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First of all, there’s one thing you need to understand. I am a grown man. Yes, 24 isn’t that old, but you get the idea. I am not mentally or physically capable of acting like a 10 year old. I am a terrible liar. Most of the time, these aren’t problems I actually have to deal with. Waking up in the body of a black haired, green eyed child who is definitely Harry fucking Potter makes all of these much more relevant.
But okay, it could be worse, after all, I could be stuck in the body of some other fantasy series protagonist, one whose series I hadn’t been reading and reading fanfiction of for basically my entire life. But Harry Potter? We can handle that, I’ve read enough fix-it’s to have a decent idea of what to do here. Helpful goblins might even be real, or at least real enough to get the soul piece out of my forehead. I can work with this. I will probably have to go completely rogue, because if i have to go to school with children and pretend to be one I will lose my mind, but I’ve got money, I’ve just got to make it to the Hagrid shopping trip, and I can wing it from there.
I really, really shouldn’t have expected it to be that easy. The Dursleys weren’t that difficult to deal with, they are horrible people, just as horrible as you imagine, but they mostly want Harry out of sight and out of mind, which I am happy to accommodate while I plan. No, the real problem happens when the letter gets delivered. Because the first letter doesn’t come through the mail slot. It doesn’t get delivered by a Hogwarts professor or even Hagrid. The man at the door is obviously, infuriatingly , James Potter, and I guess canon can go fuck itself.
James seems to want to be here as little as I want him to be here, but I guess neither of us get what we want.
“I thought you were dead.”
James blinks, before rounding on Petunia, a justified target of anger giving him some purpose, along with an escape from the awkwardness of explaining to your child why you abandoned him as a baby. The whole tale eventually comes out, in broad strokes sounding like dozens of fanfics you’ve read before. Voldemort kills Lily, the kids(!) survive, poor Harry would be safer in the Muggle world with Lily’s relatives, away from all the spotlight and the famous brother after all. Because yes, of course the Harry Potter AU I’ve been dropped in is a Wrong Boy-Who-Lived.
I do my best imitation of a shell-shocked, but excited child for the rest of the day, frantically trying to rearrange everything I had thought I knew about the world into the WBWL tropes. Because nothing could be taken for granted anymore. My wand didn’t even end up being the same, no phoenix feather for me, spruce and unicorn hair, and Ollivander, who is more creepy in person, had nothing to say about suspicious connections with Voldemort. I realize, with dawning horror, and perhaps hope, that I might not be the Boy-Who-Lived. That’s… good if true, because this genre doesn’t tend to go so well for the good guys. But I don’t have time , because we’re suddenly back at Potter Manor, everything I own in a fancy expanded trunk, and I’m meeting the brother.
The kid’s name is Richie, and he is a bit spoiled. I’m really trying to be generous here, because he is 11, he’s just a kid, and I can’t judge him too harshly for his own upbringing (but my God I would lose my mind if I had to share a House with him, we are not going into Gryffindor). He’s over the moon to meet me, and from the sound of it has the rest of our lives planned out, starting, of course, with the obligatory sort into Gryffindor, followed by overwhelming popularity in school, starring on the Quidditch team, settling down with a nice Gryffindor witch(or failing that, a Hufflepuff wouldn’t be too bad), and going on to be the best Auror partners there have ever been(it’ll be wicked Harry!). And it's… sweet, that he’s so enthusiastic, but it’s a lot, for me, who’s not a lost kid who just had everything he knew about the world completely overturned. I let him talk, and slowly, slowly , pick up the key details.
“You’re about 5 minutes older, means you’re the Heir, although if you had turned out to be a Squib it was going to be me…”
“Dad’s friend Ethan is going to be by tomorrow, he’s our lawyer, he’s also my godfather! I had someone else when I was really little but they had to change it later…”
“Dad’s Head Auror, he’s the youngest to ever do it! It does mean he’s gone a lot but the house elves made sure I was handled when I was younger, and it’s not like I was going to burn down the house…”
There are family pictures spread throughout the manor, and I occasionally ask about the other figures in them. There’s a red haired woman in several that can only be Lily, but the supporting cast is conspicuous in who is absent.
