Welcome to Hellbound, everyone! In case you might be wondering, this is the prequel tie-in to Reforged Destinies. Reforged Destinies has been changed from an Arrow x HP crossover to a HP x DC crossover due to the sheer expanse of that world, so if you were wondering where that went, you can find it on my profile which is now listed as "Crimson Reign: Reforged Destinies"
I will explain further at the end! Enjoy!
Prologue: Crucibles
Nyssa al Ghul knew well that the life of a warrior was not meant for everyone. Most were too fragile, too bound by empathy, or too consumed by self-righteous delusions. True warriors, the kind forged in the flames of conflict, were rare to find in these hollow days.
To her, a warrior was not simply strong of body, but unyielding in spirit—a force driven by a purpose so resolute that neither fear nor doubt could sway them. A true warrior understood the delicate balance between fury and calm, when to strike like a storm and when to move like a shadow. It was a discipline few could master, one that demanded the severing of attachments and the stilling of emotions that might cloud judgment. In Nyssa's eyes, it took a mind as sharp as a blade to commit fully to the art of war. For battle was not merely strength against strength, but an intricate dance of strategy and foresight, where a single misstep could lead to death.
Over the years, Nyssa had witnessed many come to the League of Shadows, all seeking something—purpose, sanctuary, redemption. They arrived from all walks of life: broken souls searching for meaning, outcasts seeking refuge, and the arrogant, believing they could prove their worth through combat alone. Each with their own motives, but few with the understanding of what it truly took to walk the path of a warrior. Many shattered under the weight of their own illusions, unable to endure the unforgiving reality of the League's demands. Some lacked the will to abandon their pasts, while others faltered when the choice to take a life was laid before them.
In the end, most failed.
Nyssa had seen it time and time again—those who sought the prestige of the League only to be crushed beneath the harshness it required. They could not bear the agony of training that tore body and mind asunder, reshaping recruits into instruments of death. They lacked the cold, unfeeling detachment needed to slip into the shadows and strike without hesitation. Only a rare few—those with wills forged in the crucible of hardship, hammered by life's merciless blows—emerged as true warriors, their hearts transformed into unbreakable steel.
She had to give credit where it was due. There were some, lacking in natural talent or skill, who pushed themselves beyond their limits. These individuals, through sheer grit and stubbornness, endured injuries, exhaustion, and failure time and time again. Their spirit, relentless and unyielding, carried them farther than those who seemed more promising but lacked the endurance to see their training through.
Nyssa sometimes watched these recruits, their persistence like a flame that refused to die, and wondered if it might be enough to carry them to greatness. If determination alone could shape them into warriors, they might have risen to lead the League, standing among its finest. They had the hunger to improve, the fire to continue when others fell, and the willingness to suffer any hardship in the hope of reaching the pinnacle.
But persistence, while admirable, could not forge what was not there. It could carry one far, but it could not create the instinct, the killer's edge that lay in the heart of every true warrior. To walk the warrior's path was not merely to endure; it was to be remade. It required the soul to be reforged in darkness, shaped by loss and violence into something unrecognizable from what it once was. Those who relied solely on their tenacity found themselves facing a wall they could not scale, unable to break through the final barrier that separated the persistent from the truly exceptional.
Her father, Ra's al Ghul, possessed an eerie clarity when it came to these recruits. His wisdom, tempered by the uncountable centuries of his existence, was like an ancient weight behind his eyes, a force that seemed to reach beyond time itself. His life, prolonged by the Lazarus Pits, had given him not only immortality but a vision honed by watching generations of men and women rise and fall. It was as though he could see the cracks in a recruit's spirit before they ever manifested, a premonition of their breaking point long before it arrived. He could glance into their souls, perceiving the depths of their fears and their capacity for ruthlessness with a single look.
Ra's made his judgments in silence, observing them from the shadows as they trained, or in moments when they believed themselves alone. He seemed to know them better than they knew themselves. Nyssa had witnessed it countless times—a new recruit, full of fire and resolve, would step into the League's halls, and her father's ancient gaze would study them, cold and unfathomable. While others saw only potential, Ra's would shake his head, the weight of centuries in his quiet certainty. "This one will break," he would murmur, as though he had already glimpsed the future unfolding. And without fail, time would prove him right. Some recruits would falter, their spirits shattered in training. Others would fail in the heat of their first mission. Ra's had seen it all before it even began.
