Chapter Text
To her dying day, Hermione tries to find any explanation for Harry’s strange animagus form. It is a sort of bird-like humanoid, with a hard exoskeleton and only three talons. He has leg spurs shooting out of his calves, a set of mandibles, and a strange crest atop his head. The witch has no idea what it’s supposed to be, but she doesn’t abandon him. She will never say it, but part of the reason - a very small part - is that he is absolutely adorable. Harry barely reaches her hip, and that cautiously curious expression just makes her want to squeal in happiness. Hermione isn’t sure if that meant he might as well be a child, or that they really are that tiny. She isn’t sure which would be better.
In any case, Hermione doesn’t find anything. No magical creature - and definitely no non-magical animal - is anything like Harry. It’s like he isn’t even part of Earth - but that’s just silly, right?
The world moves on, and Hermione with it. She lives, loves, ages. Dies. Harry doesn’t. He stagnates, unchanging, watches his people decline. And when they ask questions, he retreats from the insatiable public. Grimmauld Place is a treasure trove of tomes, each as rare as dragons; Harry lives in the library, absorbing all the knowledge he foolishly ignored in his youth. And he always returns to the Tale of Three Brothers: the wand, the stone, and the cloak. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he has - a children’s story and the word of a man driven mad by grief. The Master of Death.
So he plans for his potentially unending future. Magical Britain is collapsing, unable to support itself after the destruction Voldemort wrought. The purebloods refuse to marry those not of the same blood, increasing cases of inbreeding and squibs; Harry knows they are going to fade. The muggles have better tools, better organization, and their population is reaching upwards of 15 billion. Witches and wizards, never many to begin with, can never hope to compete with such a swarm. It’s only a matter of time until muggles find out, so isn’t it better if they can at least fight back against the cause of their extinction? Give them hope that they can win?
Harry is twisted and he knows it, but going for mass genocide is on a scale that even Voldemort at his craziest didn’t attempt. No, that would be foolishness at its finest. Either let his people die or give them a mercy kill - he will forgive himself for neither. If he does nothing, it’s the former option; if he acts, he only prolongs their suffering. And yet...
He decides.
It’s completely possible - nay, likely even - that not one of his friends would have understood what he is doing now, save perhaps Snape. Harry can explain that he has their best intentions until he’s blue in the face, but the Ministry will never accept it, not when they’re so sure of their superiority. They’ll say he’s disregarding their sacrifice, that if he does this then defeating Voldemort was all in vain. And maybe it was, because if Voldemort won then surely the mad genius will find some way of stopping the muggles. Harry’s not him. He’s never been particularly smart or strong, just very stubborn. If he learnt anything in the past fifty years or so, it’s that anything can be solved if enough time is spent on it. He doesn’t have the time to spare in this case, though.
On the eve of his unveiling, Harry turns the Resurrection Stone. Once. Twice. Thrice. The spirit shimmers into existence, as impressive as he had been in life.
“Professor Snape.”
The wizard’s soul looks at Harry, waiting. The boy’s grown now, more experienced, but it’s hard to forget the snot-nosed brat scuttling around the dungeons trying to find evidence against the big bad bat. Somewhere, that boy will always exist. Lily’s son. Potter’s son. “Master,” he grinds out, and that’s a loss too. The boy winces and shakes his head, but doesn’t deny it.
“Not today, Professor. Please. I just... I wanted to thank you. Before I go,” Harry says, almost whispering.
Snape startles at this. The child he knew was always defiant, always spirited. Not this broken shade.
The day Harry first sees another with his form, it’s a rare cloudy day on Shanxi. Wholly unsuitable to farming and the like, most colonists are at home. Not Harry. For such a momentous occasion, he brings out the only weapon that lasted with him through the ages: a matte scythe, made at the direction of goblins. Rune-enchanted and goblin-forged, it’s his friend and companion. Literally - the blade is sometimes home to a very special spirit.
Harry carries it to an empty area behind his dwelling. The weather isn’t the best for farming, but is perfect for his plans. Swinging the scythe casually, Harry’s body ripples into its plated form. He falls into a practiced stance - then moves.
Flip. Swing. “Expelliarmus!”
Turn. Drop. “Protego!”
Jump. Twist. “Bombarda!”
And slash. “Scourgify!”
Despite what his people used to think, Harry has never and will never dip into the Darkest Arts. Borderline, maybe, but not outright there. Instead, he relies on overpowering simple Light spells to the point that they may as well be indistinguishable from Dark magic. A tergeo can suck blood through a person’s skin. A pan-scrubbing charm can turn into an entrail-flaying curse. Even a simple colour-changing harm can be a major distraction. Harry has always had more power than his peers, and his new title only adds to it, as does his wand.
Whiling time away has never been more enjoyable. Then, a sudden boom from the main town, and a symphony of surprise erupts with it. Harry takes his time gathering his few belongings before strolling out his door. And why shouldn’t he? These people may have no relation to the governments almost a century ago, but he has no obligation to rescue these muggles. Those who discovered the dissections of his people didn’t help, after all. A genocide of that scale is impossible to hide, no matter what they say - but it’s infinitely easier to do so when those who find out turn a willing blind eye.