I am Harry Potter.
At least, I occupy his body now. A mere infant, yet my soul spans millennia. With Tom Riddle's memories interwoven into my own, the knowledge of this world's magic is no longer a mystery. Already, I taste the potential. Already, I understand what it means to wield power here.
The first skill I master is Occlumency.
Tom's version was primitive, reactive, limited. I dissect it, analyze it, and then reconstruct it into something far more potent—my own personal system. It is flawless: defenses that rival the most impregnable fortresses, traps capable of detecting intrusion before it even happens. My mind becomes a fortress, a labyrinth, and a weapon all at once.
With this perfected mental discipline, I catalog every memory I possess. I sort, classify, and organize. Each thought, each experience, every book I've read—old worlds, new worlds, and this one—becomes crystal clear. I do not yet allow myself to know everything, however. The Harry Potter books themselves are a map of the future, yes, but knowledge of the future is a weapon. Even the smallest piece can be turned into advantage—or bait. I have learned this the hard way.
Centuries of experience have taught me this truth: the world is merciless. As the Celestial Mage, I discovered the price of mercy. Friends, allies, family… all fall when the stakes are high. Betrayal is inevitable. Anger, hatred, ambition—these are mere sparks; the world's conspiracy is the wildfire. One person's spite is nothing. Entire nations will conspire, and the wise survivor manipulates that. Cutting, precise, decisive—that is how one survives, and thrives.
I am ready to apply that lesson.
Soon after my awakening, I am carried into a small, shabby home. According to my knowledge, the woman holding me must be Petunia Dursley, and the man arguing with her, Vernon. Their conversation is loud, shrill, meaningless to the infant mind I occupy. Yet I understand everything—they are debating whether to keep me.
I decide.
With a mere gaze, a subtle touch of mental suggestion, I thread my power through their minds. Compulsion charms, mental alignment, subtle enchantments… their hearts bend without them realizing it. Love me, they will. Care for me, they shall. Treat me as their own.
It is a simple act, a child's manipulation, and yet utterly effective. I have been morally gray long before this rebirth, and ethics are a luxury I discarded millennia ago. The world rewards those who act decisively, not those who hesitate.
By the time they agree, arguing no more, my future is secured. My survival guaranteed—not through mercy, not through chance, but through power and precision.
I am Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.
And already, I am rewriting what that means.