Nyssa, at times, had questioned her father's near-supernatural foresight, but in the end, she learned to trust it. Ra's didn't just see the surface; he could peer into the very core of a person's soul. He could tell who among them had the potential to embrace the darkness that the League demanded. It wasn't simply a matter of strength or skill. It was about something far deeper—the willingness to surrender oneself fully to the abyss, to become the weapon that Ra's had spent lifetimes perfecting.
In time, she accepted that no amount of persistence or passion could alter the truth that her father's centuries of wisdom had laid bare. The path of a warrior demanded more than just endurance; it required a complete surrender, a soul that had been stripped bare and reforged in the fires of despair and determination. Only those willing to give themselves fully to that darkness could emerge on the other side, as more than just survivors.
So, yes… Nyssa trusted her father's wisdom without falter. There was one instance that made her curious about his judgment, one recruit in particular who intrigued her more than the rest.
He stood before them, a young man with raven black hair and striking emerald eyes. At first glance, Nyssa wouldn't have thought much of him. He didn't fit the image of the League she had built in her mind over the years—those who sought the power and discipline of the Assassins. Physically, he had the build of a grown man in his late teens, but despite that he was only fourteen… a mere child.
It was his eyes that caught her attention at first, the way they seemed to carry the weight of a world far too heavy for someone so young. There was a softness to them, yet it wasn't innocence; it was as if he were broken, lost and adrift in a sea of confusion and pain. This was unlike any other recruit she had ever seen, those who were usually eager, brimming with ambition, or fueled by vengeance. There were some seeking purpose beyond their own meaningless lives, but not like this. The look in his eyes told her that the boy had truly lost everything. He seemed to bear the scars of battles fought long before he ever stepped into the League's realm.
Nyssa found herself studying him closely, wondering what had brought him to their doorstep, what circumstances had led him to seek a path so fraught with danger? She had learned to recognize strength in different forms over the years, but this boy's quiet despair was different; it piqued her interest.
What had brought him to their doorstep? What had led him to seek a path so fraught with danger? The questions flickered through her mind, but it did not last long. Yet, as Ra's regarded the boy with that inscrutable gaze of his, Nyssa felt an unsettling urge to know more. Whatever her father saw in him, there was something about him that made Ra's not say a word that night. Like all recruits, there was a display of power and most of the time their reactions were gauged by their prospective peers. The boy only laughed in response. It wasn't a dry laugh like he'd seen it all, but pure amusement that baffled Nyssa. It reminded her of the Canary, in a very similar way she had been brought into the League. Now she had to know what Ra's saw in him. Perhaps it was a flicker of potential buried or merely the spark of rebellion.
Regardless, Nyssa knew she wouldn't dismiss him easily. He was not just another face in the crowd; he was an anomaly, and in the League, anomalies had a way of either burning bright or extinguishing quickly.
Over the next few weeks, Nyssa continued her duties with unwavering focus, but she kept an eye on the boy—Harry Potter, as she had learned. She observed from the shadows, never long enough to draw attention to herself but just enough to track his progress. She watched as he was thrust into the grueling routines that defined the League of Assassins—training that would break most adults, let alone a boy of his age. He endured physical drills that tested his endurance, combat training that pushed the limits of his reflexes, and the mental conditioning designed to sharpen the mind into a weapon.
Harry's progress was… interesting. Despite his age, there was a rawness to his movements—reckless and unrefined, but there was a familiarity in the way he fought. He had experience, not extensive, but enough that his training advanced quickly. He had been in fights before, and it showed in the way he moved and reacted. The basics came to him faster than most, allowing the League's more advanced teachings to take hold.
But what caught Nyssa's attention more than anything was the sheer physical strength he possessed. It was unnatural, almost impossible, for someone his age and size. She had seen him held back by a dozen men during combat training sessions, and even then, it seemed like a struggle for them to contain him. His endurance, too, was far beyond what she would expect from someone fresh to the League, and certainly more than any fourteen-year-old she had ever seen. Even with all her experience, Nyssa found herself feeling a rare sense of exhaustion as she watched him push himself beyond his limits time and time again, as if his energy was inexhaustible.
