Chapter 1. The First Step
On their fourteenth birthday, Harry and Rose squirrelled down the stairs. They hadn't even brushed their teeth or washed their faces. The moment their mother called, they rushed to the living room in their pyjamas, aware that there was only one reason why she'd yell their names so early in the morning. Particularly this morning.
They tottered to a halt before her, their faces bright with excitement.
Lily picked the letter from her lap. A letter, not letters. Her gaze was sympathetic, her lips drooping, but there was no surprise. She gave it to Rose with a small nod. "Here's yours, love. Congratulations."
Rose's hair was a bird's nest, her pyjama top was buttoned in the wrong order, and her bottoms were twisted halfway around so the drawstring hung off her hip like a tail. She looked like she'd just rolled off the bed, which was indeed the case. But all her joy turned to ash in her mouth, at the lack of Harry's letter. They were meant to go together. The bubbling excitement to snap open the envelope vanished.
She didn't want to see it, she didn't want to see his face, knowing she'd break into tears. Yet, she slowly twisted towards him, facing him, bracing herself for the heartache.
Harry wasn't crying. He never did. He didn't look sad. No, he only had a rueful smile, as if a part of him knew. As if the lack of a letter meant nothing to him. "Well, we've been wondering if I were a squib for so long. Wonder no more, let there be squib."
Lily sighed, leaning into the backrest, keeping her silence.
Rose knew he cracked jokes to deal with all his problems. She still remembered that day when he broke his legs while climbing a tree. After the pain had receded a bit, he'd tried to laugh the whole thing off, calling himself the next Professor X, proclaiming he had gained psychic abilities. Their mother was decidedly not amused.
He was doing the same thing now. Hiding his dejection beneath a lame joke, unwilling to cry before them, before anyone. He was a stubborn mule like that.
Yes, they'd suspected Harry might be a squib. But people had thought the same of their friend, the Boy-Who-Lived, Neville Longbottom, until his Hogwarts letter arrived just yesterday. In a way, that made the twins totally sure Harry would receive the invitation too. It had raised his hopes to the sky.
She felt her throat close up as she remembered her own part in it, convincing him to believe it, to imagine their Hogwarts adventure. And he had trusted her declaration, his 'older' sister's word.
What a bloody—
The shoulder bump nearly sent her careening into the low coffee table.
"Drop that look, will you? You're already ugly as a chicken. That expression makes you positively hideous." He smirked, grabbing the scruff of her top before she could actually faceplant on the table and break her nose.
Usually, she'd shove him in return. But she couldn't conjure that annoyance. As the first tear slid down her cheek and dripped from her chin, Harry lost his infuriating smile. His arms enfolded her like a cosy blanket, and she buried her face in his chest. A distant part of her observed how he'd gotten taller again. She missed those days when she could be the older twin as well as the taller one.
Harry patted her back awkwardly, murmuring consoling words. She prolonged the warm embrace. It was a rare thing—hugs and affectionate gestures. They were close and inseparable, but their affection was usually displayed by trying to one up each other, to see who could be more annoying.
So, Rose stole a few more moments. Then she grabbed his shirt and pushed him hard.
He yelped as he landed on his arse with a quiet thump, grumbling, glowering at her. "Bloody psycho."
"That's for nearly killing me," she managed hoarsely, wiping her eyes.
"You wouldn't have died." He hauled himself up, wisely deciding not to escalate. "Anyways, congrats. Now you can sod off for a whole year so I can have the house all to myself."
The thought pricked at her eyes again. They'd never been apart for this long before, and now they were expected to get used to it. What if distance didn't just keep them apart, but turned them into strangers?
She hated it. Harry was her best friend, her annoying enemy. She didn't want to change any of it. Yet, their long, familiar relationship would shift whether she liked it or not. All she could do was hope it wouldn't be too drastic, that they'd still remain close somehow.
With a tremendous effort, she managed an arrogant sneer, but before she could snipe back at him, her mother interrupted.
