Harry James Potter lived a good life. He was 152 when he died, with long decades passing right by his eyes like sand flitting through sifting fingers. He was at peace. Ready and fulfilled. He had been lucky enough to have loved a beautiful, caring wife, to have cared for an adoring family and work meaningful days at his job. The prophecy was long forgotten, and the nightmares of his wars have come to pass.
Meaning, it was truly understandable when Harry James Potter was left confused when he was once again, in a bleached-out version of King’s Cross. Where this time, there was no Dumbledore to greet him, nor a Voldemort curdled under the bench.
Intellectual™ that Harry was, thought that therefore – after eliminating all possible actions within bleached King’s Cross, (mainly 1 Talk to Albus, 2 Judge Scarcrux or 3 Board a train) Harry was only left with option number 3.
Leading him to his current situation. Regaining consciousness in his once more 11-year-old body, who was currently walking down Hogwarts’ hallowed halls stalking the one and only literal two-faced bastard he knows.
You see, Harry, too, was a Marauder. It may have taken him longer to reconnect to that particular part of his heritage on the account of one homicidal psycho, but he was ready to wreak havoc now. Harry James -and he will say his full name for as many times as he would like – Potter, freshly sorted into Slytherin wanted to bring the entire Wizarding World into its knees (but not in the ashes-to-ashes kind) but with a newly Reformed Dark Lord knees kind.
With the confidence of a man who has already faced depression, PTSD, a basilisk, and a dragon; Harry waltzes in Professor Quirrell’s office, and snags his turban off eliciting a panicked, “MR. POTTER, HOW DARE YOU-” from the man.
All the while, Harry stares into the abyss of Voldemort’s gleaming red eyes speaking in the tongue only they share.
“You’ll be my dad, sir. Whether you like it or not. You’ll adopt me.”
And well… Voldemort doesn’t really remember bedding the mudblood but it would be awfully remiss of him to abandon his son, no?
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In the distance there was a slightly disturbed in the head, Headmaster, popping a lemon drop in his mouth talking to his familiar, “Why, Fawkes, do I feel that something has gone very wrong?”
Fawkes cackles. (As much a bird can, I suppose.)