It wasn't determination pushing him to do this either. She could see it in his eyes when he started pushing himself further. It was like he was fighting his inner demons every step of the way, rage boiling behind those emerald eyes. From what she'd gathered from the other initiates talking, Harry would hardly sleep. Whenever he was in one place for too long, he would start doing push ups or sit ups. It was as though he couldn't stay still. That boundless energy, however, proved to be a hindrance in other areas of his training. Meditation was a core practice of the League—a necessary tool for cultivating focus, clarity, and control. For most recruits, it was a challenge, but for Harry, it was a battle. Every session, she watched as he struggled to sit still, his body tense and his expression filled with frustration. His mind, it seemed, was as restless as his body, refusing to quiet.
His instructors urged patience, but Harry's eyes would flicker with irritation, his fingers tapping restlessly against the ground. He seemed to fight the stillness, like it was a cage he was desperate to escape. On several occasions, Nyssa saw him abruptly stand up, unable to endure the silence any longer, his breath heavy with agitation. It was clear Harry was not accustomed to stillness or peace.
One day, as she moved to speak with her father about other matters, she found him standing alone on the balcony, his eyes fixed on the training grounds below. She followed his gaze and saw Harry amidst a small group of recruits, all seated in meditation circles. Most were managing the practice with varying degrees of success, but Harry was different. His posture was rigid, his eyes squeezed shut as if he could force himself into stillness through sheer will. She could see the tension in every line of his body, his struggle visible even from a distance.
Ra's watched with an expression Nyssa knew well—one of interest and calculation. Her father taking the time to observe a recruit was a rarity reserved for those he believed had the potential to be more than just another blade for the League.
Curious, Nyssa stepped forward, her footsteps silent as she approached. She paused a moment before speaking, careful not to disrupt his thoughts. "What is it about this boy that warrants such special attention from you, father?"
Ra's did not look at her immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Harry, who eventually opened his eyes, frustration etched across his face as he gave up and stood, running a hand through his raven hair. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes burned with a fierce almost stubborn resolve. After a moment, Ra's finally spoke, his voice as composed and measured as always. "He's unlike the others. Most recruits seek power, revenge, or a place to belong. They are driven by passions that, while strong, are ultimately predictable. This one carries a different flame."
Nyssa glanced back down at the boy, her eyes narrowing as she watched his restless movements. "He's reckless. Driven by anger."
"That is true," Ra's admitted, his tone even. "However, there is potential beneath that rage. A strength that can be molded, if we can temper the flames. Unlike most who seek our teachings, he does not simply react; he endures." His gaze remained steady, unblinking. "This boy has known suffering that runs deep. Pain is a familiar companion to him, one he does not fear. His energy, though wild, can be harnessed into something far more powerful."
Nyssa crossed her arms, her expression remaining neutral as she studied the scene below. "And that is enough for you to take interest?"
"Perhaps, my daughter, it would help if I said that I was the same way at his age?" Ra's allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile to grace his lips—an expression so rare that it could be easy to miss. "That alone is enough for me to believe that, with the right guidance, he could become something greater. Sometimes, it is not the obvious strength that carries the most weight but the flame that survives when all else fades."
Nyssa said nothing, merely nodding. She continued to watch as Harry stood, defiant against the calm he could not find, a flicker of respect beginning to form in the recesses of her mind. If her father saw promise in this boy, then perhaps he was worth observing further. Still, she remained cautious, unwilling to place any trust where it had not yet been earned.
"Do you think he'll make it?" she asked, waiting for that all-too familiar answer of yes or no. Instead, he finally turned to face her.
"That's up to him, my child." Ra's explained, before taking his leave. Nyssa's eyes widened, surprised by her father's indirect answer. After so many before, Ra's did not have a definitive answer for her. Yes, Nyssa trusted her father, so she knew that if Ra's saw something in him, there had to be more to Harry Potter than met the eye.
