Chapter 1
He huffed a little as he stared at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed in four hours. It hadn’t changed from the day before either. Or the day before that for that matter. But, trapped in a baby crib that was rather too small for his toddler body, there wasn’t much else to do besides stare at the plaster and count the cracks. At least not yet. Not until destiny came.
For you see, Harry Potter was the Chosen One.
This was never something he had needed to be told. Harry had known he was since the day of his birth and not once had he ever had problems with his fate. He knew no other, after all. He knew other things too, probably as a result of being the Chosen One. Other things, which he knew he should not know, things which no one else knew, things which no one but him could know. How he knew them, he chose not to ask. Prophecy was a tricky thing.
But most of all, he knew to be quiet.
One of the many things that he knew but should not know but did anyway was that Magic (capital M, the big kahuna) wove a unique fate for all living things and that fate had to be accepted and welcomed. There was little use trying to change the fate that big M Magic laid out for you, and if you tried, more often than not you ended up doing nothing more than twisting yourself up in knots before Magic pushed you on your path anyway, much the worse for wear for your troubles.
For instance, Harry was quite aware he was fated by Magic to face and defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort. He wasn’t particularly concerned about it. He was fairly certain he could wipe the floor with the old codger if it came to a scrap, but it seemed that it was not his time yet. For now, his destiny was to wait.
And wait.
See now, Harry Potter was coming near to his fifth birthday and he considered himself quite mature. Of course, he had no frame of reference for that seeing as he had never actually met another child before. Or anyone, really, besides his parents and the old man with the funny hat that sometimes visited them at their various hideouts, but he had ascertained from the ridiculous way his parents spoke to him and their insistence on doing everything for him, despite the fact he was more than able to do it himself, indicated that children were on the whole supposed to be quite dull and incapable. But he supposed that if that was how children were supposed to act, he was better off going along with it until the prophesied time when he was sure he was supposed to reveal himself. Seeing as magic had not yet seen fit to bring to fruition his glorious confrontation with the Dark Lord Voldemort, Harry figured the time to reveal himself had not come yet so it was best to simply feign ignorance to his fate and wait for the promised moment whenever it came.
But really, five years? That was quite a long time to make a boy wait. He really did wish Magic would just get on with it and allow him to fulfill his fate so he could get on with his life. Pretending to be an ignorant baby was becoming rather repetitive and he wasn’t precisely sure what it was Magic was waiting for. Harry didn’t see much else he had to do to prepare for the big day.
The problem seemed to be that his parents were just too good at what they did. Namely: hiding. He had been on the move for all of his life, shuttled in the dead of night from safe house to safe house through a network of covert operatives under heavy oaths of secrecy that expertly adapted to the ever changing battle fronts of a guerilla war. It was all impressive of course, but he really wished this ‘Order of the Phoenix,’ a name he found slightly ridiculous, would slip up just once and allow him an opportunity to face his fated enemy so this whole thing could be got over with.
He appreciated their efforts, he truly did, but none of it was really necessary. Magic had a plan, she always did, and swimming against the currents of destiny was a good way to make yourself tired for no purpose.
Harry scratched his ear and rolled onto his side, sighing with much more feeling than any four soon to be five year old should be able to. He was no hypocrite. Perhaps this was part of Magic’s plan and he simply had to allow it to reveal itself. Maybe one day, when he was looking back on it, pretending to be a baby for five years would seem a very good idea and he would be extremely grateful for having done it. But currently, it was little more than a chore. He was a genius, that much he could tell just by a quick comparison with his parents, and powerful to boot. All things that came with being a destiny child he reckoned. But he couldn’t reveal that yet, and was forced to hide his superb intellect and magnificent abilities behind the guise of a dimwitted child to ensure his parents continued to play their current role in his destiny. And his parents were very watchful. Lily Potter had just about the sharpest ears he had ever heard of (and he had talked with several rabbits in various safehouse gardens), and James Potter had all the training of an Auror. Harry had nearly slipped up and exposed himself on several occasions, and it was only the workings of Magic that kept the careful tapestry of time weaving on its course.
