The night was burning.
Lightning split the sky, jagged and furious, as if heaven itself protested what was happening below. A small cottage in Godric's Hollow exploded in a storm of cursed fire, magic, and howling wind. Inside, lives ended — and one changed forever.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, cried in his crib, marked forever by the Dark Lord's wrath.
But few knew there was a second child in that house.
He wasn't Harry.
Not quite.
They had been born just minutes apart — twins, but not identical. Where Harry had green eyes and untamed hair, the other had silver-gray eyes that shimmered unnaturally, as if reflecting a reality not quite this one. From the moment he could observe, the boy had watched the world in silence, understanding things no baby should. Magic, patterns, symbols — he didn't know the names, but he knew.
Not from this world.
He was thirty-five when he died — in another life, another world. A life of mediocrity, regret, and books he had never finished. The gods, if they existed, had laughed and thrown him into the Potter saga like a cruel joke. But now, amidst the screams and crumbling walls, he realized the joke might be on them.
Voldemort didn't even notice him.
The Dark Lord's obsession was singular. Harry. The prophecy. The Chosen One. His twin had cried. Their mother screamed. A flash of green light — and fate was rewritten.
But fate was cruel and had one more twist to offer.
A burning beam shattered the crib's edge. The blast threw the silver-eyed boy through the shattered wall. His body, small and weak, tumbled into the night air like a forgotten toy. He hit the ground hard. Pain bloomed and then… silence.
---
The next time he awoke, he was in a white bed. The air smelled of mint and parchment. His tiny body ached, but he could feel his magic healing, instinctively knitting his bones back into place.
"Roger, come quick!" a voice called. "He's awake!"
A woman with soft brown curls and kind eyes leaned over him. Her magic was dull, barely more than a whisper, but her emotions pulsed with warmth. Love. Worry. Relief.
Beside her appeared a tall man in a sweater vest and glasses.
The boy blinked.
They weren't magical — not in the way wizards were. But they had found him. And somehow, they chose to keep him.
"We'll call you... Elias," the woman whispered. "You don't have a tag or papers. Just this burned blanket with a… lion crest?"
"A Gryffindor patch," the man muttered. "Must be a wizarding baby. But the Ministry said no families were unaccounted for."
"Well, they missed one," she said firmly. "We're not leaving him to the system."
The boy stared at her, confused. His magic rippled, sensing her sincerity.
Elias.
He liked it.
And so, the boy who wasn't Harry was taken in by the Grangers.
---
Time passed. A year, then two.
Elias grew — not like other children. He learned words by watching others speak once. He walked earlier than Hermione. He read her books upside down and understood them anyway. Sometimes, he just stared at lights and made them bend. The Grangers called him gifted.
Hermione adored him.
She was bossy, bright, and terribly attached. When he sat alone, she joined. When he read, she read. When he tried to be quiet, she giggled and poked his cheek until he smiled.
At first, it was cute.
Then it became… intense.
She didn't like when other kids talked to him. She got jealous when the neighbor girl gave him a drawing. Once, he saw her throw it in the fireplace.
"Why?" he asked. Calmly, always calmly.
"I don't like her drawings," she said, eyes wide and innocent. "Yours are better."
She always said things like that.
"You're smarter than me, but you're mine. Right, Elias?"
He never answered. But she always smiled like he had.
He should've been worried.
Instead, he was fascinated.
There was… something broken in her. Something that twisted when she looked at him. But it was real. Not fake smiles or empty praise like his last life. Hermione loved fiercely, possessively — terrifyingly. And he was the center of it.
For a boy who had lived and died in boredom, that spark of chaos was almost... welcome.
---
On his fifth birthday, a spark lit in his mind.
He watched Hermione attempt a levitation charm from a book. Nothing happened.
He tried once — and her pencil floated.
Not copied. Not mimicked.
Understood.
Inside his mind, a diagram unfolded. Runes, motions, the flow of intent — it all made sense.
He could see how magic worked.
He could see the flaw in the spell, the place where her pronunciation muddled the rune's rhythm.
He spoke again, this time with intent.
The pencil shot up, circled, and floated gently into Hermione's open hand.
She stared at it. Then him.
Her hands trembled slightly.
"You're not normal," she whispered.
"No," Elias replied softly, "neither are you."
She smiled, but something deep in her eyes flickered.
Something that would not let go.
Not now.
Not ever.
And far away, in Hogwarts, a lightning-scarred boy stirred in his bed — unaware that his twin, lost to the world, was learning to defy the heavens.