“There’s Ethan, uh, that’s Rufus Scrimgoeur, he used to be Dad’s boss, oh, and that’s Professor Dumbledore! He’s the greatest wizard in the world, plus he always gives me sweets when he stops by to talk to Dad.”
There are no pictures, and no mention, of Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, or Peter Pettigrew, and that’s concerning. It’s as if the other Marauders never existed, and I need to know what happened. This is the problem, the crux of my problem, and as Richie finally lets me be so I can go to bed, I can finally contemplate it. Wrong Boy-Who-Lived stories cannot be planned for.
Tropes exist, and some ideas are fairly universal. Voldemort will, for better or worse, be smarter than canon. He might, depending on the story, actually have a point. Dark magic is likely somewhat dangerous, but usable without excessive risk. Were I to follow the path as laid out for me, I would end up in Slytherin, instantly become the black sheep in my Light, Gryffindor family, and poor little Harry would take his first step on the road to darkness. The problem is, the rest of it? All of it is up in the air, and I need answers to figure it out. I might or might not be the Boy-Who-Lived. There might be a prophecy that says me or Richie(or both) can kill Voldemort. The three missing Marauders could be any combination of dead, imprisoned, guilty, or estranged. Horcruxes might not exist, they might not even be the same items, Voldemort might actually be dead, and wouldn’t that be nice. When I thought this was canon, I had examples. There are probably thousands of canon fix-it fanfictions, but wrong Boy-Who-Lived is a different story. The difference between them, at its core, is this. Wrong Boy-Who-Lived stories don’t get finished . I don’t blame the authors for that, a seven book rewrite is a massive undertaking at the best of times, but it’s true. I have essentially no guidelines for how to survive this beyond maybe third year. I could plan, and if I can find enough about the recent history of this universe I could probably come up with something pretty decent, besides the issue of being a child that absolutely cannot act like a child. Oh God, Dumbledore is going to think I’m possessed. I’m so fucked.
The weeks before Hogwarts move much too fast, and the broad strokes go like this: Ethan doesn’t like me, I’m a disruption to the natural order of things, and I’m not interested in playing the publicity game for him. Richie doesn’t really know what to make of me. I’ve tried flying, but I’m not very good at it, and I begged off every time after, claiming a fear of heights. James is much the same, and extraordinarily unhelpful when asked questions about the war. If there’s anything that can help me here, it’s magic. I’ve always been a reader, but I’ve torn through my schoolbooks like a man possessed. I’ve wandered the (extensive) Potter library, pulling books on history and magic that seems a touch more questionable than would be allowed.
I manage to slip off into an empty compartment when we finally arrive on the train, Richie off to find his friends, and I settle, hoping to enjoy the time I have left where I don’t have to be a child. It takes an hour for a girl to burst through the door, slamming it behind them and leaning against it, gasping for breath. She makes eye contact, looking like a deer in headlights, before frantically gesturing to be quiet.
A voice passes in the hallway, calling out “Padma! Where’d you go, Mom wanted us to sit together on the train!”
I struggle to keep a straight face as Padma continues silently shushing me, as presumably Parvati’s voice fades slowly into the distance. Padma finally relaxes, slumps, and nods her thanks before plopping down on the other seat. She then, bizarrely , in German , mumbles “I thought having a twin and going to magic school would be great, why couldn’t it have been Marvel? I’d rather be a superhero, they’re at least adults.”
I stare, and she turns to me, sliding back into English. “Hi, I’m Padma Patil, who might you be?”
I think about it, and give her a grin that likely comes off a bit deranged. “I’m Harry Potter, but I used to be named Matt, and I think we have something in common.”
Later, when I follow her into Ravenclaw, Richie’s betrayed stare digging into my back, she gives me the same, slightly concerning smile back. “Let’s get started,” she says, and for the first time I think we might actually have a chance at this.