Few things kept Harry sane during his long confinement. He thanked the Fae for his mother being an academic who prized her books because his father’s main hobbies were Quidditch and dueling and he couldn’t very well do those without raising a few eyebrows, despite the fact he knew for a fact he would be able to beat his old man at both. He had read constantly as a child, that being when he was about a year old, easily tearing through the dense magical theory of his mother’s textbooks. But with little else to do, he finished before he turned two and was back to boredom. His perfect memory negated any need to study and so he only had to take a pass through any of them once. After that it was all in his head and he didn’t need the texts even for references and so even his little game of sneaking in a passage or two here and there when his parent’s backs were turned lost its fun.
But three times a day, he was reminded that even though Magic was a cruel mistress who bound all to their fates, she also provided for her children.
Three times a day, Harry had feeding time.
Harry smiled secretly at the wall. Freud be damned, Harry had ascertained something that his father (and much of her Hogwarts graduating class) had realized long ago: Lily Potter was a hell of a woman. Staring at the perfect, pale teardrops of her milfy bust was a privilege on its own, which was why he had screamed and cried as loud and as long as possible when they had tried to wean him off of breastfeeding. The time he spent suckling on his mum’s udders was what kept him hopeful for the future and for a better life. His constant demands for milk had kept Lily producing long past the first year of his infancy and her breasts remained as swollen as the day of his birth. Every pull from her porous nipples, which were each the size of his chubby little hands, calmed his impatience and convinced him that he could wait just a little while longer for his destiny to come to him.
The other advantage of being a baby was bathtime. It was decidedly strange that at five years old he should still need his mum in the bath, but Harry made for a convincing incompetent and his parents were forced to comply. At first Lily had tried to bathe with him in a swimming suit, but he had refused to bathe for a whole week until she realized that he wanted her to be naked. So Harry got his way and once a day he spent an hour in the tub with a naked redhead getting lathered up by her delicate hands with soapy bubbles. He was perhaps more provocative towards her than was necessary, but he was young and dumb enough that his parents wrote it off as innocent (if inappropriate) curiosity when he lifted and dropped his mother’s heavy tits or rubbed their naked, sudsy bodies together while running his chubby hands all over her. The only thing that could have given him away was his prodigious penis which, if aroused, would be impossible not to show (he had decided that this part of himself was not thanks to destiny and he was simply extraordinary). His mother was already concerned by the massive length and weight of his cock when it was soft, being forced to heft it and wash it during baths and all, and would no doubt become suspicious if he suddenly began popping hard ons for her. Luckily, a helpful spell kept his erections in check and saved both bath time and his secrets. He surely wouldn’t be able to control himself otherwise with his busty mother pressing her perfect tits into his back and stroking body wash over the shaft of his monstrously huge cock.
But even so, Harry was getting impatient. He rolled back onto his bed, face screwed up with babyish irritation. His mother was becoming concerned at his ever increasing demands for milk and the way he always managed to make a mess of himself, sometimes necessitating two or three baths a day. But he couldn’t help it. There just wasn’t anything else to do trapped in a warded safe house with two people he couldn’t talk to. Lily Potter’s tits were perfect and her milk was sweet as warm honey no question about it, but bath time and feeding was only a few hours out of the day, and considering the fact that his body didn’t appear to need much sleep (another side effect of being chosen by fate), that left the rest of the day and most of the night barren of any stimulation.
He would go mad if it went on much longer.
Harry let out another long suffering sigh, and tried to count the cracks in the ceiling again. The same ceiling that he had been staring at, almost without interruption, for over three months. It seemed his parents had finally found a spot they considered totally secure. The breakneck schedule of constantly moving safe houses every few days or weeks had come to a screeching halt, robbing him of even the little bit of excitement that came with a frantic move and the hope that flowered each time that this was the time his fated foe would finally catch up with him. But everything around the house had been rather lazy lately.
His father spent most of his time ambling about the house, checking on him and the wards occasionally, practicing spell work in the basement, and mostly seeming content with a quiet life. His mother was much the same, focusing much of her energy on the experiments in charms and potions making that she had been putting off ever since the start of the war and making reasonable progress from the satisfied way she talked about them over dinner with James. In all, they seemed to be catching up with the lives they had put on hold, settling down to a semblance of a normal life shielded from war.
Becoming a normal family.
Harry balled up his chubby little fists.
It made him sick.
