Chapter 1

The night was heavy with sorrow. The heavens themselves seemed to mourn as dark clouds rolled over Godric's Hollow, smothering the village under a blanket of restless gloom. The once-peaceful hamlet, dotted with quaint cottages and sleepy lanes, was now veiled in an ominous stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind through the skeletal branches of the autumn trees. Smoke still lingered faintly in the air—a cruel reminder of the carnage that had unfolded only hours earlier. The modest, ivy-covered cottage at the end of the lane now lay in ruins, its roof partially caved in, and jagged splinters of wood jutted out like broken ribs.

Amidst the wreckage, beneath a collapsed beam and the settling dust, lay the lifeless body of James Potter. His glasses were askew, one lens cracked, and his wand was still clutched in his hand—a futile symbol of defiance. Near the crib on the upper floor was Lily Potter, her fiery red hair fanned out across the wooden floor like a halo, her emerald eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. The scent of singed wood and iron lingered in the air, yet the only sound was the faint, rhythmic breathing of a small child.

At the center of the devastation, Harry James Potter, no more than a year old, sat in his crib. His chubby hands clung weakly to the wooden railing as tears clung to his long lashes, but he was oddly silent. A faint wisp of green smoke still hovered near the lightning-bolt-shaped wound on his forehead, the jagged cut a cruel testament to the killing curse that had failed to claim his life. The once-familiar warmth of his parents was now a cold absence, yet Harry did not cry out. He simply sat there, eyes wide and unfocused. His tiny chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, but something had irrevocably changed.

Deep within his core, beneath his infant flesh and the surface of his fragile soul, a dormant consciousness stirred—a vast, ancient presence that had once been bound to the tides of time itself. As the curse rebounded and Voldemort's soul fragment was ripped from its vessel, the violent surge of raw magic shattered the ethereal barriers that kept this slumbering essence contained. The memories, wisdom, and power of Merlin Wyllt—the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth—awoke within the tiny body of Harry Potter.

At first, there was only confusion. For the briefest moment, Merlin's consciousness stirred sluggishly, uncertain of the vessel in which it now resided. Fragments of old memories drifted to the surface—shimmering lakes from ancient Avalon, the stone halls of Camelot, and the gentle smile of King Arthur, who had once been like a son to him. He recalled the rise and fall of empires, the forging of pacts between magical beings and mortals, and the spells that shaped reality itself. Yet, those grand memories were disjointed, flickering like dying candle flames in the vast void of Harry's young mind.

Then, clarity struck. The sorcerer's ancient wisdom intertwined with Harry's fledgling consciousness, fusing seamlessly into his very soul. Merlin was not simply inhabiting the child's body—he was Harry Potter. The memories of two lifetimes coiled and merged, forming a new and singular existence. But with this awakening came the stark reality that he was not the untouchable legend he once was. He was now bound by the limitations of mortal infancy—his magic raw and unfocused, his body small and fragile. He was once a man who could split mountains with a flick of his staff, yet he now struggled to clench his tiny fists.

As the first surge of awareness coursed through him, Harry blinked slowly. His once-innocent green eyes now glimmered with an ancient, soul-deep wisdom, far too profound for a mere child. He could feel the thrum of ambient magic in the air—the residual traces of the killing curse still crackling faintly against the wards of the ruined cottage. He could sense the feeble remnants of his mother's sacrificial magic, the protection that clung to his skin like a second layer, shielding him from harm. It was primitive, beautiful magic—born not of incantations or wandwork, but of love, raw and unyielding.

It stirred something in him—a distant, mournful memory of Igraine, Arthur's mother, and the selfless love she had shown her doomed son. Even in the tangled mess of his fragmented soul, Harry felt a pang of sorrow. Love was still the most powerful magic, it seemed—a truth he had once learned as Merlin but now felt anew with the innocence of Harry.

But the child's thoughts were still only half-formed, a swirling maelstrom of scattered memories and fleeting impressions. His baby mind could not fully grasp the weight of who he had been, nor could it wield the knowledge he carried. His magic, once boundless, was now reduced to an untapped wellspring—a deep, still pool waiting to be drawn from in the years to come. For now, the overwhelming tide of memories and wisdom receded, retreating into the far corners of his mind. The weight of millennia-old knowledge would be revealed gradually, as his body grew and his magic matured.

