Harry Potter: Obscured Fate

I woke to the same dull ache in my bones, the lingering soreness from last night's punishment. For a moment, I just lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling, my mind sluggish as it tried to process my situation once again.

But now, at least, I had a name.

Elias.

It had taken me hours of sorting through fragmented memories, piecing together scraps of conversations, glimpses of papers, and the occasional sneer from the matron to find it. Just Elias. No last name. No history beyond this orphanage. Just an existence defined by isolation, neglect, and whispered words behind his back. My back.

I exhaled sharply and pushed myself up, ignoring the protest of my bruised limbs. I had no time to wallow in self-pity. Today was my turn to use the washroom, and if I didn't get there soon, I'd have to fight off someone trying to take my spot.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the creaky bed, I forced myself to my feet. My head throbbed, my body groaning in discomfort, but I gritted my teeth and pressed forward. I grabbed the raggedy shirt draped over the foot of my bed, threw it over my shoulders, and stepped toward the door. The wood groaned as I pulled it open, the rusted hinges screeching in protest.

Stepping into the dimly lit hallway, I was immediately met with silence. Not true silence, but the kind that only existed when people were trying not to be caught whispering. I could feel the eyes on me before I even turned my head.

The other children.

They stood clustered in small groups, their voices hushed as they cast sideways glances in my direction. Their eyes flickered with something between fear and disgust. I caught snippets of their conversations as I walked past.

"...He's awake."

"Did you see what he did yesterday?"

"Freak."

"Monster."

I clenched my jaw. Normally, I wouldn't care about the idle gossip of children. I had been an adult—before. The opinions of kids meant nothing to me. And yet... those words clung to me, like sharp thorns embedding themselves deep into my skin.

Freak.

Monster.

The words weren't just meaningless insults. There was weight behind them, an edge of something deeper. Something real. Something that made me uneasy.

I stopped walking and turned my gaze toward them, my eyes narrowing.

They scattered instantly, as if my glare alone was enough to send them running. Some of them even flinched before scurrying into the shadows, out of sight.

Reaching the washroom, I pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting it behind me. The flimsy lock clicked into place, though I doubted it would stop anyone from barging in if they really wanted to. The door was in as bad a shape as everything else in this place—wood splintering at the edges, hinges rusted, the faint scent of mildew clinging to it.

I turned toward the cracked mirror above the stained sink and took a long look at myself.

The face staring back at me was unfamiliar yet mine all the same. Dark, messy hair hung over my forehead, strands sticking up at odd angles as if no one had ever bothered to smooth them down. My eyes, a dull shade of grey, were sunken and hollow, dark circles carved beneath them from lack of sleep. My cheekbones were prominent, my face gaunt, my skin pale enough to almost appear sickly.

And then there were the bruises.

A deep purple splotch marred my cheek where the matron had struck me last night, the edges tinged with blue and yellow as it settled into its full bloom. My arms and torso fared no better—yellowing marks of old bruises layered beneath fresh ones, a canvas of past punishments decorating my thin frame.

I exhaled sharply, peeling off my ragged shirt and dropping it onto the sink. My ribs were visible, protruding slightly under my skin, and there were scars—thin, jagged lines crisscrossing my sides and stomach, some faded, others still pink and fresh.

I turned slightly, glancing over my shoulder to look at my back through the reflection. My breath hitched.

Scars. So many scars.

They stretched across my back in long, uneven lines, some deeper and more pronounced than others. Some looked old, faded to pale silver, while others were still dark and angry, hinting at more recent wounds.

Whip marks.

My stomach twisted at the sight, nausea rising in my throat. There was no mistaking what had caused them. Someone had done this to Elias—whipped him, beaten him, carved pain into his skin and left him to heal in silence.

I reached out, pressing my fingers lightly over one of the older scars. The skin was rough, uneven beneath my touch.

What kind of place was this? What kind of life had Elias lived before I took over his body?

------

The hours after washing up passed in a blur. My body still ached from last night's punishment, and the fresh bruises made every movement a chore. Yet, something felt different. As I walked the worn-down halls of the orphanage, I found myself more aware of my emotions than ever before. Every glance, every whispered insult, every fleeting moment of isolation dug deeper into my chest than it should have. It was as if I couldn't keep a lid on my own feelings anymore.

This body—it was affecting me in ways I hadn't anticipated. The rawness of every emotion, the way my hands curled into fists without thinking, the way my heart raced at the simplest things… It wasn't just memory that I had inherited. It was the weight of everything Elias had been.

