Golden sunlight spilled over the hills of Ottery St Catchpole, cutting through the pale morning mist that still clung stubbornly to the fields. The Burrow, with its haphazard stack of crooked floors and lopsided chimneys, stood proudly amidst it all, as though daring gravity to try its luck. On any other day, the odd little house might have looked cheerful and inviting, but the sight of scorched earth and twisted metal littered across the nearby field lent the place an unsettling air.
The remains of the enchanted motorcycle lay scattered like bones, a broken wheel spinning lazily in the breeze while wisps of smoke still curled from what used to be the sidecar. A faint acrid tang hung in the air — burned rubber, singed leather, and a whisper of magic gone violently wrong.
Near the Burrow's smaller, weathered shed, Hagrid slept like the dead. The enormous man was sprawled on his back, half-slumped against the wall, his snores rattling through the morning like a distant thunderclap. Every so often he mumbled something unintelligible — "ruddy great snakes" and "umbrella's fine, jus' fine" being the most coherent snippets.
A pair of bold gnomes had crept from their burrows, lured perhaps by the rumbling sound or simply because they resented the newcomer sprawling across their territory. Chittering to each other in squeaky, unintelligible voices, they clambered up Hagrid's enormous boots, waddled along the folds of his coat, and finally made a daring grab for his beard.
Bad idea.
Hagrid snorted, shifted slightly, and rolled onto his side with the sluggish inevitability of an avalanche. The gnomes gave one horrified squeak before vanishing beneath him entirely. Their muffled squeals went ignored; Hagrid, blissfully unaware, just sighed and resumed snoring.
It was in this scene of chaos and sleepy absurdity that Molly Weasley arrived, clutching a basket of laundry and humming under her breath. She stopped dead when she spotted the smouldering wreckage in the field and the gnome-shaped bulges beneath Hagrid's bulk.
"Sweet MERLIN'S PANTS!"
Her shriek shattered the peace, sent a flock of nearby crows exploding into the sky, and startled a garden gnome so badly it fell backwards into a patch of cabbages. Somewhere nearby, Arthur Weasley, up to his elbows in the inner workings of a broken toaster, completely missed it. He was muttering happily to himself about "resistor fluxes" and "improperly earthed bits," blissfully unaware that his wife had just stumbled across last night's battlefield.
---
Inside the Burrow, the morning seemed, somehow, perfectly normal.
Despite the noises outside — Molly's shriek, the cawing crows, the faint pop! of a gnome trying to wriggle free — the Weasley children remained untouched by the chaos, thanks to Molly's prior decision to slap on a Soundproofing Charm "for everyone's sanity."
At the kitchen table, Percy sat straight-backed, sipping his tea with an air of grave responsibility. He had already polished his Prefect badge twice, written a list of "Things to Accomplish Before Breakfast," and was now working on a letter to the Ministry.
Upstairs, Fred and George remained fast asleep, tangled together in a nest of blankets and half-finished joke products. Their room smelled faintly of gunpowder and sugar quills, and it was safe to assume neither twin had the faintest idea that a boy with a lightning scar had crash-landed into their lives mere hours ago.
The youngest of the clan, however, were up and about.
Ron and Ginny padded through the hallway in their socks, peering around corners and whispering conspiratorially.
"Do you really think Mum and Dad are still asleep?" Ginny asked, frowning.
Ron yawned hugely and shook his head. "Nah. The kettle was hot when I came down. Mum's definitely up. And Percy would rather eat his own foot than make his own tea, so she must've done it."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Then where are they?"
"Dunno." Ron shrugged, as though the mysteries of parental movements weren't worth solving. "Maybe Dad went to the Ministry."
"It's Sunday, Ron," Ginny said, rolling her eyes with the withering authority only younger sisters can manage. "He doesn't go to work on Sundays."
Ron scowled. "You don't know that. Maybe they called him in. Maybe there's been some kind of emergency."
Ginny gave him a flat look. "Like what?"
Ron hesitated. "…Gnome uprising?"
"Ron," she said patiently, "gnomes don't have uprisings."
He gestured wildly toward the garden. "Not yet."
Shaking her head, Ginny followed as Ron crept toward their parents' bedroom door. He knocked softly. "Mum?" Knock, knock. "Dad?"
No answer.
Only the faintest sound of soft breathing came from inside.
Ron glanced at Ginny, shrugged, and pushed the door open a crack. Together, they tiptoed in — and stopped dead.
There was only one person in the bed.
A small person.
A small person entirely hidden beneath the blanket.
Ron's expression grew solemn. "They've done it."
Ginny blinked. "…Done what?"