"If you two are done, go back and shower," Lily said, sliding off the couch and starting for the kitchen. "Breakfast will be ready by then."
The twins made their way back, their gait slow, a stark contrast to how quick and eager they were when descending for the letters.
"You better become the most powerful witch ever." He bumped their shoulders while they were climbing the staircase. Thankfully, it was gentle and friendly, not throwing her against the wall. "I'll be embarking on a perilous path to become an unforgettable legend."
His grand statement would usually make her snort and shake her head. Harry was prone to such immature declarations, typically when he read some epic scenes in comics, channeling the 'cool' character. But the quiet way he'd said that made her suppress the instinctive response.
"A glorious stand-off once I graduate Hogwarts," she added, earning herself an amused smile. "We will fight to see who's superior."
"Our battle shall be legendary." He grinned.
Once they reached the floor, he extended his hand. Their rooms stood opposite each other.
She shook it, blinking back tears, already missing him. "Deal."
Without another word, he entered his room and shut himself from the world.
She stared at the closed door for a minute before shaking off the melancholy and striding into her own room.
She will become the most powerful witch ever known. She will do it to bully (protect) him.
~xXxXx~
Harry was twelve when he realised he was a reincarnator. Alongside his own memories, he carried a second set, the one that allowed him glimpses of his past life. At first he might have dismissed them as recurring dreams, but they were too consistent, too coherent. They told him he had once been Seth, an ordinary boy in an ordinary world, who had died far too young.
It affected him, of course. How could it not? But he had been Harry Potter for so long that the weight of another identity felt distant, almost muted. The change in his personality was so minute that neither Rose nor his mother noticed.
Still, those memories gave him a crucial lead: the Wizarding World had been fictional in Seth's life, a series of fantasy novels written by some Rowling woman. And now he was living inside them. Only… not quite.
This wasn't the same story he remembered. This was an alternate world. Here, he had a twin sister. He wasn't the Chosen One. That title belonged to Neville, who was said to have mysteriously defeated Voldemort when he was just a baby. Unlike 'canon', only James Potter died during the war, succumbing to an ambush, leaving the Potters mostly intact. The fame and the misfortune fell on the Longbottoms instead. Augusta and Frank perished trying to hold off Voldemort, while Alice was tortured so badly that she only recently recovered.
If that wasn't enough canon divergence, Hogwarts began at fourteen rather than eleven, throwing all his 'future knowledge' into doubt. He wasn't sure how much of it was true. Even so, he did what he could: he jotted down every detail he remembered about Voldemort's Horcruxes, adding other important tidbits, and sent the letter anonymously to Dumbledore. That was all he could do. Because unlike in the books, he wasn't the prophesied hero. He wasn't anyone important at all. He was just a squib.
A squib.
He collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling, willing away the helpless tears. Some part of him knew he wouldn't get the letter, that he was truly a squib rather than a late bloomer. And now that his hunch was proven true, he couldn't decide what to do with himself. Every budding wizard and witch wanted to go to Hogwarts. To roam the ancient halls and learn arcane magic. His disappointment was only exacerbated by his secondary memories that told him what he'd be missing. He would never hold a wand. He'd never make friends. He'd never conjure a corporeal patronus. He'd never be the hero.
He'd be just a squib.
Being a squib was worse than being a muggle. In the latter case, you would at least be oblivious to all the wonders you could have. But he knew what could have been. He could've been a wizard, a powerful one, the one who ended a dark lord and etched his name in the annals of history. Now, he'd be nothing but a spectator. He would live alongside magic but couldn't touch it, could never harness it. He was a muggle in all but name. He didn't belong here. There was no path forward. He couldn't be a wizard, nor could he be a muggle. He was stuck in the middle.
'Why not make your own path?'
…
…
The sudden voice inside the head was his own. A rebellious one, unwilling to be a mere prop in the background. So what if he couldn't have his whimsical Hogwarts life? So what if he couldn't be a wizard? There were other types of power, right? There were more ways to be strong. And he might need to be strong if Voldemort somehow returned.
