Harry Potter Male Reader Insert - Book 3

Chapter 1. Owl post

1

Look around him. He sits in a room in the same orphanage again. In a wand, the power of magic is hidden with no intent of coming willingly out, and only he has to speak the word, and as he mans it, the cast comes out with the killing intent. Seen before was the action, save the kill. His hand his face scratched at the cheek that folded at his touch to hide the face. Them from. Just below his chest, the ugly scar is hidden beneath the cloth every time now and forever from here. But also, the scarred mind plays with each thought it produces automatically, changing the plot written by someone else. The Phoenix was not entirely successful. And the other animal of change and beauty could fall and rise above. You cannot heal what is not wounded. Being thankful is in place in good taste, however. He still lives to this day. For that, only it remains to thank the magical bird of fire and as it would combust all, provided it was given to the person with nefarious desires of the sick brain.

The headmaster, someone he doesn't like. His quotes meaningless and untrue. His plans deceive and harbor the deep-hidden lie. He holds no truth entirely in his words, and the blue-eyed gaze shows no warmth and is only crafted falsely wherein it is lying open. And only people lower with no intellect are involved with his lies. It's only because of their stupidity that they're able to be so sure of him.

God, it is a mere show of hands and scripted sounds, as if they were all in their own world, characters in an even more misplaced show like a diorama. I look for light but do not see. My hair had fallen on my face. My hands are tied upward with a string with no end in sight from above. Always had been that way, and it is now and then, and it will be that I am sure.

In his right hand, something he had held before, but he has it again. The paper sent to him a while ago now. At Hogwarts. A plain paper with neat writing, written with seemingly truthful intentions like a confession to the face of gods. Whomever it was. He had seen this before.

The girl with brown hair and eyes awaits his meeting again. Hermione. The girl with a heart of gold and red and a smile of light that is rare around the world. The colors of the roaring lion.

But here is another year that awaits. What danger will come across like a phantasmagoria of horror? In his mind is nothing of importance. He sits still. Other than that, he changed ever so slightly. The wand is hidden about him every time. That didn't change at all. He sits and stares and thinks because thinking is what he does, and it is lucky for him that he does. As the brain is your best weapon and sometimes only one. And Y/N remembers humbly because his magic cannot be yet released without his wand, again said. That is that. He was in the bookshop again. The magic power increases with each day that follows the day before, and he lives, and no disease ahead. Perhaps hidden, as Caius had said, but it is not that.

Later that day, he is in his head again, tracking the true narrative.

2

Harry Potter hated the summer holidays above any other time of the year. He wanted to do his homework but couldn't and was forced to do it secretly at night.

Already it was midnight, and he was on his stomach lying in bed, the blanket drawn over his head like a tent and a flashlight in his hand and a leather-bound book in the other. Harry moved the tip of his feather quill down the page, a frown on his face, looking for something to help him write the essay. The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read:

Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises.