After 1982, Erroneous became a different man. Well, not too different, honestly. He'd always had a foul temper and a drinking problem, but all of that got much, much worse after Voldemort's defeat and he was demoted several ranks in the office. And all of that anger and resentment ended up being dealt out to his family. Me, in particular.
Now, you might be wondering where I'm going with this. No doubt it seems that, so far, besides a few issues with parentage and money, I was still in the clear. Older than Harry, the future protagonist, so I could better prepare for canon, at the very least.
Well, guess again.
See, I was not lucky, at all. I was born not as a magical, but a Squib.
Yup. A Squib. Reborn into the Potter-Verse, but I couldn't do the one thing that would have made such a reincarnation worth it.
I couldn't cast magic! No wand for me!
Mother had cried for days when we couldn't deny the facts any longer. Father had… well, I'd have preferred it if he had just ignored me and left me alone. But no, apparently being born a Squib was all my fault, and that I'd cursed the family somehow.
Not a single spark of arcane power ever manifested around me. My brother had burped up glowing bubbles when he was four, yet I'd not even shown the slightest hint of accidental magic. I tried, though, I desperately tried!
I attempted to meditate, I tried to focus my willpower and cast windlessly, I sought to look inward and find my mental space, or something else that would reveal my magic. I even said the incantations and waved the wands my parents told me to try and use! I did everything other Potter-Verse self inserts attempted, and yet nothing worked!
The pain and disappointment was crippling, for me and my parents. They tried everything to coax magic out of me, even emulating Neville's uncle and dropping me into life threatening situations. All I got out of that was bruises, cuts, and broken bones.
Father shunned me. Rudy followed suite, at first merely because he was imitating father, but as he grew up, Erroneous Hunch's vile teachings and ideals seeped into him, and he became a cruel, spiteful brat.
Slugs in my bed. Dog shit in my pillows. Bubotuber puss in my clothes and nails in my shoes. Rudy's 'pranks' left just as many scars on my body as father's attempts at 'forcing the magic out of me' did.
Seven years of living like that. Seven years of hell. But it would soon be over.
The year is 1987. July 31st, the final day to respond to – and receive – a Hogwarts letter came and went. No owl. No letter. No teacher showing up at the last minute with an apology or excuse or anything.
And thus, it was confirmed without a shadow of a doubt that I was indeed a Squib, a shame to the Hunch family.
It was August 1st, 1987, and dinner was a somber affair. Father stewed angrily, glaring at the food mother had cooked. Garlic porkchops with cheesy mashed potatoes and sparkling apple cider. My favorites.
Rudy sneered at me the few times he bothered to acknowledge my existence at the table, and mother… cried. Quietly, and into a handkerchief.
Wisteria Hunch, my mother in this life, was not a strong woman. Her marriage had been arranged shortly after she'd graduated Hogwarts, and there'd been little love in the relationship to begin with. There'd been some, when Rudy and I had been born, but after Voldemort's defeat father grew harsher towards her, and the love shriveled up and died.
She tried to be a good mother. She loved me, Squib that I was. Truly, she did, and I, well, even though I never really considered her my mother thanks to the memories of my last life, I did care for her, and hated it when father struck or yelled at her. But Wisteria was weak willed. She never tried to stop Erroneous Hunch from hitting her or me when his temper flared, nor did she protest him spending all our money on alcohol. She just sat there and took it, and then cried in private.
So, there I was, sitting down at the table, eating what was surely my last meal. Father had threatened me enough times to know I was either getting Obliviated and then dumped at a Muggle orphanage, or straight up murdered and my corpse thrown into a ditch. Either was possible, depending on the mood that struck him when he finally made his decision.
I ate, and mentally went over my plans and options. I didn't have many, and they were all unpleasant in the short term.