Like a drowning man who got a lifeline, he jumped off the bed and began pacing the floor, going through the memories of Seth, of his past life, trying to come up with something important. A unique path.
An hour, he paced the room for an hour, and by the end of it, he had a tentative path forward. Actually, two paths. One was simple and straightforward, not easy, mind you, but simple.
100 push-ups. 100 sit-ups. 100 squats. 10 km run.
This was the training that made Saitama an overpowered beast. The man who could destroy anything in one punch. Maybe it would work for Harry as well. He knew the chances were very slim, that the anime was a parody, that it played off the training as a joke. But something was better than nothing—even a false hope. Even if he didn't gain Saitama's ridiculous strength, he would at least be healthy and strong. This was the simple path.
The second, the complicated one, was xianxia inspired training. He had read a few such stories in his past life, but not enough to confidently grasp the power system. Harry only knew about it on a surface level. It was a genre of Chinese fantasy heavily influenced by Chinese mythology, Taoism, Buddhism, and martial arts, often featuring characters who cultivate their spiritual and physical power to achieve immortality and transcend to a higher plane of existence.
It was… ridiculous, truly, and the training took thousands of years to complete. So Harry was a little unsure about it. But again, he had no options. Just like the One Punch Man training, the cultivation thing could work. It had potential. All he could do was bet on it.
The main reason why he'd chosen it was because of his squibhood. Unlike muggles, he could actually see magic, feel it. It was the one distinct difference between a muggle and a squib. And that led him to draw a definite conclusion. Squibs did have magic, but for some reason, they couldn't use it. What was the reason? He didn't know.
What he did know was that he had a connection with magic. Maybe he had a defective core that was unable to channel magic through a wand. But that was not important. If he had a core, however defective, he could initiate the path of cultivation. A beginner cultivator only needed to cycle his mana like the heart pumped blood through the veins and the arteries. Following the same analogy, he had to adopt a breathing technique and focus on within, on his core, and use his will to push that magic through this imaginary circulatory system and cycle it back to the core. Or something like that.
He wasn't totally sure. As he'd said, his knowledge was only surface level.
He walked over to the window and looked outside, at the woods surrounding the Potter Manor. There was a trail there that was around 10 km long, perfect for his training. From tomorrow, he would begin the hard work. He was sure he wouldn't be able to do the Saitama training right from the get go, but he would reach that point sooner or later. He squashed all the doubts and hesitation, allowing himself hope.
'Journey before destination.'
It didn't matter if his training fetched results. Even if they failed, he would gain something. For a squib, that was more than he could ask.
His heart was lighter now that he had chosen his path—paths. The sour taste of disappointment was mitigated by the ray of hope. His path was uncertain, sure, but at least he wasn't so aimless anymore. He knew what to do.
First, he had to be done with his morning ablutions. Then he could meditate and try to find his core.
~xXxXx~
While Rose and his mother went to Diagon Alley to shop for first-year supplies, Harry stayed behind. He saw no reason to tag along and dampen their excitement. Rose would've only felt guilty showing joy while picking out her wand, robes, and books.
Instead, he returned to his room, preparing for the big step.
After locking the door, he sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the wall beneath the window. Closing his eyes, he began searching for the elusive 'core'.
He kept his breaths long and deep, inhaling until his chest brimmed and then exhaling through the mouth. At first, he focused only on his breathing, setting up a steady rhythm, creating a pattern he could maintain without conscious effort.
Only then did he turn inward. He pictured a tiny sphere of magic near his heart, imagined thin channels threading through his body like veins, carrying power to every limb. He held the image for what felt like an eternity. Well, tried to, at least. It wasn't a simple image. He had to keep sharpening the mental image whenever it started to dissipate.
Eventually, the image held, and he went into a tranquil trance.
