in disbelief, his brain throbbed with pain, and he saw black dots dancing in front of him.

"Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter!" the voice called out again, this time more urgent. Someone began shaking him, their grip tight and insistent.

He blinked again, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. He found himself surrounded by a crowd of teenagers, all staring at him with wide-eyed curiosity and open-mouthed amazement. They looked at him as though he were some kind of exotic animal on display at the zoo.

Standing over him was an old woman with grizzled grey hair covered by a hairnet. He struggled to remember her name, his mind foggy and disoriented. But then it came to him, "Mrs. Figg" that was this lady's name. She used to watch him when his "family" went on Holiday.

Wait, that couldn't be right. He'd never met her before in his life!

"Harry?" Mrs. Figg asked, her voice soft and kind. "Are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine," he responded reflexively and tried to nod his head in response, but his neck felt stiff and unresponsive. He groaned in pain, clutching his head as another wave of agony washed over him and the sharp pain in his head had his eyes rolling. He felt like he was going to pass out.

"He doesn't look alright to me," one of the teenagers muttered, their voice dripping with disbelief.

"He's probably just faking it," another chimed in, their tone mocking and dismissive.

Mrs. Figg's concerned gaze never left Harry, her brow furrowing with worry. "You don't look okay," she said, her voice carrying genuine concern. Turning her attention towards the teenagers, she snapped, "Go fetch your mother, Mr. Dursely, or I'm phoning an ambulance."

The largest of the teenagers nodded, struggling to keep his trousers from slipping down his fat ass as he stumbled away.

Harry looked around and noticed that he was lying on his back in the driveway of a house that must have been part of a subdivision. The houses lined the street like replicas, copy and pasted one after another, devoid of any distinctiveness.

Oddly enough, his thoughts wandered to Harry Potter, pondering the location of the Dursleys' residence. Wasn't it in Little Whinging? The uncertainty lingered in his mind.

"Come on then," Mrs. Figg urged, extending a helping hand to lift him upright. "Let's get you away from this awful heat."

Struggling to find his balance, Harry stumbled up the driveway. A feverish heat washed over him, drenching his skin in a torrent of sweat. And then, abruptly, everything faded into blackness.

His next few hours were nothing more than fragmented memories that came and went. He recalled being whisked away in an ambulance, the blaring siren amplifying the pounding ache in his head. A doctor's diagnosis revealing a trifecta of malnutrition, heatstroke, and a severe case of the flu. Bed rest was prescribed for a week, and Harry managed to grunt a feeble acknowledgment before blacking out again.

The fragmented memories continued—a mysterious figure lifting him, a face with a purplish hue that exuded an air of indifference. The moment their eyes met, Harry sensed that this man cared little for his well-being. The man drove them away from the hospital to a suburban area where he had dragged Harry into a humble looking home and locked him in a cupboard under the stairs.

The moment his head hit the flat pillow on the tiny cot, Harry's eyes shut for good and he began to sleep.

In his dreams, memory after memory played in his mind. They were like flickering images on a film real. He could recall so many events that hadn't been a part of his life. Names and faces of people he'd never met.

A vivid flash of green light and an anguished scream as his mother was killed. Then, a frigid house with a family dripping with loathing, where eleven wretched years had been spent. But the tide seemed to turn the year of his eleventh birthday, a pane of glass vanishing at the zoo, and an army of owls driving Vernon insane. A trip to a lighthouse near the sea and a giant of a man knocking down the door and introducing him to a world of Magic and spells leading Harry to a new school where lifelong friendships were made.

And then, like a lightning bolt, his own name struck him with a gasp.

Harry Potter.

With a jolt, he snapped awake, his breath catching in his chest.

As he bolted upright in bed, a resounding thud resonated through the cramped cupboard as his head made forceful contact with an immovable object. "Fuck!" he cursed, recoiling and then toppling off balance, falling from his tiny cot and crashing onto the floor.

After a few moments of tenderly massaging the growing bruise on his head, the pain dulled enough for Harry to open his eyes. He blinked, taking in the room surrounding him, his gaze inevitably drawn to the book...that was levitating in midair!

What the fuck! Harry rubbed his eyes in disbelief, only to find the inexplicable sight persisting. The book defied gravity, hovering as if supported by an invisible shelf. And around the book, more and more objects were being drawn weightlessly into the air.

A surge of panic overwhelmed him, causing his breathing to quicken, his heart racing within his chest. He was horrified and he wanted everything to stop floating!

Then, in one thunderous crash, everything plummeted from out of the air, crashing down to the ground!

"Holy shit," he whispered, his eyes darting around the room. A book had landed in his lap, bearing the scrawled name Harry J. Potter on its cover.

Frantically, he sought any reflective surface—a mirror, a shard of glass—a spoon!

Harry seized the spoon lying on the floor and he held it up in front of him. And sure enough, a gaunt, wiry teenage boy with dark hair and piercing green eyes stared back at him.

"I'm Harry fucking Potter," he gasped, the realization washing over him.

Chapter 1 of my Harry Potter self-insert story!

While I was rewatching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, I realized that Voldemort's mistake at the end of the movie could have ended a lot worse if Harry knew what happened.

If Harry had kept even ONE of the Horcruxes tucked safely away (maybe in Nurmengard or Gringotts) he would have been effectively immortal!

And thus this story was born!

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THANKS FOR READING!