Why had they done this? Why had they hidden him away? They knew he was a child of prophecy, one of the selected of fate, and yet they kept him here, secreted as far from his destiny as they could possibly manage with no hope of ever realizing his true potential. What was their goal? To keep him from ever meeting his future, from ever confronting his great trial? If that was so, they were doing a bloody grand job of it!
He breathed deeply and tried to relax. He closed his eyes and envisioned Lily Potter’s tits, heavy and pendulous, pale and perky yet weighted with milk, capped with perfectly pink nipples molded to the shape of his mouth, tiny indentations on the top and bottom of each one in the shape of his teeth. They floated there in his head, a perfect recollection of the best (and only) pair of breasts he had ever seen. Slowly, he felt the tension drain from his body. Thinking of his mother naked always calmed him down. It was a rare moment when thoughts of his mum’s boobs weren’t enough to restore his inner balance. And even then, if her tits weren’t enough, meditating on the perky roundness of her perfect bubble butt always did the trick.
His fists unclenched.
Calm.
Deep breaths.
Back to the center.
The angry fog lifted from his mind.
His mind was clear, but the impatience remained, starker now without frustration to cover it. What was Magic waiting for? What more could be left for him to do before the final showdown? His magic was strong enough, surely. Once, when he was still a young and foolhardy boy of three, he had snuck out of the safe house to experiment and had been able to uproot trees with his mind and crush them in his grasp. He had even managed to form the wood pulp back into trees and replant them, good as ever. That was only a tenth of the things he knew he would be able to do, could already do, if only he had the chance to do them.
Was he missing something then? Some piece of knowledge or some great moment of inspiration that would reveal to him that final mystery necessary to fulfill the prophecies and save the world from darkness? He just didn’t know. It all felt so pointless.
Pointless.
Pointless.
Pointless.
It was pointless for him to be here! He was the Chosen One, a harbinger, hand selected by fate to bring untold change to the world. And he was still in his cradle, idling, changing nothing. The whole world was out there, within his easy grasp, and he was trapped here. By what? By the uncertain vagaries of destiny’s currents? By insecurity, uncertainty? Him? He was far too old to be timid, to allow himself to be meek. Hiding was for mice, and he was no mouse! Magic, pure and clean, sung in his veins, waiting for an outlet, humming beneath his skin like spring water. He would not be some simpering fool, waiting for fate to take his hand and guide him down some path marked out for him. He would go and he would forge his own destiny, craft his own fate, become the master of his own world! Nothing would stop him, not his fool parents or the blasted Order or that dog of a Dark Lord! Why he had a mind to-
He cut himself off. His fists were clenched again. Breathe. In. Out. Think of Lily. He formed an image in his mind. Pale thighs, creamy like milk and soft as melted butter. Smooth as silk and fat as drumsticks, full to bursting with sweet milf meat. Warm to the touch, plush pillows of fat, yet firm underneath, like an athlete. Strong legs that didn’t tire, legs that could ride for hours. There wasn’t a better seat in the world. No chair could compare to the gentle heat and pliant tenderness of Lily’s motherly lap. Breathe. Calm. Centered.
He relaxed again.
It was getting harder to do that, lately. The urge to go, to seize his destiny by the throat, became stronger each day. But he was no child, ready to spring off on a fool’s errand just because he was impatient. Being the Chosen One promised great power and responsibility, but it also tied him deeply to Magic and her currents. He was not one to be pushed around by desire, not when the river of fate was his guide. He would go when the time came, and he would know when it came because there would be signs. Signs were impossible to miss for one touched as he was touched. For a man with a finger on the pulse of creation. Yes, the mark of a master was patience. Patience and calm.
He was centered once more. The wait would go on, no matter how long it took. He chortled to himself, the noise coming out as more of a gurgle from his toddler mouth. To think, he had almost had himself running about like some-
“...just think it's time to wean him off…”
Harry’s ears pricked. Magic suffused his body, making it stronger, tougher, more robust. But it also made it more subtle, more sensitive to the world. His senses were unmatched. He could see the veins on the wings of a fly from across a field. He could taste the winds and tell the movement of every living thing a thousand feet around him just by the flavor. He could feel the fibers of the blanket beneath him through his clothes.
And he could hear his parents downstairs, talking seriously of ending his feeding time.
