Chapter 1: From Ashes to Eternity
Elias Kane's life ended in a way that was both tragically mundane and absurdly poetic. It was a cold November night in 2024, the kind where the wind howled like a banshee outside his cramped London flat. At 32, Elias was a man of quiet brilliance—a literary scholar by trade, a Harry Potter obsessive by passion. His apartment was a shrine to the wizarding world: shelves groaned under the weight of annotated books, rare fanfiction zines, and hand-painted figurines of every character from Hedwig to Hagrid. A flickering lamp cast shadows over his desk, where he sat hunched over *The Deathly Hallows*, scribbling notes about the Peverell brothers' lineage for a blog post no one would read.
He'd always been meticulous, perhaps to a fault. That night, he'd ignored the faint buzzing from the lamp's frayed cord, a sound he'd dismissed as background noise for weeks. It was 2:17 a.m. when the inevitable happened. A spark leapt from the socket, igniting a stack of loose papers—drafts of his own fanfiction, ironically titled *The Sovereign of Shadows*. The flames spread with terrifying speed, licking up the curtains and devouring the wooden shelves. Elias stumbled back, coughing as smoke filled his lungs, his glasses fogging over. He reached for his phone, but it was buried under a pile of books that toppled as he lunged. The fire roared, a beast born of his own obsession, and the last thing he saw was the cover of *The Philosopher's Stone* curling into ash.
Trapped, Elias sank to the floor, his mind racing through every escape spell he'd ever memorized—useless without a wand, without magic. His chest tightened, not just from the smoke but from a sudden, piercing regret. "If I could live again," he rasped, voice lost to the crackling inferno, "I'd rewrite it all. Power. Legacy. Everything—my way." His vision darkened, and the world slipped away, leaving only that desperate wish echoing into the void.
Death, it turned out, was not an end but a doorway. Elias didn't feel the transition—no tunnel of light, no judgment hall—just a sudden, jarring awareness. He was no longer Elias Kane, scholar of fiction, but something new, something fragile yet infinite. He was a consciousness cradled in warmth, a heartbeat thrumming around him like a drum. He was alive again, impossibly small, a baby swaddled in soft cloth, born anew on July 31, 1980. The air smelled of lavender and antiseptic, and voices—familiar yet altered—hovered above him.
"Henry," a woman's voice said, firm yet tender. "Henry James Fleamont Charles George Arthur Eliseo Elisheva Ezekiel Solomon Apollonius Potter Peverell. Our perfect boy." It was Lily Potter, her tone a melody of pride and defiance. Elias—no, Henry—recognized her instantly, her voice etched into his soul from countless audiobook listens. He couldn't see her yet, his newborn eyes too weak to focus, but he felt her presence, a fierce love radiating from her as she cradled him against her chest.
"He's got your eyes, Lily," came a deeper voice—James Potter, rich with warmth and a hint of mischief. "Those green emeralds. No mistaking that." Henry felt a gentle finger brush his cheek, and he squirmed, testing the limits of his tiny body. His mind, though, was a storm of clarity. He remembered everything: his death, his wish, the Potterverse in all its sprawling glory. He knew this moment—his birth as "Harry Potter"—but something was different. The name, for one. They hadn't called him Harry.
"Henry's better," James said, as if reading his thoughts. "None of that 'Harry' nonsense Dumbledore keeps pushing. He sent an owl this morning, you know, insisting we name him Harry James Potter. Said it's 'destined.' Pompous old git."
Lily huffed, a sound of quiet rebellion. "He doesn't get to decide our son's name. Henry's ours—ours alone. Let him call him Harry if he wants. We know who he really is." Henry felt a surge of amusement, his infant lips twitching into what might have been a smirk if he'd had the muscle control. Dumbledore, meddling already, unaware that the child in Lily's arms was no blank slate but a soul reborn with the knowledge of a thousand fanfics.
He couldn't see much yet, but he didn't need to. His parents' voices painted the scene: a small, cozy room in Godric's Hollow, the walls lined with books and Potter family heirlooms. The crib beside Lily's bed was carved with runes—Peverell runes, he realized, a detail from his past life's research. His body was a bundle of contradictions: fragile limbs, a mop of messy black hair already sprouting atop his head, and those green eyes Lily had gifted him, sharp and vivid even in infancy. No glasses, of course—he was too young for that—but he knew they'd come later, a quirk of fate he'd inherited from James's line. For now, he wore only a soft white blanket, embroidered with the Potter crest, his tiny form unmarred by the scar that would one day mark him.
James leaned closer, his breath warm against Henry's forehead. "Look at him, Lils. He's got my hair, my nose—poor sod—but your spirit. He's going to be unstoppable." There was a pause, then a chuckle. "Fleamont's going to be chuffed we kept the name alive. And Peverell—Merlin, that's a legacy to live up to."
Henry's mind whirred as he listened. They didn't know—not yet—about Lily's true origins, the Windsor blood that coursed through her veins, stolen from her at birth. That secret was still buried, a thread of destiny he'd unravel in time. For now, he was their Henry, a Potter and a Peverell, born of love and defiance. He felt Lily shift, her arms tightening around him as if she sensed the weight of his soul.
"Sleep, my little prince," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his brow. "You've got a big world waiting for you."
Henry didn't sleep—not yet. His eyes, though blurry, stayed open, staring into the dimness. He was a baby, yes, but he was also Elias Kane, the man who'd burned and wished and won a second chance. He knew the betrayals to come, the battles, the prophecies. He knew Dumbledore's plans, Voldemort's horcruxes, the fan-made harems and alternate endings. And he knew something more: this time, he wouldn't just survive. He'd rule.
The night stretched on, a quiet beginning to a life that would shake two worlds. Henry James Fleamont Charles George Arthur Eliseo Elisheva Ezekiel Solomon Apollonius Potter Peverell IX closed his eyes at last, not out of exhaustion, but to dream—of fire, of crowns, and of the empire he'd build from the ashes of his past.
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Notes on the Chapter:
- **Death Scene**: Elias's demise is vivid and ironic, tying his love for Harry Potter to his tragic end, with the fire symbolizing both destruction and rebirth.
- **Reincarnation**: The transition is seamless yet mysterious, reflecting his wish's power without over-explaining the mechanics—leaving room for wonder.
- **Birth Details**: Born July 31, 1980, as in canon, but with a name that defies Dumbledore's influence, showcasing Lily and James's agency. His appearance—messy black hair, green eyes—nods to the original Harry while omitting glasses and the scar for now.
- **Parents' Perspective**: Lily and James are loving yet rebellious, unaware of the Windsor connection (as requested), grounding the story in their Potter-Peverell pride.
- **Henry's Mind**: His adult consciousness shines through subtly, with hints of his vast knowledge and ambition, setting him apart as a reincarnated soul ready to seize control.