He had become something of a parasite, though immortality wasn't something he'd ever strived for, and he certainly didn't go out killing children just to have a long life in their bodies. But even when the human race had changed so much, come so far from where it had been when he had first been welcomed into it, still there would always be little ones in terrible and unfortunate situations. He was faced with another such unfortunate child as he walked through the desolate planet, this planet where everywhere were people who had been killed, people who had fought back and taken their killers with them. But he bent down to lift a baby boy from a pile of trash, the only one he had found who was still breathing – and that just barely.
He unwound the umbilical chord from the child's neck and found the infant's name written on a tag around his wrist. Even after a billion years, some things just didn't change.
"Richard Barnabas Riddick," he read softly. "You have survived so long alone without any to care for you, and struggling to even breathe, but even so strong you would not survive, because even should your body be willing, your mind cannot comprehend how to care for you. But mine can," he said. "But this, the body of Zachary William Gregorvitch, is also dying." The man, old, wrinkled, but still of excellent mind, gently pressed his thumb to the babe's forehead, then lowered it to pull the mouth open. "Still Harry James Potter, will take care of you little one. Breathe soft, let me in."
And the old man crumbled where he stood, but the baby rose, tentatively for he had such little strength in his young legs, and very carefully and quite slowly tottered off towards a shop that could be raided for food.
Food that was on shelves out of his reach, but which floated down to him and opened on their own, milk mixing with baby formula so that the infant digestive tract would not be pained by the harsh white liquid. The baby stayed on the planet for five years, walking between the dead and decaying bodies of people who would have cared for him if they had lived, emptying shop after shop of food and other needs. Until the day he reached the hangar, the one with well stocked and flight-ready space ships gathering dust inside.
"Time to leave," little Richard B. Riddick decided.
A new lifetime had begun for Harry Potter, and as with all the other lifetimes he had lived already, he would live it exactly as he pleased. Sometimes he had pleased to be a pilot, others a scholar, he'd even been an engineer and a farmer and a janitor several times in the lifetimes had had lived. This time, just because he hadn't done it for so long, and most particularly because of the circumstances that he had found the child, Harry decided that he would dedicate this lifetime to being a killer. Why not after all? As Zachary Gregorvitch he'd been a mercenary. Not a fun job, and he'd noticed that some of the convicts he'd hunted had more of a moral code than the men and women he had worked with.
Yes. Richard B. Riddick would be a killer – and because he was also Harry James Potter, he would be the very best of killers.