In the distance, a faint pop echoed through the ruins. The powerful wards protecting the house had collapsed with Lily's death, allowing Albus Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, to bypass the weakened protections and deliver a note of warning. Moments later, the distinctive crack of apparition echoed through the chilly night as Sirius Black and Rubeus Hagrid appeared on the scene. Their wands were drawn, their faces marred by shock and grief as they took in the ruined home and the fallen Potters.

Sirius' anguished cry pierced the stillness as he knelt beside James' lifeless form, his hand trembling as he brushed a lock of hair from his best friend's face. His breath hitched as he turned toward Lily's still body, his voice cracking as he choked out her name. But then, his eyes fell upon the crib. Harry sat there silently, unflinching, his face smeared with dried tears but oddly calm—his emerald eyes staring at Sirius with a strange, unnerving clarity that no child should possess. For the briefest of moments, the grief-stricken man felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. There was something ancient in that gaze—something knowing and enigmatic.

The rest was a blur. Sirius handed Harry to Hagrid, insisting that he would hunt down Peter Pettigrew. Hagrid, with surprising gentleness, cradled the child in his massive arms. He marveled at how calm the boy was, how silent and watchful his green eyes remained, as though he understood the gravity of the tragedy he had witnessed.

When Hagrid delivered Harry to Dumbledore later that night, the old wizard stared down at the child with a mix of sorrow and reverence. There was something almost intimidating in the boy's gaze, as though the child could see straight through him. When he placed Harry on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive, he felt an unshakable certainty—this child was destined for something far greater than anyone could imagine.

But even Dumbledore, in all his wisdom, could not have fathomed the truth—that he had just delivered the reincarnation of the greatest wizard in history into the hands of the Dursleys.

(From Merlin's Perspective)

Darkness. Suffocating, boundless, and eternal.

For the briefest moment, Merlin was aware of nothing but the cold embrace of oblivion. He floated in a void beyond time—a place without sensation, without magic, and without self. The last echoes of his existence had long since unraveled, leaving him suspended in nothingness. The sensation was neither painful nor peaceful. It simply was.

But then… there was something. Faint at first—a fleeting spark against the void, like a distant flame flickering in a storm. It was warm and golden, filled with life. Magic. It called to him, singing softly in a voice older than the stars. And suddenly, he remembered.

The final moments of his life came rushing back—the ritual, the sacrifice, the searing pain of his very essence being burned into the leylines of magic itself. It was his greatest and most terrible spell, one that had taken decades to prepare. The war between Muggles and Wizards had raged for over a century, filled with bloodshed, suffering, and atrocities that haunted even his hardened soul. No spell or treaty could ever stop it. And so, Merlin had made the ultimate choice.

He had woven his magic into the fabric of existence, casting a spell so vast and intricate that it blanketed the minds of every Muggle across the world. Their memories of wizards, witches, and magic itself were scrubbed away like dust from a mirror, leaving nothing but forgotten fragments and fairy tales. The war ended not with fire and steel, but with forgetfulness and peace.

But the cost…

His very soul had been the price. He had willingly shattered his spirit across the leylines, anchoring the magic with his very existence. He had not expected to awaken, nor did he wish to. He was meant to be gone—lost to the currents of magic forever.

And yet, somehow… he was aware again.

A sudden, shuddering impact jolted through him—a blast of raw, violent magic slamming into his ethereal form. It was not the sensation of his own spell—it was something else entirely. Cold. Twisting. Poisonous. It sank into his essence like barbed thorns of blackened fire.

He recoiled instinctively, his consciousness spasming in pain as he felt something pulling him—violently wrenching him from the void and into a new vessel. A dark, serpentine presence screeched nearby as it was ripped apart—the remnant of a fractured soul howling into the abyss as it was flung away.

For the briefest moment, he saw a flash of emerald light. The cursed green flame of death magic slammed into him, but instead of snuffing him out, it bound him to life. The killing curse, meant to annihilate, had become an anchor—fusing his fractured soul with the tiny, vulnerable life that clung so stubbornly to existence.