The trance calmed him, cleared his thoughts, dulled the gnawing ache of inadequacy. But the core never appeared. It was like groping through endless darkness for a light that refused to exist.
When he finally opened his eyes, the trance shattered. His chest was tight, his throat raw, and his hands had curled into fists against his knees. For an hour he had searched, begged, hoped, and all he had to show for it was silence.
It felt mocking, this silence.
His magic was there—he could feel it, like a whisper just around the corner. But if he couldn't touch it now, maybe he never would.
He slumped against the wall and took a deep breath, putting a lid on the bubbling despair. Giving up after the first try would be beyond pathetic. He had to keep trying. He didn't have the luxury to give up. He couldn't be just a squib.
He decided to tweak a few things on his next attempt.
Slowly rising to his feet, he leaned over his desk and grabbed the enchanted Golden Snitch. He'd gotten it from Alaric Montrose when his family attended a Quidditch World Cup a few years ago. It was one of his most prized possessions.
Though the reason why he grabbed it now was more academic than nostalgic.
He sat down and crossed his legs again. He began the breathing exercise after closing his eyes. The addition of the snitch in his hand was important. To find his magical core, it would be prudent to first familiarise himself with the feel of it. So, instead of sending his awareness inward, he concentrated on the magic enveloping and pervading the snitch.
He imagined an inner eye opening and looking through the snitch. He was quick to catch onto the familiar thrum of magic. It was not sound, but it had vibrations. To his senses, it felt like a layer of wind surrounding the snitch. It was not instantly recognisable. The sensation was very weak and muted, lost in the snitch's other physical characteristics. But meditation helped him isolate it. It allowed him to examine it.
Once he was sure he had it memorised, he pushed his consciousness inside, like ducking into a cold sea. He didn't use the complicated image of the magical circulation system this time. He simplified it further. He pictured a flesh golem with a power core. A crackling ball of energy powering his existence.
He found it, aided by the fresh memory of the magic, and the satisfaction nearly undid it all, but he persevered.
The core wasn't near his heart, like he'd imagined. It was slightly below it. His awareness seeped into it, and his body turned hot.
The core was a tiny thing, barely about the size of a bean. Now, he realised why he hadn't gotten it the first time. He'd been picturing it as some large football when it was actually a small bead. Also, the sensation of his magic was… strange. Whereas the magic on the snitch was like a layer of wind, his core felt more like a tumour swollen with liquid. The wall… the container—for the lack of a better term—was thick and unperforated, and the magic was viscous oil.
There was a faint pathway there, he realised as he scoured the core. Instead of a heart with veins and arteries, his core was a single hair-thin thread with a noticeable bead right in the centre. This was where his magic was caged.
This already felt different from what he'd read in those cultivation novels. But he continued anyway.
He filled his consciousness in that small bead, his core, subsuming his will in that viscous liquid. Then he pushed it down. A sort of knot prevented it, but he knew he had to undo it. He had to cycle his mana. He had to make it move through the entire thread.
A dull ache stirred in his chest as he hammered at the knot.
It gave way.
His magic left the bead and squeezed into the thread, making it aglow. The ache was now a sharp pain, but he ignored it. If there was a thing like gravity in this metaphysical construct, his liquid magic would've slid down to the bottom of the thread. He had to consciously exert mental force and channel it further down.
The trickle of blood from his nose should have told him to stop. But he didn't. Even as his lips were smeared by his bleeding nose, he kept his breath steady and controlled his liquid magic.
It reached all the way down to the bottom end of the thread. His legs clenched, his lower body filled with a strange warmth. Then he worked on returning it back to the core, to the bead.
His head throbbed, his teeth bit into his lip. It felt like his body was crushed under a slab of stone, but he fucking kept at it.
As the magic returned to his core, he coughed a mouthful of blood and collapsed, losing consciousness.
…
…
His sister would find him sprawled bonelessly on the floor that evening.
~xXxXx~
"Do you think he'll be alright?" Rose asked her mother, shuffling back and forth in the living room, her face pinched with worry.
