Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Rebirth of a Kingpin
The first sensation Harry felt in this new life was warmth.
Warmth was an unfamiliar luxury to him, even after a hundred lifetimes. Many of his rebirths had started in sterile hospital wards, in back alleys amidst the stench of blood, or the cold silence of marble mansions. But here, wrapped in soft cotton and cradled in gentle arms, Harry Potter—a man who had lived and died more times than he cared to count—felt something disarming. Comfort. Safety.
It was a lie.
In every world, every life, two things had always been certain. The first: he would be born with magic, raw and unyielding, though its form often varied. In some lives, it had been elemental control; in others, it had manifested as bloodline curses, whispered spells, or pure destructive will. The second constant was darker: he was always the heir to a family of power and shadows. Crime syndicates, mafia families, underground empires—he had ruled them all, leaving behind trails of glory, wealth, and corpses.
This life, however, had begun differently. There was no shadowy nurse delivering veiled warnings about family rivals. No blood-soaked oaths whispered at his cradle. Instead, there was Lily Potter’s laughter, James Potter’s warm hands, and a world seemingly untouched by the machinations of the underworld.
Harry had allowed himself to believe, for the first time in over a millennium, that this life might be different.
He should have known better.
For one blissful year, Harry basked in the simplicity of being a child. Lily’s voice was like a lullaby that softened the sharp edges of his mind. James’s playful antics brought a lightness to his soul that he hadn’t felt in lifetimes. Even the moments of solitude in his crib felt peaceful as he practiced moving his infant limbs and prodding at the tendrils of magic coiled within him.
He had convinced himself that he could forget—if only for a while. Forget the lives he had led. Forget the betrayals, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of death and rebirth. He let himself imagine growing up in a normal family, learning magic the way a child should, free from the weight of empires and power struggles.
But that illusion shattered the night Voldemort came.
The attack was too fast for him to react. One moment, he was watching Lily’s face as she whispered a lullaby. The next, the door exploded inward, and Voldemort’s voice filled the room. Harry’s magic surged instinctively, but his infant body was too weak, too small to channel it effectively. He saw the flash of green light, felt the searing pain of loss as his parents fell, and then—darkness.
When he woke in the wreckage of his nursery, cradled by Hagrid’s trembling hands, the weight of his failure crushed him. He had let himself become complacent. Weak. Naive. And it had cost him everything.
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The Dursleys were a rude awakening, in every sense of the word.
Harry’s first impression of Petunia Dursley was her pinched face, twisted in disgust as she looked down at him. Vernon was no better, with his blustering voice and meaty fists. Their son, Dudley, was a spoiled tyrant-in-training, whose tantrums rattled the walls of the house.
At first, they ignored him, treating him as an inconvenience to be left in the cupboard under the stairs. But as the years passed, their disdain turned to malice. Harry, however, was not the helpless child they thought he was.
He had survived assassinations, betrayals, and torture across a hundred lifetimes. He had led armies, dismantled governments, and crushed rebellions with a single word. Surviving the Dursleys? That was nothing more than an exercise in patience.
Harry spent his first few years observing. He learned Petunia’s routine, noting the moments when she was most distracted. He memorized Vernon’s habits, identifying the times when the man was too tired or drunk to notice what was happening around him. He even out of boredom studied Dudley, cataloging his favorite hiding spots and the weaknesses in his blustering demeanor.
When he was four, he began to act. He used his magic sparingly, ensuring that the Dursleys never suspected. He summoned scraps of food from the kitchen when he was locked in his cupboard. He siphoned heat into his small space during the cold winter nights. And when Dudley tried to corner him, Harry used a subtle burst of magic to trip him, sending the boy sprawling into the dirt.
His first major act of defiance came when Vernon tried to hit him for the first time. Harry, now five, stood his ground, his emerald eyes cold and unyielding. When Vernon’s hand came down, Harry’s magic lashed out, freezing the man in place. Vernon’s face turned purple as he struggled against the invisible bonds, but Harry didn’t release him until he saw fear in the man’s eyes.
After that, the Dursleys were more careful. They still mistreated him of course, but their attempts at violence became less frequent. Harry, meanwhile, continued to hone his magic in secret, pushing the boundaries of what his young body could handle.
He will survive.
But survival was not enough. Harry had spent over a thousand years building empires and toppling rivals. He was not content to be a victim of fate. This world, with its magic and its dangers, would not break him.
He would rule it.
With a steely determination, Harry began to plan for the future. His magic was his greatest weapon, but it was not his only asset. He had a millennium of knowledge and experience to draw upon, and he would use every bit of it to ensure that he never felt powerless again.
The Dursleys were just the beginning.
By the time Harry turned seven, he was done reacting to the Dursleys. It was time to act.
The days of scraping by on stolen scraps of food and enduring their petty attempts at cruelty were over. He had a lifetime—no, a hundred lifetimes—of strategy and ruthlessness to draw from. Now, he began shaping the world around him to suit his needs, no longer content with mere survival.
The first step was to neutralize Vernon Dursley. The man’s aggression was predictable but clumsy. Harry could have killed him outright with a spell or caused an “accident” that would leave no trace of magic. But a dead Vernon would raise questions, and Harry despised unnecessary complications.
Instead, he used fear.