And then, suddenly… he awoke.

He drew in a sharp breath—not through the lungs of a man, but through the soft, fragile chest of a child. Sensation came rushing back in a disorienting torrent. His limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, weak and clumsy, unfamiliar and alien. His skin stung faintly from the residual magic of the curse, and there was an odd, throbbing sensation on his forehead.

He opened his eyes.

And he knew.

The moment he laid eyes on his surroundings, Merlin realized the terrible truth. He was no longer himself. The hand he feebly lifted was not the calloused hand of a seasoned sorcerer—it was small, pudgy, and clumsy, with the soft, helpless fingers of an infant. His body was weak, frail, and human in a way that was both unfamiliar and unbearable.

He tried to speak, but only a faint, broken coo escaped his lips. His tongue was too large for his mouth, and his vocal cords untrained. The frustration was instant. He wanted to move, to act, to cast. Instead, he could barely muster the strength to wave his tiny fingers.

His surroundings came into focus. The wreckage of the house. Splintered wood, shattered glass, and the faint, acrid smell of burnt magic clung to the air. The bodies. James and Lily. Merlin knew death intimately—he had seen it countless times over his long life. But there was a strange, twisting sorrow in his chest as he beheld them.

He knew at once that he was not meant to be here. Not in this place, not in this time, and certainly not in this frail form.

But he was alive, and the flood of magic that had once been his to command was now a distant hum—an ocean of power reduced to a hidden spring, buried deep beneath this child's fragile form. His immortal knowledge was still intact, but his body was that of a baby—powerless, weak, and bound by the limits of mortal infancy.

Then the footsteps came.

Sirius Black. The wild-haired man with haunted eyes burst into the ruins, his face contorted with grief. Merlin—no, Harry, he reminded himself—watched from his crib, silent and still, observing. Sirius' magic rippled around him in ragged waves of sorrow, unrestrained and untampered. The man's raw agony was almost physical—a storm of sorrow crashing against his own.

Without hesitation, Harry's infant eyes pierced into Sirius' soul.

Merlin's mind stirred, and with it, Legilimency flowed instinctively through his gaze. It was as natural as breathing—a skill he had honed for centuries, now as effortless as blinking. With just a glance, he slipped into the man's mind.

Grief.Rage.Love.

Memories flooded him. James and Sirius as children at Hogwarts. The laughter, the mischief, the camaraderie. The bond of brothers forged through years of loyalty. And then, grief. Betrayal. A name burned into Sirius' mind: Peter Pettigrew. Hatred and vengeance smoldered behind his eyes. Harry felt it all.

It was disorienting to feel another man's soul so vividly, but he remained silent—watchful and still.

Then came Hagrid—hulking, massive, and heartbreakingly gentle. The half-giant's calloused hands were surprisingly soft as he cradled Harry, carrying him with reverence and care. But when Dumbledore arrived, Merlin's sharp, ancient mind immediately latched onto the man.

The aged wizard was a beacon of wisdom and mystery, but Harry saw through him instantly. As Dumbledore bent down to place him in the blanket on Privet Drive, Harry's green eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Legilimency flickered again, and he pierced the old man's defenses—if only for a heartbeat.

What he saw made the infant's breath hitch.

Powerful and cold calculation beneath that grandfatherly smile.Ruthless pragmatism, masked behind twinkling eyes.Affection tinged with purposeful distance—an emotional detachment driven by necessity.

Dumbledore was not unkind, Harry saw, but he was dangerous. The man had plans that ran deep and far-reaching, and they involved him—Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived.

As he was laid upon the doorstep, bundled against the chill night air, Harry stared up at the sky. His infant eyes remained unnervingly clear—the gaze of a legend reborn. He could feel the wards of blood magic settle around him, but he did not cry. Instead, he watched as Dumbledore's magic flickered faintly against the runes he had carved into reality itself, weaving protection into the night.

He knew what was to come. The years of weakness, of helplessness, of enduring. But he would wait. Slowly, steadily, he would reclaim what was his.

Merlin Wyllt had returned.

And the wizarding world would never be the same.

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Anyways, let me know what you all think.

Remember spread Love, not Hate

With that Author-Kun is signing off.