And there was more to Harry than met the eye, as she would later learn. His name carried weight to it, though to a far less degree than her father's. She knew the name was familiar to her, though she had never taken the time to figure out why. Ra's al Ghul was an infamous name that traveled through shadows, striking only those that deserved to face the Demon's wrath. When it came to the name Harry Potter, Nyssa found it was a far lighter topic.
The boy belonged to the British wizarding community, and was regarded as their hero if that was the correct way to put it. No, Nyssa felt the word martyr was more appropriate. She'd seen how those people treated their own, especially the good ones. More often than not their lives were needlessly cut short, while the ones that deserved to feel death's cold blade were given a stay of execution. It was a twisted dynamic, one that both baffled and angered her. What kind of society thrived on elevating its champions only to let them fall, worn and broken like a child's toy?
The story of how Harry came to join the League, though, remained a mystery for nearly two years. She had earned his trust, and he had earned hers. When Harry was away on League business and she was roaming the monastery grounds, Nyssa would find herself wandering into his room.
Today, though, was different than the others.
The room was untouched, carrying an eerie stillness—the kind that settled into a place left undisturbed for far too long. Nyssa stepped inside, her footsteps soft against the stone floor, her eyes sweeping over the simple furnishings. A neatly made bed, a wardrobe that bore no outward signs of excessive use, and a desk tucked into the corner, its surface surprisingly orderly.
It was exactly how she expected his space to be—tidy, efficient, devoid of unnecessary distractions. And yet, it felt wrong. Off. Like something had shifted just enough to make the air feel heavier.
It was not unusual for Harry to be gone for months at a time, his travels warranting that he stayed in one place for as little time as possible. In recent days, though, Harry had been in the States dealing with personal affairs.
Nyssa's gaze landed on the desk, and her brow furrowed. There, placed deliberately in the center of the desk, was a worn leather journal. She recognized it immediately: Harry's journal. He was meticulous about it, always careful to keep it out of sight whenever someone entered his quarters. She had never seen it left out like this—unguarded, vulnerable.
She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. The room was clean, but not recently lived in. The kind of clean that came from others tending to it in his absence. Her fingers trailed lightly over the desk's lip, her mind racing to reconcile the oddity of it all. It was unlike him, and Nyssa didn't like things that didn't make sense.
As she neared the journal, she froze. A folded piece of parchment lay on top of the leather cover, her name written in elegant, neat handwriting across the front.
The sight of it struck her like a dagger to the chest. She inhaled sharply, her composure faltering for the briefest of moments. Something about that name, written in his hand, twisted in her chest—a subtle, gnawing pain she couldn't quite explain. Her fingers itched to touch the note, but she hesitated. Her hand hovered above it, her mind warring with itself. It was just a piece of paper, she told herself. Just words written by someone she—
Nyssa's lips pressed into a thin line as she pulled her hand back, clenching it into a fist at her side. It wasn't like her to hesitate. And yet, here she was, staring at her own name as if it were some foreign concept, her thoughts far heavier than they should have been.
She slowly sat down in the chair before the desk, her gaze locked on the note. The room seemed quieter now, the air thicker. Her pulse thrummed faintly in her ears as she reached out once more, her fingers grazing the edge of the parchment.
She turned it over just enough to confirm the handwriting was his. Of course it was. She didn't need to check. She recognized the pattern, the clarity of each letter—so perfectly Harry. Harry prided himself on mastering any craft he studied in, and writing was no exception. He could mimic anyone's handwriting with only a few sentences. For an assassin, someone who needed to blend into their surroundings, it was an excellent talent to have under one's sleeve. Her throat tightened as she set it back down, her fingertips linger on the corner for a moment longer than necessary.
How long had it been since they spoke last? Two months? It wasn't the best of circumstances when they parted ways; Nyssa had far too much to tell him the next time they spoke.
Her fingers finally closed around the note, unfolding it carefully, as though it might crumble under the wrong touch. Her eyes skimmed the words, her heart pounding softly against her ribs as she began to read:
"I'm sure you're wondering why after all this time, I've finally decided to give you a peek. Nyssa, we've never needed to say much to convey our thoughts. We're a team, and with that comes a camaraderie, a familiarity. I kept this in particular a secret because up until the last few months, I've felt it was necessary to keep my two lives apart. Silly, I know. I can't help it. I've told you some of the story, but never enough for you to get a clear picture. You'd likely say it was my way of keeping the mystery alive, but truthfully, I think I've been afraid to let people in, to see who I really am.