One evening, after a particularly vicious tirade, Harry waited until Vernon had collapsed into his armchair. He let a surge of his magic seep into the air, weaving a chilling aura around them. The lights flickered violently, shadows stretched into grotesque shapes, and a low groan reverberated through the room, making the very walls tremble. Vernon's eyes widened in horror, his bravado crumbling into sheer dread.
With a cold, steady voice that belied his age, Harry leaned in closer, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint, unsettling smile. “You really should learn to control your temper, Uncle,” he said, each word dripping with menace. “You never know what might happen when you disturb the things that dwell in the dark. They enjoy loud noises... especially ones that come from your throat.”
As he spoke, the shadows coiled closer, whispering threats that only Vernon could hear, tightening their grip around him like a vice. The temperature plummeted further, and a faint, ghostly breath brushed against Vernon's neck, leaving him gasping in terror.
Vernon never raised a hand to him again.
Theft and Independence
Once Vernon was cowed, Harry began accumulating resources. His magic allowed him to bypass locks and sneak into rooms unnoticed, but he didn’t rely on it exclusively. Years of training in past lives had taught him the value of redundancy. He pilfered loose change from Vernon’s wallet, slipping small amounts into a hidden stash to avoid detection. He found old, forgotten clothes in the attic and tailored them to fit his small frame using magic.
At eight, he raided the pantry, taking canned goods and nonperishables to create his own private stockpile under the floorboards of his cupboard. If the Dursleys ever decided to starve him as punishment again, he’d be ready.
He used his stolen funds to purchase secondhand books from a local charity shop. Mathematics, basic science, and even a beginner’s guide to Latin—all tools of this world to prepare for his inevitable departure. He wasn’t planning to stay under the Dursleys’ thumb a moment longer than necessary.
Dudley proved to be harder to manage than he once thought. The boy’s bullying wasn’t rooted in calculation like Vernon’s; it was an expression of mindless entitlement, and it made him dangerous in his own way. Harry tolerated Dudley’s antics for as long as they remained inconsequential, but when Dudley tried to destroy one of Harry’s books—a precious copy of A History of England—Harry decided to act.
Dudley woke up the next morning with his bed swarming with snakes, a few of which Harry had enchanted to hiss words like “payback” and “watch yoursssself.” The boy screamed so loudly that the neighbors came to check on the commotion.
Petunia, of course, blamed Harry, but she didn’t dare confront him directly. Not after the way the kitchen knives had inexplicably fallen off their rack the last time she slapped him.
Despite his best efforts, Harry’s darker instincts began to resurface. There was no room for mercy in the lives he had lived, and his memories whispered reminders of what happened to those who let their enemies grow unchecked.
When a stray cat wandered into the garden one evening, Harry used it as a test. He watched it move, its small body lithe and nimble. A quick flick of his fingers sent an invisible blade of silent, sharp and deadly magic slicing through the air cleanly separating its head from its body, The cat collapsed, lifeless, before it even had time to react.
Harry stared at its body for a long moment watching a puddle of blood form around the cats corpse, not out of guilt but out of detachment. Killing still came naturally to him, even in this small, weak body. The knowledge was both reassuring and unsettling.
“Not yet,” he murmured to himself, dragging the cat’s body into the woods. “But soon.”
By the time he turned nine, Harry had solidified his plans. The Dursleys were no longer a threat, and his cupboard under the stairs had become a fortress of sorts—hidden compartments, emergency supplies, and a growing arsenal of knowledge.
But Harry wasn’t a child. Not mentally. He couldn’t pretend that this life would be free of danger just because he had removed the immediate threats. If Voldemort’s attack had taught him anything, it was that safety was an illusion.
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Hogwarts. A place he heard lily and James talk about with nostalgia. He had heard of magical schools before—had even attended one in a different world where runes and blood rituals formed the backbone of spellwork. But the way the name Hogwarts echoed in his mind carried a sense of destiny that he didn’t fully trust.
He would go, of course. Magic was the cornerstone of his existence, and he needed to understand the rules of this world’s magic if he was to dominate it. But he wouldn’t go unprepared.
Harry began refining his magic, focusing on subtlety and efficiency. He practiced spells late at night, conjuring small lights and manipulating objects with a flick of his wrist. He used Latin phrases from his books to try and build a repertoire of incantations. His power was raw and unpolished, but his mind was sharp, and that made him dangerous.
Late at night, when the house was silent and the stars visible through the cracks in his cupboard door, Harry would allow himself a moment to reflect.
A hundred lives. A hundred deaths. Some of his memories were hazy, blurred by time and repetition, but the lessons remained clear. Trust no one. Mercy is weakness. Power must be seized, not given.
This life would be no different.
He clenched his small fists, the magic in his veins humming with latent power. This world might have stripped him of his titles, his wealth, and his armies, but it hadn’t taken his will. He would build an empire again, from nothing if he had to, and when the time came, he would carve out his place in this world with the same ruthlessness that had defined every other life he had lived.
“Never again,” he whispered into the darkness. “Never again will I be weak.”
And in that moment, He wasn't Harry Potter. He was a king without a throne, a general without an army, a crime lord without a family.
“I can’t wait.” Harry smiled as he rolled over and closed his eyes.