"You heard the healer." Lily seemed unconcerned, lounging on the couch, flipping through a potion recipe. "He's perfectly fine. It was merely extreme magical exhaustion."
'She's always like this,' Rose thought with a twinge of resentment.
Lily Potter was not uncaring or cold, but she wasn't the typical mother hen either. She had yet to console Harry for what he was going through. All she had expressed were disappointment and mild sympathy. One would expect a mother to be deeply affected by her son's lifelong disability. But nope, she'd been only slightly concerned.
"You do realise 'merely' and 'extreme' don't belong together?" Rose sighed, stopping right before her mother, hands on her hips. "And since when did Harry even have magic to exhaust it? Isn't he a squib?"
That made her mother's lips twitch and eyes gleam with intrigue.
"Now isn't that an interesting question?" Lily dropped the potion manual and looked up at her with an eager grin. "Let's use an image to simplify it."
'Right. You're more invested in this than your son's well being.' That was her first judgemental thought, but she kept it to herself. Getting offended by her mother's callousness was like being angry at the thunder for being loud. There was no use to it.
"Go ahead," Rose said instead, curious herself. "How is Harry a squib if he has magic?"
Lily unholstered her wand with a twist of her wrist and used it like a brush to paint on the air. She drew a crude pot. "This is Harry," she said. Then she dotted the one tenth of it to show 'water'. At last, she drew a lid to close the pot. She wasn't finished. Her wand moved again, and another pot was drawn beside it. There were three differences. First, it had a tap. Second, it had no lid. And third, it was brimming full. "Now this is a normal wizard/witch. Do you understand?"
Rose didn't babble a mindless answer and observed the drawings for a few more seconds. "I… guess? A squib has a little magic. But it's trapped in a 'pot'? The lid doesn't allow it to be replenished from outside. And the lack of a tap doesn't allow it to be drawn out. Squibs are… closed? Normal magicals, on the other hand, are different. They don't have a lid to stop them from replenishing. And their 'tap' is basically a way to channel the magic outside their body."
Her mother's smile was big and proud. Rose felt her face warm at that, her chest brim with joy. "This is why you're my favourite child. Not only normal but also clever."
The pride was quickly replaced by a stab of discomfort. "Mum, please. Don't talk about Harry that way."
"No worries, sweet child. He's not here. I'm not insensitive enough to say it to his face," she explained, exasperated. "But it is the truth. Harry is defective. Neither can he channel his paltry magic, nor could he replenish it from the world. What he did today was use up all his magic for some unknown task. It will take some time for his body to regain the inherent magic. Until then, he'll be bedridden. He'll be even more useless."
Again, her mother's tone wasn't deliberately cruel, but her words had no filter.
Rose hated it. There was no doubt that her mother loved them dearly. But she was not one to mince words. And for growing children, words could cause more harm than anything.
"It will be only for a short while. I'll take care of him," Rose stated, unwilling to subject Harry to her mother's indifference.
Though her heart sank when she realised there'd be no one to protect him once she went to Hogwarts.
"Still, my dear Harry is doing something to combat his uselessness." Lily pondered out loud, as if reading her fears. "I'm incredibly proud of his initiative. So, don't worry, sweet daughter, I'll keep an eye on him so he doesn't blow himself to bits."
That didn't reassure her at all.
Shaking her head, she left her mother and went upstairs into Harry's room. So what if he was unconscious, she was sure he wouldn't mind her company. Even if he did, he was in no state to say no.
~xXxXx~
Lily Potter was a war veteran. The moment she'd graduated Hogwarts, she jumped into the war with her then boyfriend, James Potter.
She entered the chaos because she had morals and principles. She believed in equality and her right to exist. She utterly disliked the discrimination that was forced on their kind, this pureblood fundamentalism. But… the longer she kept fighting, the more she killed, her reason to jump into deathly battles changed. She grew to like it. She started loving the screams, particularly the last screams. The surge of power she felt when she watched the light dim in the enemy's eyes was indescribable. For them, she'd be a war goddess, or maybe a war demon, the last thing they'd see or remember. Not their wives or husbands, or their children, but her. She'd be their last thought.