"And it seems that no matter what we do, our lives will continue to be intertwined with one another, so this just feels natural. I was hoping to save it for your birthday or some other special occasion, but I figured now was as good of a time as any. So, now you get the full story, Nyssa. Hopefully, it meets your expectations."
Her hands tightened around the note, though not enough to crease the parchment. She reread the lines once, then twice, and finally a third time as the words settled into her head. Her eyes drifted back to the book sitting patiently beneath the note.
Harry's voice echoed in her mind as if she could hear him saying the words aloud, that casual honesty paired with an undertone of vulnerability he rarely let surface. It was so distinctly him, and that thought alone threatened to unravel the carefully held control she maintained.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the journal, her resolve wavering for the briefest of moments. The journal seemed heavier than it should be, as though it carried not just words but pieces of him—pieces she wasn't sure she was ready to see.
She withdrew her hand, curling it into a fist at her side. Her jaw tightened. What was she hesitating for? She didn't hesitate on the battlefield, didn't flinch when facing death itself, and yet… here she was, frozen before a book.
It wasn't fear, at least—not the kind she was used to. This was something else, something that sat deeper, clawing at her in ways she couldn't define.
Nyssa took a deep breath, her hand steadying as she reached out again. Slowly, she slid the journal toward her. The texture of the leather was familiar under her fingers, yet foreign in its intimacy. She opened the cover with care, the soft creak of the spine breaking the silence in the room.
Her eyes landed on the first page, where Harry's handwriting greeted her. The sight of it hit her like a whisper from the past, an echo of a voice she hadn't realized she was longing to hear.
The first few lines drew her in, but she didn't start reading just yet. Instead, she let her fingers rest on the edge of the page, as though holding onto a moment she could never reclaim.
For a fleeting second, she closed her eyes.
Then, she began.
My name is Harrison James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter. To most, I am a legend. People love to whisper the stories—The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One—legends that paint me as some savior destined to triumph over evil. But what they don't understand is that it was never my choice to begin with.
From the moment I was born, it's felt like fate has conspired against me, weaving a path I never asked for. It decided I would be the one to survive a curse no other could, to carry the weight of something far beyond my understanding at an age when most children are only learning to walk. A fate that carved out the lives of my parents, forcing them to sacrifice everything so I could live. And for what? So I could spend my life being hunted, used, and judged for a past I had no control over?
Sometimes, I feel like my life was written before I even had the chance to live it, as if I'm trapped in a story that keeps pushing me forward, whether I like it or not. People see me as a hero, but how can I be a hero when all I feel is anger and exhaustion towards the very people I'm supposed to "protect?" All I've ever wanted is to be free—to make my own choices, to decide who I am and what I want to become; but it feels like fate always has another plan, another twist waiting around the corner.
So, I'm writing this now, not as a legend, but as a man trying to make sense of the life he's been given, the life so many others would envy, but none would truly want. To begin, I suppose I should start where all the stories do—the night that made me the so-called "Boy Who Lived." It's strange, writing it out like this. I've heard the tale so many times that it feels like it belongs to someone else, another name written in an old storybook. For me, the story began with darkness—my mother's dying scream, a flash of green light, and then nothing. I was only a baby when Voldemort came to our home. I didn't see my parents die, but their deaths have been the foundation of my life ever since. They gave their lives to protect me, and somehow, the curse meant to kill me, left me with nothing but a scar and a legacy I never asked for.
The night my parents died, forces conspired to take me where I could be kept under watchful eyes. There I was, a toddler, left on the doorsteps of my estranged aunt and uncle. I would have been better off in the gutter than to stay there.
Vernon and Petunia Dursley, along with their son Dudley, weren't just strangers to me—they were the antithesis of everything my parents stood for. From the moment I was left on their doorstep, I ceased to be a person in their eyes. Instead, I was a burden, an inconvenience, a mistake that had landed in their perfect little world. They made sure I knew it every day.