And I was Elias now, wasn't I?

I turned a corner, heading toward the back of the orphanage, where the walls crumbled with neglect and the floors creaked louder than anywhere else. It was one of the few places where I could be alone. I needed space, time to think—

A rough shove from behind sent me stumbling forward.

Before I could react, hands grabbed at me, yanking me back and slamming me against the cold, cracked wall. My head snapped to the side as pain bloomed across my cheek. I barely had time to process it before a fist buried itself in my gut, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I gasped, doubling over, only for another blow to hit me across the ribs. A kick followed, then another, sending me to the ground. My hands instinctively wrapped around my stomach, trying to shield myself as best I could.

Laughter echoed around me.

"You think you can just glare at us and scare us off, freak?" One of them spat, his voice laced with amusement.

"You should've stayed in your little hole," another sneered. A foot connected with my side, sending another wave of agony through my body.

I couldn't breathe. Every muscle screamed, every nerve burned. My head pounded, the dull ache I had been ignoring all day suddenly roaring to life.

My heartbeat drummed in my ears. Fast. Too fast.

Something inside me twisted, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap.

Another kick.

Another blow.

And then—

I screamed.

The pain in my head exploded, searing and unbearable, like something inside me had shattered all at once. It felt like fire racing through my veins, like a dam breaking open.

A force surged out from deep within me, raw and uncontrollable. It burst from my body in an instant, an unseen wave of energy sweeping through the air.

The boys around me were flung backwards as if struck by an invisible hand. They slammed against the walls, their screams mixing with the cracking of old wood and the crash of broken furniture.

Silence fell.

I was left panting, my body trembling from the sudden release. My vision blurred at the edges, my limbs weak and unsteady.

---

I didn't stop running until I reached my room, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. My heart pounded against my ribs, each beat reverberating in my skull like a war drum. I shoved the door closed behind me and pressed my back against it, my fingers digging into the splintered wood.

My head…

It felt like something was trying to claw its way out of my skull. The pressure was unbearable, a searing heat building behind my eyes. I clutched my temples, fingers trembling as my vision blurred. My breath came in quick, shallow gulps, but no matter how much I tried, I couldn't get enough air.

Panic clawed at my chest.

The room around me shifted, warped, the corners bending and twisting as if reality itself was coming undone. The wooden floorboards beneath my feet groaned, the air thick with something heavy and unseen. The dim candlelight flickered wildly, casting jagged shadows across the cracked walls.

My mind was spiraling.

I needed to move.

Staggering forward, I aimed for my bed, but my legs betrayed me. My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself against the wall, my palm slapping against the aged plaster.

The moment my skin met the surface, a deafening crack echoed through the room.

The wall exploded outward.

Shards of wood and stone flew in every direction, the roar of destruction drowning out my gasping breaths. Cold air rushed in, and suddenly, I was staring at the open sky beyond the gaping hole where the wall had once been. The orphanage, my supposed prison, had just been torn apart by my own hand.

Stunned, I remained frozen, my body still trembling from the aftershock of whatever had just happened. I stared at my outstretched hand, at the dust and debris clinging to my skin, and a single, terrifying thought took root in my mind.

What am I?

Then, the thought shifted. I need to get out of here.

The need consumed me, dug its claws into my mind and body. I couldn't stay here—not in this cursed place, not where I would only continue to suffer. The moment the decision took hold, something inside me snapped.

A sickening sensation crawled over my skin as my body began to shift. My fingers stretched and darkened, my limbs twisting into something incorporeal, something unnatural. I gasped, but the sound came out distorted, hollow. My vision blurred, and then I wasn't seeing through human eyes anymore—I was drifting, dissolving into the very air itself.

A swirling mass of darkness replaced my body, undulating and writhing like a living storm. Tendrils of shadow coiled around me, forming and reforming, an ever-shifting chaos that pulsed with unnatural energy. I wasn't solid. I wasn't flesh. I was something else entirely.

Panic surged through me, but I couldn't grasp onto anything tangible. My thoughts felt distant, slipping through my fingers like sand.

Then, before I could even process what was happening, I felt myself move—no, warp. The world around me blurred, twisting as I shot through the air, faster than I had ever moved before. The orphanage shrank behind me, vanishing into the distance, as I was pulled forward by an instinct I didn't understand.

I was escaping, leaving everything behind.

And for the first time, I felt free.