Then she got pregnant.
It all went downhill from there. Her growing belly stopped her from engaging in the dangerous dance. And even if she wanted to risk it, James was there to be the voice of reason. He was one of the few who could jolt her out of the bloodlust, who could demand her to stop being selfish and look at the bigger picture.
Then he died in an ambush. Severus and Lucius were the ones who planned her husband's death. One was already taken care of, while the other still roamed free.
The bodies she'd left in her wake after the twins were born, as she searched for her husband's killer, was not meagre. Even her own side began disliking her extremism. She didn't care. The one who could reason with her was dead. And she would find his killers even if she had to go to hell.
Then the war was suddenly over and the Death Eaters were apprehended. Apparently, Alice's boy was some messiah, who could one shot Dark Lords. The little git. Whereas the entire nation rejoiced, she raged that it was all over, that she couldn't keep murdering the shite out of those filthy purebloods.
The time since then had been a drag. She couldn't bring herself to do mundane jobs after being the battle maiden. And the needs of her children stopped her from pursuing a career as a mercenary. So… she lived off James' vast inheritance and raised her children in peace. One of them was defective, and the other was a genius.
One time, Rose's accidental magic had blown up the entire wing of the manor. She had never been so proud. Her sweet daughter took after her and packed an enormous amount of magic in that cute body.
Honestly, she dreamed of another war, where she could rain death side-by-side with Rose.
That might actually happen considering Dumbledore believed Voldemort wasn't entirely gone. While the old man must be apprehensive, she begged for it to be true. She wanted nothing more than another war. A chance to let loose.
"Mum." There was a knock on her door, disrupting her line of thought. "You ready?"
"In a bit, darling. Is your brother ready?" she replied, adjusting the bra cups after she locked the clasp at her back.
"He is."
"I'll be out in a minute."
The receding footsteps allowed Lily to introspect in peace.
The last month had been… interesting. Particularly, Harry had surprised her with his relentlessness.
After that incident with magical exhaustion, she'd thought he'd remain bedridden for months. But miraculously, he was up and about the next day. Not only was he able to stand up, he did physical exercises.
She'd caught him doing push-ups, sit-ups, and squats in the duelling room. That was not the end. He even went on a run through the woods. If she weren't aware of his 'mysterious meditation training', she'd assume he had given up on magic and decided to hone his body—which wouldn't really help against the wizards anyway. But no, her defective son was plotting something.
Slipping into a black dress, she zipped her side, admiring herself in the mirror.
Whatever Harry was doing, he had a purpose and ambition. She'd just watch and see, and happily help if he came to her. Just because he was defective didn't mean she hated him. Far from it, she loved him with all her being. She'd die for him. Then again, rarely there were mothers who could truly hate their children.
She picked her favourite lipstick and turned her lips red. Her hair was quickly braided down her shoulder. And she slid into ebony heels to finish off her look.
Humming to herself, she twirled before the mirror, making sure she looked sexy from all sides. What use was beauty if you couldn't flaunt it?
She leaned towards the mirror and adjusted her neckline, opening another button to display more cleavage. Again, what use was a perfect rack if you couldn't show it off? And she rarely went out of the Potter Manor. Let none say Lily Potter had lost her appeal over the years.
Grabbing her handbag, she sauntered into the living room. "Ready, children?"
Her eyes gleamed when she noticed Harry's subtle look at her curves.
If her beauty could affect her own son, then she was really too gifted. Power, brains, and beauty. She had it all, a nearly perfect woman.
At their 'yes', they floo'd to platform nine and three-quarters and came face to face with one man she desired the most.
"Malfoy." She smiled politely as they nearly crashed into them, her eyes burning with mad rage. "Long time no see."