Vernon was a tyrant in his own home, a man who ruled with a booming voice and fists that he was all too eager to clench. He'd loom over me, spewing venomous words about how lucky I was to even be alive, let alone have a roof over my head. Petunia, though quieter, was no less cruel. She wielded her disdain with precision, cutting me down with sneers and whispers about how I was just like my mother, a 'freak' who didn't deserve to be part of their respectable family. Dudley, of course, followed their lead. He was the physical embodiment of their hatred, treating me like a chew toy he could break whenever he was bored.
They didn't just neglect me—they erased me. I was the shadow of a boy who lived under the stairs, out of sight and out of mind. My room was a cupboard, barely large enough to lie down in, filled with spiders that I often considered my only friends. I wore Dudley's castoff clothes, which hung off my small frame like a child playing dress-up, and I ate whatever scraps were left after they had finished their meals. If I dared to ask for more, I was reminded—loudly and physically—that I should be grateful for what little I had.
The worst part wasn't the hunger or the bruises or even the loneliness. It was the silence. The way they would ignore me unless they needed someone to blame or punish. That silence grew in me, hollowing me out until I felt like a ghost in my own life. I learned to stay quiet, to make myself small, to avoid drawing their attention at all costs. And for a long time, I believed them when they told me I was worthless, a freak, a stain on their perfect lives.
For ten long years, I endured this. I grew up in the shadows, unloved and unwanted, convinced that I was nothing more than a burden. And then, just before my eleventh birthday, everything changed.
It began with a letter. A simple, unassuming letter that Vernon desperately tried to keep from me. Then more letters came, followed by a half-giant with a kind smile and a booming laugh who shattered everything I thought I knew about myself. His name was Hagrid, and he told me the truth—that I wasn't just a boy destined to live and die in that cupboard. I was a wizard.
Hagrid opened the door to a world I couldn't have imagined even in my wildest dreams. A world where I wasn't a freak but someone special, someone who belonged. He told me about my parents, about how they died protecting me, and about the scar on my forehead that marked me as the one who had somehow survived the darkest wizard that the Wizarding World had ever seen.
I remember the disbelief, the awe, the overwhelming sense of being seen for the first time in my life. But beneath it all, there was anger too. Anger that this world had existed all along while I suffered under the Dursleys' roof. Anger that no one had come for me sooner. Anger that my parents had been taken from me, leaving me to face the weight of this legacy alone.
That anger stayed with me as I entered the wizarding world, fueling me as much as the wonder and hope. For the first time, I felt like I had a chance to be something more than the boy in the cupboard. But even then, a part of me knew that this new life would come with its own burdens, its own pain. And I wasn't wrong.
When Hagrid came for me, he didn't just offer me an invitation to Hogwarts—he offered me a new life. For the first time, someone looked at me and didn't see a burden. He saw a person. He saw me. And he saw something in me that no one else had ever cared to notice. That was more than I could have ever hoped for.
Hagrid was the first person to treat me with kindness, to call me 'Harry' instead of 'you' or 'freak.' He didn't hesitate, didn't pity me, and most importantly, he didn't try to change who I was. He didn't care about the scar on my forehead or the rumors that followed me. He treated me as an equal, as a boy deserving of happiness, not just the one burdened with a legend. I'd never had that before—someone who cared for me, not because of what I'd survived, but because of who I was.
And then there was Hedwig. I had never had a pet before, not really—not like this. Sure, I'd been around Dudley's spoiled animals, but none of them had ever been mine. Hagrid's gift to me wasn't just a reminder that I was special; it was a symbol of what I could have. It was my first taste of something that wasn't dictated by the Dursleys. Hedwig was my companion, my friend, and she had no expectations. She was just there, and that alone made her worth more than anything I had ever received. She was my connection to the magical world, to a life I could have if I let myself believe in it.
For the first time, I wasn't just 'The Boy Who Lived.' I was just Harry. The boy with a scar, yes—but the boy with friends too. And it wasn't just Hagrid who opened my eyes to that. There were people like Ron and Hermione, who accepted me without hesitation, without the need for explanations. They didn't care about the headlines or the history; they cared about me. That was something I didn't think I'd ever get used to. But as time went on, it became harder and harder to ignore the fact that I had more than just magic in my life now. I had friends who didn't see me as some prophecy, but as just a boy who wanted to make a life for himself.