The Chosen One froze in horror. They wouldn’t! They couldn’t! They didn’t dare! What else was he supposed to do, what could he look forward to on these long, bleak days of isolation and waiting? Feeding time was the only thing keeping him sane! Take that away- he could barely think of it! - and he would go mad. Madder than mad. He would go dark. All his power would turn to rage and fire and death would shroud the land in a black cloak. He would become the most dreaded Dark Lord in history and Harry Potter would be a name spoken only in whispers for a thousand years to come.
“...and really… ridiculous… old enough to bathe alone…”
Harry’s heart stopped. For five seconds it did not beat. He hung in the balance, doom reaching up to grab him with fingers of ash. Death was upon him. Woe! Woe to him who should have never been born rather than face this torment! Images of a future too horrible to comprehend flashed through his mind. Lily’s breasts, hidden behind sweaters forever, closed to him, as far away from his mouth as if they were on the moon. No more would her sweet milk grace his tongue; no more would her perfect breasts fill his eyes; no more would his hands grasp her soft flesh! And baths. A strangled groan of unimaginable torment was torn from his lips. Was he to bathe alone, a pool of tepid water his only companion, and not a single soapy breast or sud soaked thigh in sight? No warm pillow to rest his head against, no tender hands to wash his hair or scrub his chest?
It was barbaric! Unconscionable! Cruel!
Oh, why God had this happened to him!
No!
He wrestled with himself, fought down his heaving breaths and forced his heart to beat. He was the Chosen One! Other men, weaker men, might allow injustice to drown them without raising a hand to save themselves, but he was not one. Magic had not chosen a coward or a weakling to champion her. Fate was with him. He was strong. He was powerful. He was destined!
This would not stand. Magic had singled him out for greatness. He would rise to this challenge or he would die in the attempt. A crisis was no time for cowardice. Fortune favored the bold. He had to act. Now, before it was too late. The time of hiding was over.
Surely, Magic could send him no clearer sign than this.
Drawing on all the power in him, pulling Magic from the depths of the soul and letting Her currents flood him with her light. A golden glow filled the room as he swung from his crib, its wood bars turning to ash before he even touched them. He landed on the floor on both feet, already striding out the door of his nursery with his first step.
Lily and James looked up from the kitchen table in surprise as their only son, who they had up to this point considered rather slow due to his unhealthy reliance on his mother and his disinterest in even learning to walk, strode confidently down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“I’m going out.”
They blinked at him. Neither of them had suspected their unfortunately fated and evidently dimwitted son was even capable of forming full sentences considering the concerningly limited vocabulary he displayed. Next to their dimwitted baby suddenly speaking in proper English, the fact that his voice was unnaturally deep seemed of small consequence.
James, who had been raised pureblood, knew that magical children had many strange tendencies and it was hard to put solid benchmarks for healthy development on young witches and wizards. A baby that had for all the world looked and acted like a squib might one day be found floating a couch over its head and there really wasn’t much to be worked up about when it happened. Magic was strange, who could truly say how it worked? He assumed destiny babies were even stranger than most, so he supposed it wasn’t too large a surprise for his son to be leaping about in his development like this.
It was honestly none of his business.
“Where to?” James asked.
“To kill Voldemort.”
They blinked.
And then Harry was making for the door. James didn’t rouse himself to stop him. Strange indeed. But then, what else could be expected? Harry was the subject of one of the most powerful prophecies to be spoken in the last century or so. Of course he was a mite odd. Who wouldn’t be under the circumstances? It was best just to let Magic take its course.
“Be safe, son.”
There, that seemed a properly fatherly thing to say.
Lily was sat stone still at the table, frozen with her mouth open mid sentence. As a muggle born, she was very much not used to the strangeness of magical children and was in the middle of Freaking Out. As such, her head was rather fogged, her mind being pulled in so many conflicting directions she could barely sort through them all. She might be forgiven if the only thing she could think to say in the moment was, “Bring a coat, dear. It’s cold out.”
Harry grabbed it from the rack with a flourish, not pausing in his long stride, and marched imperiously out the door. It slammed shut with a bang behind him.
They were silent for several long moments, staring at the front entranceway. James quirked his head to the side, as if he had just noticed something strange.
“He forgot his shoes.”
Lily started to scream.