"The gnomes." He nodded gravely. "They've finally invaded. Took Mum and Dad hostage, left one of their own behind to—"
But Ginny wasn't listening anymore. She had already crept to the side of the bed and, with a deep breath, pulled the blanket back.
It wasn't a gnome.
It was a boy.
A skinny boy with round glasses, messy black hair, and a faint lightning-shaped scar just visible on his forehead. He looked up at her sheepishly and offered a little smile.
"Er… hey," he whispered.
Ginny froze.
Her brain, usually so quick with retorts, immediately dissolved into a pink fog of boy, scar, poetry, and Merlin's beard he's real.
Her face went pale for a fraction of a second, then turned an impressive shade of red, creeping up her neck like wildfire.
Ron, meanwhile, frowned. "What's going on? Is it a ghoul?" He edged forward. "If it's a ghoul, I'm telling Mum."
Before Ginny could form actual words, she squeaked, spun on her heel, and bolted out of the room so fast she nearly collided with the doorframe. Her footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Ron stared after her. "What's her problem?"
A quiet throat-clearing made him turn back. The boy had sat up now, ruffling his hair awkwardly.
"Hi," the boy said. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
Ron blinked. He stared. His jaw opened slightly. And then, after a long pause, he managed, "Blimey."
And with that, he turned around and walked straight out of the room.
Harry watched him go, then lowered his still-raised hand and sighed. "…Friendly bunch," he muttered.
---
Harry wandered over to the small mirror perched on top of a dresser and stared at his reflection.
The boy in the glass stared back.
Skinny. Pale but healthy. Glasses slightly crooked. Messy black hair doing whatever it pleased. And, of course, that scar.
"I'm Harry Potter," he whispered to himself, as though testing the words.
For a long moment, he just stood there, feeling the weight of two lifetimes settling uncomfortably on his shoulders.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Just brilliant."
Somehow, it didn't make things any less surreal. He had spent nearly eleven years here, living as Harry, but now — after last night, after the dream — he remembered.
He remembered everything. (Well not everything really, but enough to sense this was really trippy, wasn't it?)
And yet… this life wasn't exactly better. Not yet, anyway.
His gaze hardened slightly, and his reflection did the same.
"The Dursleys," he muttered darkly.
There was a knock at the door.
Harry glanced over his shoulder, startled.
"Oi," came Ron's voice, muffled and hesitant. "…You really Harry Potter?"
Harry hesitated, then grinned faintly. "Last I checked."
There was silence, then a muttered "…mental," and Ron's footsteps retreated.
Harry turned back to the mirror, exhaled slowly, and tried to steady himself.
Different life. Same chaos. And if last night had been any indication, he wasn't getting a break anytime soon.
-+--+-
The morning sunlight streamed softly through the crooked windows of the Burrow, its golden warmth spilling lazily across mismatched furniture and patterned rugs that looked older than any of the Weasley children combined. Outside, a soft breeze carried with it the faint smells of damp earth and wildflowers, and somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed far too enthusiastically for a Sunday morning.
Harry sat perched on the edge of the bed, his round glasses slightly askew and his thoughts running circles around themselves.
Living in a fantasy world had always been the dream, hadn't it? Back in his past life — if one could even call it that — he'd read countless webnovels where someone just like him woke up in a strange, magical land with powerful gifts and an exciting destiny. Now, here he was, in a wizarding world of spells, flying brooms, and… whatever had happened last night with Hagrid and those monstrous ghouls.
Only, there was one small problem.
He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do.
Not who he was — that part was clear enough. Everyone in this strange world seemed to know who Harry Potter was. But he didn't know Harry Potter. And worse, unlike every other webnovel protagonist he'd ever read about, he didn't even have the advantage of foreknowledge. No plot points, no prophecies, no cheat skills. Nothing.
He plopped backward onto the mattress with a groan, staring at the cracked ceiling beams above.
Would I really have to just… figure everything out on my own?
The thought was exhausting.
A little help would've been nice, he decided. Maybe some benevolent cosmic entity popping in to hand him a magic cheat sheet, or at least a handbook titled "So You've Been Reincarnated Into the Wizarding World: A Beginner's Guide." But, no. All he had was an oversized half-giant, a busted motorbike, and a vague recollection of a creepy old hag from a dream that still made his skin crawl.
Remembering the look on her face, Harry huffed a laugh. "Yeah, fat chance of any help coming."
With a sigh, he removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. The world instantly blurred into a hazy mess of light and indistinct shapes. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts.
Am I eleven? Or fifteen? Or… twenty-six?
It was ridiculous, really. Three lifetimes tangled up in one skinny, underfed body. Did it matter which part of him was "real" anymore? Did it change anything? Not for anyone else. To everyone here, he was just Harry Potter — eleven, awkward, and apparently famous for something he couldn't even remember.