And for the first time, I began to believe that maybe things could change. Maybe the boy who had been left in a cupboard, forgotten and abused, could actually build a life for himself. I had a chance now—no longer bound by the Dursleys' cruelty, no longer stuck under their thumb. In this new world, I could be more than what fate had written for me. It gave me a chance to feel something I hadn't felt in years: hope.
I wasn't sure what the future would hold, but with Hagrid's friendship, and the promise of this new life at Hogwarts, I realized that maybe I could begin to carve out my own story. A story that wasn't defined by a past I couldn't control, but by a future I could create for myself.
And that, in itself, was worth believing in.
Of course, like I said… this new life came with its own burdens. I guess no life comes without its price. The name that had once been a part of some story people loved to whisper: The Boy Who Lived… wasn't just a title. It was a curse in itself.
I didn't realize it at first, but my name held a weight I wasn't prepared for. The moment I stepped into the Leaky Cauldron for the first time, all eyes were on me. Hogwarts wasn't much different either—there was no escaping it. Some looked at me in awe, like I was a hero, a figure to admire, someone they could pin their hopes on. But others? Others saw me as a reminder of everything that had gone wrong in their world, a walking symbol of a past they couldn't escape.
It didn't take long before I realized that not everyone at Hogwarts viewed me with kindness. People were drawn to me, yes, but not always for the right reasons. There were those who respected me because of what I'd survived. Some of the students—mostly younger ones—would look at me as if I were some kind of legend. They saw the scar, and from that point forward I wasn't just Harry. I was the boy who defeated Voldemort, or at least survived his attack. They wanted to know me, to be near me, to somehow bask in the glow of a story they didn't fully understand.
It was flattering at first, but it quickly became overwhelming. I was never used to positive attention, hell, not even attention in general. How could I live up to this image they had of me? How could I be 'The Boy Who Lived' when all I felt was exhaustion and anger? And worse yet, how could I be a hero when I didn't even know what that meant for myself? I didn't ask for any of it, but the attention, the whispers, the expectations—they never stopped. It was like I was suffocating under the weight of it all.
Then there was Professor Snape. The man hated me from the moment I set foot in his classroom. He didn't just treat me with disdain; he made sure everyone else knew that he saw me as nothing more than an inconvenience. It wasn't that he thought I was weak or incapable, but rather that my name and my history made me a target for his bitterness. I could never quite understand why Snape hated me so much. It wasn't as if I'd done anything to him, but I sometimes get this feeling he wasn't seeing me or even my title. I can't really say what it was, but whatever he saw, it was clear he hated that I was a constant reminder of it.
As I think back on it now, I realize I never had the chance to truly belong. People saw me through the lens of a story that was beyond me, and no matter how much I tried to push it away, I couldn't escape it. The weight of my name wasn't something I could shrug off. It was a shadow that followed me every step of the way.
Like I said… this new life came with its own burdens. Challenges came my way, and I found out the hard way that my name, the name everyone now seemed to know, held a weight I wasn't prepared for.
Take Draco Malfoy, for instance. From the very moment we met, he made sure I knew exactly what he thought of me. He had offered his friendship, but I'd seen how he treated people "lower" than him. At first, I chalked his attitude up to some sort of misunderstanding—a rivalry born from the clash of our worlds. But Draco wasn't just competitive; he was the embodiment of entitlement, arrogance, and cruelty all wrapped into one. I won't lie, though—there were moments, fleeting as they were, where I wondered what might've happened if he hadn't been so hellbent on being superior. Had he not been such an entitled brat, maybe we could've been friends. Maybe. But Draco never gave that a chance, and I couldn't waste time hoping he'd change.
