Sunlight squeezed through the tiny window of the cupboard, falling onto the cracks in the floorboards—bright enough to sting the eyes.
Harry woke to Dudley's screeching—
the boy was throwing another fit because his breakfast didn't come with extra bacon.
Aunt Petunia's shrill voice sliced through the air like nails dragging across glass, sharp enough to cut through the door and stab his eardrums.
He flexed his fingers.
The first sensation was softness.
Not the cold, rigid void of Hell.
Not the blood-soaked soil of the Forbidden Forest.
But the lumpy softness of his old mattress—springs worn thin, poking his back, but real. Tangibly real.
Harry sat up and looked down at his hands—
thin, pale, with the delicate bones of a young teenager.
No calluses from gripping a wand through endless drills in Hell,
no marks from the Bone-Shattering Curse tearing across his skin.
He touched his back. Smooth.
The long wound carved open by the Shattering Curse was gone—no scar, nothing.
"Not a dream," he whispered.
His voice was still a little hoarse, but not the sandpaper rasp from Hell—just the clear tone a boy of thirteen should have.
The cupboard was the same as before:
Dudley's old clothes piled damply in the corner;
a yellowed football poster Dudley had thrown out;
the tiny desk cluttered with last night's unfinished homework—math problems, ugly and dense.
Harry checked his pockets.
Empty.
No wand.
No scrap of leaf from the Forbidden Forest.
Of course.
One couldn't bring things back through rebirth.
Harry huffed a soundless laugh—half self-mockery, half relief.
At least without bloody reminders, it would be easier to hide what he now carried inside.
The Dursleys wouldn't notice anything was wrong.
"Harry! Are you dead in there? Get out and make breakfast!" Petunia shrieked outside, rattling the doorknob hard enough to bend it.
Harry called back, "Coming,"
and pushed off the thin blanket.
The moment his feet touched the floor, he remembered how he'd been in his previous life—
shoulders hunched, voice small, even eating a slice of bread had to be done in secret.
But now, standing before the mirror, he saw his thirteen-year-old self with none of the old timidity.
Only a deep, steady coldness lay behind his eyes.
He recognized this point in time—
a few more days, and Hagrid would knock on Number Four Privet Drive, cake and Hogwarts letter in hand, ready to "rescue" him.
He had once thought that was salvation.
Only after dying in the Forbidden Forest did he learn the truth:
that moment was merely the beginning of another trap.
"What're you dawdling for? Want a beating?"
Dudley's face appeared in the doorway, his bulk filling the whole frame. His beady eyes glared nastily.
In his past life, Harry would have flinched.
This time, he merely looked at Dudley—cold, sharp, unblinking.
The look startled Dudley.
He stepped back involuntarily.
"W-what're you staring at?"
"Nothing." Harry brushed past him. "What's for breakfast?"
Petunia was in the kitchen frying bacon.
When she saw Harry, she tossed an egg into a bowl with an irritated huff.
"Fried eggs, bacon, toast. Dudley gets three eggs, two slices of bacon, toast extra crispy. You? One egg. Don't even think about eating more!"
Harry didn't argue.
He picked up the pan and heated the oil.
His movements were practiced—years in the Dursley house had trained him well.
But the spatula in his hand reminded him of the "tools" used in Hell for training—cold, unyielding, capable of slicing a soul apart.
He inhaled slowly, buried the rising hatred, and cracked the egg over the pan.
The sizzle grounded him.
"Oh—" Petunia said suddenly, sounding uneasy, "another strange letter came yesterday. Addressed to 'Harry Potter, Cupboard Under the Stairs.' I burned it."
Harry's hand stilled over the pan.
A flicker of understanding flashed in his eyes—
the Hogwarts letter.
It had arrived two days earlier than in his previous life.
He lifted his head with feigned confusion.
"For me? Why would anyone write to me?"
"How should I know what lunatic is sending things?" Petunia snapped, voice cracking with fear. "It's nothing good. Any more of those letters and I'm burning all of them—don't even think about it!"
Harry lowered his gaze, said nothing, and plated the eggs.
He knew her fear well—
fear of magic, fear of the world that had taken her sister.
She never realized the place she used to "protect" him from was the real prison.
After breakfast, Harry returned to the cupboard and closed the door behind him.
He leaned against it, eyes shut, and sorted through what came next:
Hagrid would come.
He would go to Diagon Alley.
He would buy a wand.
He would meet Draco…
The moment the name crossed his mind, his heart lurched painfully.
Had Draco also returned?
If so—where was he now?
Was he waiting to go to Diagon Alley too?
Harry touched his chest.
There was nothing there—
and yet he still felt the warmth of Draco's dying body in his arms, searing into him.
He couldn't rush.
He told himself to hide well—
to make sure the Dursleys saw nothing strange.
To make sure that when he met Hagrid and everyone else later, no one sensed that he was different.
He had to act like he had in his first life—
curious, bewildered, innocent.
Every bit of hatred had to be buried deep, where no one could see.
Harry sat at the little desk, picked up a pencil, and wrote a name on the back of a scrap paper:
Draco.
The strokes were light, almost invisible.
He erased them immediately, leaving only a faint trace.
He didn't know what awaited him.
Didn't know if Draco would truly return as well.
Didn't know if he could protect the person who had died once for him.
But he knew he couldn't be weak anymore.
Couldn't be used again.
Hell's pain was still carved into his soul.
Draco dying in his arms still burned before his eyes.
That hatred, that obsession—they were his weapons.
He would wait for Hagrid.
Wait for Diagon Alley.
Wait to meet Draco—
And then, step by step, drag down every single person who owed them blood.
Sunlight grew brighter outside, falling across the faint traces left on the scrap paper.
Harry crushed it into a ball and tossed it into the bin, eyes growing cold again.
The days on Privet Drive were numbered.
He needed to prepare for the coming "new life"—
not as a savior, but for himself, for Draco, and for the blood debts that must be paid.