But to himself… Well, what did it matter anyways? If his vague recollections amounted to anything, he was as they say, reincarnated. So there's that. He's Harry Potter, nearly 11, also called as 10 years old.
'Well,' he thought, determinedly shoving the confusion aside, 'whoever I am, I'll make this work. I'll be a better wizard, even if I have to start from scratch.'
He smirked faintly at the thought. 'And anyone who's got a problem with that… can sod right off.'
That small burst of confidence lasted exactly three and a half seconds.
Because the door suddenly slammed open, and chaos poured in.
Two identical whirlwinds of red hair and noise tumbled through, trailed by a cacophony of hurried footsteps and excited voices.
"You know, Ron, it wasn't a bad prank," the first twin was saying, grinning ear to ear. "Convincing Ginny that Harry Potter's in our house? Brilliant."
"Agreed, Fred," said the second, nodding solemnly. "Little Ronniekins finally growing up. This year at Hogwarts, he might actually—"
Then his gaze landed on Harry. His jaw dropped.
"Holy bollocks."
Harry blinked.
The first twin — Fred, apparently — had frozen mid-step, still pointing accusingly at Ron behind them. The second — George, by process of elimination — let out a low whistle and elbowed his brother.
"You weren't kidding, Ron," George said, eyes wide. "It is him. Scar and everything."
"I told you," Ron muttered, shuffling awkwardly in the doorway, Ginny peeking out from behind his elbow like a particularly shy mouse.
Harry raised a tentative hand. "…Hi?"
The twins exchanged a glance so perfectly synchronized it could've been rehearsed.
"Hey there, Harry," Fred said smoothly, stepping forward with the kind of casual confidence that made Harry instinctively suspicious. "Fred Weasley. This is my twin brother—"
"George Weasley," George cut in, giving a flourishing little bow.
Fred jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Ron and Ginny. "That's our rude little brother, Ronald, and our shy little sister, Ginny. She's a huge fan of yours—"
"Fred!" Ginny squeaked, elbowing him so hard he actually stumbled back a step.
George cackled while Ginny retreated further behind Ron, face burning redder than her hair.
"Right," Harry said quickly, trying to cover her embarrassment. "Nice to meet you all. I guess Ron's already told you my name, but… I'm Harry Potter."
He hesitated before adding, "Also, I'm a wizard. Or, uh, that's what Hagrid told me, anyway. Speaking of which — is he here?"
The twins blinked.
"Wait," George said slowly. "Hagrid's here?"
"Who's Hagrid?" Ron blurted, frowning.
"That explains the noise last night," Fred murmured, ignoring Ron entirely. "Bet he brought something dangerous again."
"A manticore, maybe," George guessed. "Or a baby dragon."
Ron looked between them, exasperated. "Can someone just tell me who Hagrid is?"
"Focus, George," Fred said, nudging his twin. "We've got Harry Potter here, and you're thinking about manticores?"
"And dragons," George corrected.
"And dragons," Fred conceded.
They both turned on Harry in unison.
"So," Fred began, "did you come with him?"
"Did you ride a griffin?" George added.
"Or a thestral?" Fred guessed eagerly. "I've never seen a thestral."
"Why'd you come at night?"
"What was the noise outside?"
"Was it the Knight Bus?"
"WHO IS HAGRID?" Ron yelled again, hands flailing.
The barrage of questions made Harry's head spin. He felt vaguely like he'd been shoved into the middle of a very fast-paced interview without any prep notes. He opened his mouth to try and answer — or maybe beg them all to calm down — when a new voice cut through the chaos.
"Hagrid," the voice said, calm and commanding, "is the gamekeeper at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Four heads turned instantly.
Another Weasley had appeared in the doorway, tall and tidy with an air of practiced self-importance. His prefect badge gleamed faintly in the morning light.
"Percy," Fred groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "And just when things were getting fun."
Percy ignored him entirely, straightening his robes before offering Harry a stiff, polite handshake.
"Hello, Harry," he said gravely. "I'm Percy Weasley. It's an honour to meet you."
Harry hesitated, then shook his hand. "Uh. Hi."
Behind Percy, Fred mouthed exaggeratedly: He's the boring one.
George nodded sagely. "Talks like a Ministry pamphlet."
Harry snorted before he could stop himself, and Percy's brow furrowed faintly, clearly catching more than he'd like to admit.
It was… nice, though, Harry thought, watching them all bicker and tease. Warm, noisy, and a little overwhelming, but it was real in a way his life with the Dursleys had never been.
And for the first time that morning, the thought crept in uninvited but oddly comforting:
Maybe… this could actually work.