Harry.

He stirred.

Harry. The voice came again. Harry?

Where was he? Everything was black. He was floating, sailing through endless darkness. What was that besides him? He opened his eyes.

The world exploded in color. He was sitting atop a green plain beneath the blue sky. The sun smiled down from above, and a soft breeze was blowing on his shoulders. Blades of grass rippled as the wind passed, and the sunlight lit the grass gold. Was it a dream? But this couldn’t be. Everything was so lifelike, so real.

Nothing was there in this world to keep him company. Nothing, except himself. No, that wasn’t true. There was something, someone there. But he couldn’t see it, or him. Magnus, Harry realized.

He looked down. Around his small, childlike hands larger ones appeared. They were a part of him. Yet, not part of him. Those hands were adult hands, flexing whenever he flexed and moving whenever he moved. They were transparent, almost ghostly. Through them he could see his own. As his eyes traveled down further he saw a body, complete with arms and legs.

They were injured. Where healthy skin should have been the arms were charred and bleeding. Wounds riddled the mangled flesh. It was leaking something. Something silvery and ethereal, flowing away like smoke. It wrapped around him, obscuring his vision of the plains.

His world changed. The colors swirled, distorted and came to life once more. He was sitting at a table, a book in his hand. Curious, Harry tried to turn the pages. But he found that he couldn’t. The words were clear in his head. With some amazement he found that he understood what was happening. It was a chapter that he never read, yet remembered. Even the thoughts were there, excitement and anticipation that was not his own.

It was as if, as if he were a different person, Harry realized. None of these memories belonged to him. No, these came from another mind. But how? What happened? He tried focusing on the book. Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, Harry Potter? What was this?

The book was snatched out of his hand. Harry looked up to see a man towering over him. He was tall, impossibly tall. So many times his size and with arms packed with muscle. Harry felt something churn in his stomach. He didn’t know this man, but he did. How?

“What did I say about reading those things, brat?” He asked. Harry felt his lip shaking. He tried to steel his nerves as Magnus had taught, to no effect. His body wasn’t responding.

A slap landed across his face. Harry stumbled back, the attack burning his cheek. “Useless thing! Can’t even remember. Well, need some reminders, do you?” A punch landed square in his face. Harry screamed, and another slap followed.

“Stop! Give it back!” He shouted.

The room went silent. The man looked at him. “Give it back, you say?” Harry’s heart sank as he realized what was about to happen. He shouldn’t have known, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, he knew.

The book began ripping apart. The man pried at the pages, crushing the contents. The words blurred, and the bindings broke apart as he clasped his hands together. A ripping sound filled the air, and he tossed the book at him. It bounced off his head, a jumbled mess of paper. “There.” He said. Harry clawed at the book, but he didn’t need to look twice to know that it couldn’t be read anymore.

He trembled, and a rage boiled inside of him. In his mind more memories began playing, memories of being beaten, cursed at, and hit. It all vanished, and a calm replaced it. The rage was still there, but no longer boiling. It was intense and hot, like a wildfire burning through a rainforest. Without realizing what he was doing he walked forward, balled his fist, and struck.

Harry had aimed high. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the head, but he did hit the stomach. The man reeled back, and Harry did too. His hands shook with fear, uncertainty, shock, and so much more he couldn’t even begin to describe. But all that was gone as the man glared at him.

Fear gripped him, an icy touch that cooled his anger and froze it. Whatever fire and defiance he had mustered sputtered out as his chest heaved for air. The man stepped forward. “Learned how to fight back, huh?” Harry stepped back, barely keeping himself from falling. He walked forward, his knuckles cracking as he balled his fist. Harry braced himself, but the strike never landed.

The vision shattered, memories flying away and rearranging themselves as Harry’s head spun circles. He arrived before a mirror, disoriented and confused. His eyes were black, and swollen purple with bruises. Blood dripped down his face, pooling on the ground beneath him. His hair was disheveled, and his chest was battered. Red welts were everywhere along his arms, and blood stained his cheap clothes.

Harry looked at the boy in the mirror, no older than ten or eleven. His face was a nightmare of wounds, all from fist strikes. Had they not been there, maybe he would have been called handsome, but of course they were there. His hair was a sandy blonde, and his eyes were blue. A cold, icy blue that spoke of far too many years without warmth or kindness. As he looked on, a name came to mind. He should have known, but didn’t. His hand reached out to touch his own reflection. “Magnus.” Harry whispered.