Late June 1991, London. Even in summer, the sun's playing hard to get. It's been pissing rain for two straight weeks, and only now, late in the month, are the gloomy-ass clouds finally thinning out. Twenty-something degrees feels downright balmy compared to the rest of the world.
In a scrappy little park on Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey, a scrawny kid in hand-me-down clothes that swallow him whole is moping on a swing. His name's Harry Potter, crashing with his aunt and uncle at Number 4. Parents died when he was one, so he got dumped with the Dursleys.
Judging by the rags he's rocking, it's crystal clear Harry ain't exactly the golden child in that house.
Not shocking. The kid's not theirs, and raising two boys costs a damn fortune. Back before Vernon Dursley climbed the ladder to manager at Grunnings drill company, he was scraping by on barely ten grand a year. After the mortgage, car payments, and bills, there wasn't jack left for double tuition.
Sure, the 1988 Education Reform Act killed public elementary school fees, but "miscellaneous expenses" still bled them dry—way more than before the law passed.
But Harry, dangling from the swing like a sad sack, didn't bolt out here because the Dursleys were straight-up torturing him. Yeah, he just got out of lockdown in the cupboard under the stairs, but he knows he screwed up.
He shouldn't have vanished the glass at the reptile house on Dudley's birthday trip to the zoo. That Brazilian boa (who'd never seen Brazil) slithered right out. Harry cracked up when Dudley face-planted into the pool like a soggy donut, but even he knew that was a dick move.
Swear to God, though—Harry didn't mean it.
Some shit just happens, and he can't stop it. Like when the school bullies chased him and he somehow teleported to the damn roof. If he could control it, he'd yeet those assholes into the stratosphere.
Head down, messy black hair defying gravity with that one stubborn cowlick that screams "middle finger to combs," Harry's half-assedly kicking pebbles. One flies off, and when he looks up—bam—there's a kid standing right in front of him.
Did I blink and miss the memo? Harry rubs his eyes. Swears this dude just materialized like a glitch in the matrix.
Or maybe he's just zoned out. Footsteps could've been ninja-quiet.
"Sorry, dude—didn't nail you with that rock, did I?"
Harry's voice wavers as he sizes up the kid. Clean face, sharp features, long black hair tied back with a scrap of cloth. Dark eyes, not Harry's freaky green. Skinny, but his clothes actually fit—way less hobo-chic than Harry's Dudley cast-offs.
"Nah." The kid shakes his head, nods at the empty swing. "Mind if I crash here? Been walking forever—legs are toast."
"Go for it!"
Harry perks up. Friends? Yeah, he's got a grand total of zero. School kids treat him like a walking curse.
"Thanks." The kid sits, smirks. "Name's Lynn."
"Sup! Harry. Harry Potter."
"You new around here?" Harry squints. Definitely never seen this face.
"Nope. Just passing through." Lynn shrugs. "No home. Wherever I crash, that's home."
He pats the beat-up backpack. "Everything I own's in here."
Harry hesitates. "So you… ran away? Or…"
"Literal. Orphanage went bust. I bounced. New place treated kids like cattle, and the priest gave me that look—like I was dessert. My ass deserved better."
Harry's jaw drops. Lynn launches into a horror story about priests and altar boys that'd make Satan flinch.
"Jesus, that's messed up."
Harry's face sours. Suddenly the Dursleys don't seem that bad. At least they didn't ship him to an orphanage. They keep him fed, clothed (kinda), and in school—same as Dudley. No birthday gifts, sure, and the cupboard sucks, but it beats sleeping under a bridge.
"You crashing here tonight?"
Harry gestures at the park's pathetic three trees. "Some houses on Privet are empty. I can point you to one—hop the fence, squat inside. Or at least chill under the eaves if it rains."
"I can snag food later. Aunt Petunia'll blame Dudley for fridge raids—she never suspects me."
"Thanks, but I'm good." Lynn waves it off. He's thin but clean; Harry looks like the actual street rat. Dudley's old clothes hang off him like trash bags.
"Yo, Harry—what's got you out here solo? Bad day?"
Harry scratches his bird's-nest hair, kicks another pebble. "You'll think I'm full of shit, but… Dudley's birthday last week. Mrs. Figg broke her leg, so the Dursleys dragged me to the zoo. I… accidentally vanished the snake glass. Swear I didn't mean to. No clue how it happened."
He looks up, miserable. "You probably think I'm nuts."
"What if I believe you?"
Harry's head snaps up, eyes sparkling. First time anyone's ever taken him seriously.
"You… don't think I'm lying?"
"Nope." Lynn opens his palm. A pebble floats up, lands gently. "I've got a few tricks too."
"How?!"
"Three years. Minimum three hours a day."
Lynn holds up three fingers. "Since I ditched the orphanage."
He vanishes. Harry's looking around like a lost puppy when a hand taps his shoulder—jump-scare.
"Teleportation? Dude, that's sick!"
"Close enough."
"Magic?"
"Dunno. I call it superpowers."
Harry's glowing. "I did it once—bullies chasing me, next thing I know I'm on the damn roof. Scared the crap outta the teachers. Petunia got reamed, and my dinner got cut in half for a week."
"Maybe you can learn control."
"Teach me? Please?"
Lynn frowns. "My method… you can't use it."
Harry deflates. "Why?"
"Ever almost get shanked?"
Harry shudders. Lynn's calm mask hides some dark shit.
Then Lynn laughs, slaps Harry's back, and digs in his bag.
[Dang-dang-dang-dang, dang~~dang-dang~]
Out comes a box the size of a triple-decker burger, red-blue stripes with yellow polka dots, plastic-looking but cold like metal.
"Superpower Training Kit. Three hours daily, three years straight—boom, powers. One-time use, though. Mine's busted."
Harry stares, pitiful. "You're screwing with me."
"Nah, I don't lie. But…" Lynn rummages again. BGM intensifies.
He pulls out a square cracker. "Eat this, your life changes. Reversible, but I've only got one. Decide tonight—meet me here tomorrow if you wanna return it. I'm sticking around a few days."
Harry cradles the cracker like it's nitroglycerin. Lynn seems legit—earnest eyes, no bullshit.
"I'll think about it."
"Oh—eat it, then immediately shower."
"Huh?"
"Activates the change. Trust me."
Lynn shoulders his bag and strolls off.
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