Pain. That was the first sensation that washed over Harry. Not fear. Not confusion. Just an intense, ripping ache deep in his side where Uncle Vernon had kicked him too hard. He felt something crack inside him, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. Time seemed to stretch and slow down around him. He recalled the moment he fell, instinctively curling in on himself, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the silence of the cupboard. It had never felt so cold, so isolating. Then… nothing. Not sleep. Not death. Something else entirely. A place devoid of light. A realm without sound. A stillness that stretched on, feeling infinite. The void. And within that void—memories. Not of this life. But of another. A world where a boy with a lightning scar fought against a snake-faced man. Where magic existed only in stories told through books and movies. Harry Potter was simply a character of fiction, not a reflection of his reality. He didn't remember it all clearly. The fragments were scattered, wrapped in fog, disjointed and elusive—but they were undeniably his. He remembered death. And before that, a life marked by quiet regrets. He remembered… floating. Waiting. Watching. Then—something pulled him back. A scream. His own. As if his body were awakening from a long slumber. The pain returned, yet it felt distant, muted. Something was shifting within him. Bones began to heal, skin knitted together with an almost miraculous speed. Not like normal. More like… adaptation. As if his body had tasted death and made a silent vow to resist it. And deep inside him, wrapped in layers of memory, a calm voice began to resonate—not in words, but as instinct. Survive. Adapt. Become. And so, the five-year-old Harry Potter opened his eyes in the darkness… and somehow, he didn't cry.