Still, I don't want to dwell too much on the negatives. For every Draco, there were people who made all the hardships worthwhile. Ron Weasley, for one, was my first real friend—a loud, loyal, and kind boy who never hesitated to stand by me, even when I barely understood what friendship was supposed to mean. Hermione Granger was the other half of our trio: brilliant, bold, and brave in ways that I never would have imagined. If Ron taught me the value of loyalty, Hermione taught me how much I could rely on others when my own instincts fell short. Together, the three of us faced challenges that would've crushed most adults, let alone a group of children fresh out of childhood.
And then there was Hagrid, my first introduction to this magical world, the one who truly made me feel like I belonged. From the very start, he was the kind of friend I'd never known I needed. He didn't just open the door to this new life—he practically kicked it down. And, of course, there was Hedwig. He bought her for me during my first trip to Diagon Alley, a gesture so simple yet so monumental. Hedwig wasn't just a pet; she was my companion, my confidant, and a symbol of a life that was finally starting to look brighter.
Others stood out too. Professor McGonagall, for one, became something of a mother figure—strict but fair, always pushing me to do my best, even when I didn't think I could. And Dumbledore… well, what can I even say about him? Wise, enigmatic, and endlessly kind, he was someone I always looked up to, even when his decisions didn't always make sense to me. Together, these people turned Hogwarts into more than just a school. It became my home—a sanctuary from the life I'd left behind.
Looking back, it's hard to believe how much happened in those first two years alone. My first year at Hogwarts was like stepping into a whirlwind. Everything was new and exciting—until it wasn't. I'll never forget the day we discovered that Professor Quirrell, the stammering, nervous man who seemed harmless enough, had been harboring Voldemort himself. I still get chills thinking about it. Facing him in the depths of the castle, with only my wits and a little help from my friends, was the first time I truly understood what it meant to have this so-called "destiny." It wasn't glamorous or heroic. It was terrifying.
And then there was my second year, which was somehow even worse. The Chamber of Secrets—a legend that turned out to be all too real—nearly cost me everything. Students were being petrified, whispers of a monster filled the halls, and I couldn't escape the feeling that it was all somehow my fault. Learning Parseltongue, being accused of dark magic… It felt like the whole school turned against me. But in the end, I faced that basilisk. I destroyed Tom Riddle's diary. And I saved Ginny Weasley's life.
For any kid, it would have been damn near impossible to accomplish what I had. Hermione, Ron, and I were all extraordinarily lucky to have made it through those first two years. And even now, as I reflect on those events, I can't help but feel like we had no business surviving them. But we did, and if there's one thing my time in the League has taught me, it's this: we are forged by the crucibles we face.
Voldemort, my aunt and uncle, the basilisk… they were all part of that crucible. Each challenge left its mark, shaping me in ways I didn't understand at the time. I thought I was strong—braver than I actually was—but the truth is, I was just a kid stumbling through situations far beyond my control. I had no idea the price I'd eventually pay for being "The Boy Who Lived."
Which now brings me to the matter of how I became the man I am today. How did I go from Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived… to the assassin known as the Demon's Blade? The truth is, that transformation didn't happen overnight. It wasn't as simple as flipping a switch. It was a long, grueling journey, one filled with moments of pain, revelation, and, dare I say, a certain clarity.
This journal exists because my mentor insisted I keep it. He always says that while the past can be a damning place to dwell, recording it and drawing upon it to learn from our mistakes is far too important to ignore. "What is life," he told me once, "if not the sum of lessons we choose to carry forward?" And so, here I am, piecing together the shards of my past, trying to make sense of the choices that led me here.
So, let's get this started, shall we?
It all began in the summer of 2007, when I met Oliver Queen.
Hope you enjoyed the chapter. So, let's just start with the elephant in the room, shall we?
Yes, this is the official prequel/tie-in to Reforged Destinies. Why am I making this when we were doing flashbacks in RD? Well, frankly we came to the conclusion this would be the best route to take seeing as the flashbacks break the flow of our main story.
So, the plan is once we are caught up to RD's current position with the flashbacks, they will be removed entirely from there and you will be able to read this in conjunction with RD.
I intend on posting one chapter a month for this story, likely on the first. Like I said, I INTEND on doing that. So, fingers crossed that I'm able to keep up with my own expectations.
If you have any questions, any at all, feel free to ask. If you want to see more of the Arsenalverse, you can join our discord. The link will be in my profile.