Summary: What if Voldemort didn't just unknowingly give Harry some of his powers that night? What if he gave him all of his memories, memories that are now just waiting to come forth?
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own the idea of Harry Potter or any of the money making forms of it.
Author's note: Although I follow the original storyline of Harry Potter for the most part, it doesn't mean I am going to continue to exactly (obviously because certain circumstances have changed).
And a thanks to my beta, Throckmorton.
Book 1 - Part 1: Memories
Harry stared blinkingly at the ceiling of the cupboard where he slept. Another bad dream had just woken him up, and like so many of the other ones he had, he now felt sick, scared, and angry.
For the longest time he had been having to deal with these nightmares in secret, and for right now, he knew it would have to stay that way, unless he wanted to be put into an asylum.
These dreams would come and go, but what was more frightening to him than the dreams themselves was how he would refer back to them in his mind…
The first one he remembered ever having was when he was four. From then on, he knew never to ask his aunt and uncle about dreams.
"Uncle Vernon? Is there any green lights that can hurt people?" he had asked, his voice laced with fear. He still had vague outlines of hooded figures running about, shooting green things from short sticks in his mind.
Vernon had glared at him, and told him there was no such thing of something that could do that and that he would be banned from television for the next week, believing he had seen something like that on a TV show. Harry then had overheard Vernon muttering to Petunia later that Harry had a dark soul, thinking about things like that.
Harry never mentioned anything like that again, even though his dreams did trouble him a great deal.
Once, he had dreamt 'he' had destroyed an entire village, but he knew it wasn't him who had really done this, but someone else, for it was as if he was seeing through someone else's eyes.
He had woken up the moment he had focused on a pane of glass, showing a reflection of a terrifying white face with red eyes. He found himself shaking, but quickly realized that he was not the only thing that was. The small amount of old, hand-me-down toys were rattling on the shelf at his feet. His toy soldiers were vibrating towards the wall.
He stifled a scream just before they stilled.
At that moment, he began to question everything. Seeing something not possible does that to people.
Sure, for a long while it had been easier to call these 'just horrible-horrible nightmares', but the more he thought about it, he knew with every fiber of his being that they were more than that – they were memories.
He then concluded all of this could be due to one of two things.
One, he was insane, and had some kind of mental disorder, which the whisperings and sideway glances his aunt and uncle gave him after the first dream told him they already thought this. And when he thought about it himself, he could be, considering he supposedly had memories not his own, and was beginning to believe that shooting things from the ends of sticks could be real.
Or two, it was real.
When he whispered those words in the total darkness that night, everything he had ever 'experienced' through these 'dreams' came to the surface.
Seeing through the eyes of a boy he had never seen before, going to a school that was unreal. Peering through red eyes whose murderous intent was fully evident in the devastation he brought to countless people in colored robes.
Though he was still unsure of which possibility was the correct one, he decided to think of the dreams as memories. It just felt right, no matter how hard he tried talking himself out of it, so he hesitantly began classifying them as such.
He had come to think of his dreams like that around a year ago, but now, after everything that had happened, his previous thoughts of insanity seemed to be gaining in likelihood.
Harry took a deep breath, trying to calm himself after the dream he had just experienced.
It was one he had had countless times before, though, it seemed to switch points of views occasionally between two people.
The first time had been from Harry's point of view, but at the time, he did not know that, until he saw it from his. He looked up at the cold white face and the glowing red eyes, just before a short, wooden stick was waved at him…green light booming forth from the tip.
Harry had woken up extremely violently after that one, but more than that, his scar hurt –a lot –. It was as if his scar was on fire.
He bit down a scream, not wanting either one of his guardians to wake up angrier than normal with him.
After he had calmed down, he looked down towards his feet to find all of his army men and small, rather worn, figurines all over the place. Some were broken, one appeared to have crumbled, and two were sticking into the bottom of the stair as if they had been hammered into the wood. The others where at his feet on the tangled blanket.
The second time he dreamt the dream, he had seen it from his point of view, staring down at a baby with green eyes as he said harsh gibberish-like words, before watching green light hit the boy and rebound, exploding in his face.
He had woken up from that nightmare, once again, last year to Uncle Vernon pounding on the cupboard door, yelling at him to, 'stop kicking the stairs! You're shaking the whole house!'
For some reason, Harry knew that was the last memory of this being. He couldn't call him a man, let alone a human, so he called him a 'being'. A few times, people from these 'memories' called him 'Lord' something… but that was few and far between.
Harry tried to digest what he saw, understand it, and perhaps explain it away. Though, any explanations that came to mind were absurd, and were more fantastic than the last. Once, he had tried to reason with himself that there was spontaneous toy combustion, since there was supposedly spontaneous human combustion. It only took him a few seconds to throw that one out.
Harry sighed, closing his eyes. He thought back to what had happened to him earlier that week, and tried to comprehend how he had been able to talk to that snake at the zoo, not to mention how that sheet of glass had disappeared.
Talking to a snake was not normal, that was obvious, though, what things did he do that were considered 'normal' anyways?
And while on the subject of snakes, he had a snake, and a very large one at that, with the name of Nagini.
Harry felt everything that he felt in the memories, and Harry knew he had this odd attachment to that snake. It was understandably disturbing, and a few times, Harry could have sworn he had even heard his thoughts once or twice during the dreams, but that was rare. Though, now that he thought about it, he was hearing that being's thoughts more often now…
They were always sharp, mean, and evil thoughts. Harry shuddered whenever he accidentally thought about them.
Harry shook his head, trying to think about more pleasant things. Finally, after some thought, a memory surfaced, and one, Harry could only hope, was actually his own.
He was fairly certain it was, especially after having that dream that had caused his scar to burn. It was one where he found himself being carefully and gently lifted up by two very large hands. Within moments, these hands had him wrapped in a blanket, and this large man, whoever he was, was lovingly cradling him.
It was one of his few good memories, and one he was often grateful he had.
This large man with a huge black beard looked down at him with tears in his eyes. He quietly made a few hushing noises as he sat himself onto something before lifting off into the air, clearly riding something. A motorcycle? Harry knew he must have fallen asleep in the man's arms, because he would close his eyes, and the dream would end. Harry would then wake up, calm and rested.
Harry sat up after hearing Vernon go down the stairs, signaling the time to go fix breakfast. Harry absently rubbed his scar as Vernon unlocked the cupboard door, allowing him to silently get out and get to work.
- - -
Harry knew something very odd was going on as he trailed his finger along the dirt floor.
Letters, and delivered by owls no less, had rained into house number four on Privet Drive.
His guardians and his cousin were in an uproar and hysterical, so hysterical, in fact, they were now in this shack in the middle of nowhere.
The letters also had the funny ability to locate him wherever he was, the address on the envelope startlingly accurate. That was part of the reason why Vernon had brought them to this place.
Finishing his dirt-drawn birthday cake, Harry blew, silently making a wish.
'I wish I would know if these 'memories' were actually so, one way or the other.'
The door shook.
Harry gasped, very worried that he was now shaking things while awake.
Harry stood up, taking a step back.
The door fell forward, crashing onto the dusty floor, clouds of dust rising up as the visitor entered…
The moment Harry's eyes met this giant man's face, he knew he had gotten his wish…
- - -
If you like where this is going, please say so, it will only help me type faster. :)