July, 1991. Surrey, in the southeast of England, bordering London and lying along the River Thames.
The strong wind mixed with drizzle was a textbook example of a maritime climate. People on the street didn't even bother with umbrellas, hurrying through the rain. As their wandering eyes swept across the otherwise unremarkable street, they would always pause for a moment on one foreign-looking man.
The indifferent Brits weren't about to meddle. They simply left this dazed Eastern man squatting stupidly by the roadside.
Skyl was wearing pale blue chenille pajamas, top and bottoms. He held a mobile phone in his left hand and a plastic fork for instant noodles in his right. A strand of noodles dangled from the fork, only to fall to the ground instead of into Skyl's mouth.
He was completely petrified, as if he had been caught by Medusa's gaze.
One second earlier, he had been squatting in the teachers' dormitory, happily eating a late-night snack while scrolling on his phone. The next second, he was stranded on a foreign street, drenched by wind and rain.
A simple explanation was enough to make clear how he'd ended up in such a miserable situation.
Skyl had definitely transmigrated. He himself understood that much; he had just never imagined his transmigration would be so slapdash. In those infinite-multiverse novels, the start at least comes with some ominous "the world turns cold and shakes" or something.
He had been at home, eating noodles and reading a webnovel, when he suddenly crossed over—and the culprit was on the back of his left hand.
A sea-blue, door-shaped mark.
It was the only abnormal thing in Skyl's thirty-odd years of life that could not be explained by common sense.
Three days before transmigrating, Skyl had a strange dream. In the dream, everything was pitch-black. In the void floated many bizarre creatures blowing trumpets; such shapes existed only in the most absurd, booze-fueled nightmares brought on by a raging hangover. Those trumpeters praised Skyl in some solemn yet fawning, incomprehensible language.
He didn't understand a single word.
After waking from that dream, the door-shaped mark appeared on the back of Skyl's hand.
Other people couldn't see it. When Skyl fixed his gaze on it, a line of information would surface in his mind.
Before crossing over, that information had read:
[World I: Countdown ??:??]
Now, that line had changed.
Skyl stared at the mark.
[World I: Arrived]
[World II: Countdown 99:58]
A minute later, the countdown became 99:57.
Right now, Skyl was completely numb—his legs were numb from squatting, and his heart was numb from shock.
Plop. The noodles fell to the ground, and Skyl winced in pain at the waste.
He stood up and looked around. This place seemed oddly familiar.
Walking along the street for a bit, Skyl finally realized it: though there were many differences in the details, this looked an awful lot like the place where the protagonist Harry grew up in the Harry Potter films.
Little Whinging, Privet Drive—a place that existed only in a novel. But the street signs spelled the names out clearly.
Back when he was at university, Skyl's roommate had been a devoted fan of the Harry Potter series. He would recreate dishes that appeared in the books and post videos of them on YouTube.
Skyl himself wasn't particularly familiar with the Harry Potter series. He had only watched the first two films, but he still knew the general story, not just from his roommate's constant chatter but also because he'd read a whole pile of fanfics on a certain online fiction site.
Following a certain subtle intuition, Skyl eventually found Number Four, Privet Drive—the Dursley home where Harry boarded.
The place was simply and plainly arranged, just like every other detached house belonging to the urban middle class. There were no tourists coming and going, no flashes or rapid clicks of camera shutters. Along the neat street, row upon row of houses shared the same style and layout, quiet and completely unrelated to magic.
On his way here, Skyl had already picked up some clues about the era from an old television set in a shop window. This was 1991. In March of this year, Skyl had been four years old. In December of this year, the red flag would be lowered, and the giant would be buried at the hands of traitors. And in this same year, in July—right now—the savior Harry Potter was receiving his acceptance letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Fates crossed at this very moment.
A milk delivery woman handed Mrs Dursley a bag of eggs the family had ordered for the day, completely unaware that at the bottom of that bag lay a Hogwarts acceptance letter. These terrifying letters involving "magic" and "wizards" had just about driven the Dursley couple to a mental breakdown.
Not long after, a rough, wheezing bellow sounded from inside the house. Skyl heard every word clearly: it was a coarse man roaring,
"These blasted letters! Harry, get down here—damn it, back to your cupboard… I mean… back to your bedroom. Dudley, move, you move out of my way too…"
Hearing this exchange, Skyl let out a long breath. He could now be completely certain: yes, this was the world of Harry Potter, that classic tale of fantasy and magic.
He had no intention of making contact with the Boy Who Lived at this point in time. Skyl was currently penniless; the money in his electronic bank account couldn't be used in this era. He needed to find a place to settle down first.
Skyl remembered that, back in 1991, his doctoral advisor, Professor Zhdanov, had been living in South London. If that person existed in this world as well, odds were he was also living somewhere in London.
By the time Skyl reached Zhdanov's place, two days had already passed.
The old Russian scholar who opened the door was clearly surprised by the tramp standing before him.
"Who are you looking for?"
The familiar face and the authentic Far Eastern accent both made Skyl feel a kind of homesick warmth.
"You must be Professor Zhdanov, right? I'm Skyl, I've come all this way to seek you out."
"I'm Zhdanov, but I'm no professor. Stranger wizard, you've got the wrong man."
Bang!
The apartment door slammed shut without the slightest mercy. Skyl could hear a string of rapid Russian muttering from inside, the man complaining about an uninvited guest disturbing his afternoon drink.
Zhdanov's words cast Skyl into a confused tangle of disappointment and delight.
He had suffered plenty getting from Surrey to London in these two days. His personal appearance alone was enough that he could have squatted at the roadside with a paper cup and begged for change. Just when it looked like he had finally found a way out, the man he'd pinned his hopes on, Zhdanov, gave him a solid bowl of cold rejection.
But from Zhdanov's own words, Skyl had also discovered, with a jolt of joy, that he seemed to have become a wizard—someone with magic of his own.
That bittersweet mix of joy and worry left Skyl sitting on a bench by the street in silence for a long time.
After a while, as the sky began to darken, an oddly dressed old man appeared at the end of the street. Anyone who saw him would have their gaze drawn first to his long silver hair and beard. He was tall and thin, wearing wizard's robes with a purple cloak that trailed along the ground.
He was Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of this era, headmaster of Hogwarts, and bearer of a long list of honorary titles.
As Dumbledore walked past, he cast a kindly inquiry toward the young man lost in confusion.
"My dear stranger of a wizard, why are you sitting here all alone? Could it be you came to visit Mr Zhdanov? His temper is quite legendary—you know, even an old fellow like me cannot wring much more courtesy out of him."
Skyl looked up. He was somewhat taken aback, a little flustered, but he quickly calmed himself.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore. It's an honor to meet you. As you can see, I'm a homeless, wandering wizard. I don't have a single coin to my name, and I don't even have a wand, so I can only sit here by the street and wait to die."
Dumbledore seemed moved by this utterly miserable tale. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes flashed with a gentle warmth.
"In that case," he said softly, "may I have the honor of inviting you to share an evening meal with me?"
"That would be wonderful. Thank you for your generosity."