I am lying on a comfortable bed, wrapped in the heavy weight of a thick comforter. Every part of my body feels heavy, anchored, and the only desire that exists inside me is to sink even deeper into the mattress and disappear back into sleep.
But I can't.
A relentless white, aggressive light pierces my closed eyelids and hits my eyes directly, causing sharp discomfort and a searing sting. Did I forget to close the window? Only sunlight could be strong enough to bother me this much.
With a rough sigh, I force my eyes open and sit up in bed, the movement feeling light and easy to make. But before I can question the odd lack of weight, I am forced to quickly cover my eyes with my hands. For some reason, my eyes are extremely sensitive, to the point that opening them against the light was agonizing and painful.
What the hell was going on?
I press my palms against them, trying to block out the light. The sensitivity is profoundly abnormal. Not like the photophobia of a migraine; it's deeper, as if my very retinas were unprotected, exposed and raw to the world.
I try to reason through the discomfort. I don't remember drinking anything, nor is there that familiar throbbing of a hangover hammering at my temples or nausea curling in my stomach. I'm sober, which means something is very wrong.
Starting to get nervous, I move to the edge of the bed and swing my legs out, but the sensation I expect never comes.
What the fuck is this? Wasn't I in my own bed?... well, that would explain why it was so comfortable.
Cautiously, I part my fingers a little and, through the narrow gaps, force my eyes to open as little as possible. Tears immediately well up, blurring my vision slightly, but I don't care, because when I look down, I don't see my obese legs, but rather a pair of skinny little legs dangling off the side of the bed.
I freeze and the air leaves my lungs for a second. It simply… doesn't make sense. This has to be a dream. It can only be. A very vivid and strange dream.
With my heart pounding hard against my ribs, I look around, searching for some kind of answer.
I'm in a very small room, with the single bed I slept on pushed up against a brick wall. There's a high window without curtains, through which the strong sunlight pours in. As for furniture, there's almost nothing — just a wardrobe at the foot of the bed and a writing desk with a wooden chair to the left of the bed. Everything in there screamed the nineteenth century.
I absorb the old atmosphere of the room and am forced to wipe my eyes, which are filled with tears. In the next instant, I remember something and bring my free hand to the side of the pillow. I fumble around for a few seconds until I feel something solid and cold. I grab the object and pull it onto my lap. Looking down, I freeze once more, this time caused by seeing my reflection in the black lens of a pair of round-framed glasses.
The person I see isn't me, but a beautiful child with pale white skin without a single imperfection. His hair is white as snow and his eyes, from what little I can see between my fingers, are as blue as the sea. He looks like a character I know very well, called Satoru Gojo—
!!!
Suddenly, a terrible, piercing pain explodes in the back of my head. It's as if a screw had been driven into my skull, spreading cracks of agony through every inch of my brain. A muffled scream tears from my throat as I clutch my head with both hands and collapse sideways onto the bed, my body writhing involuntarily. I hear the dry sound of the glasses hitting the wooden floor after slipping from my lap, but it's distant, muffled by the pain I'm feeling.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain stops, leaving behind a ringing in my ears and… memories. I'm panting, drenched in cold sweat, because I've finally remembered what happened and why I'm here.
The white space.
The pink-haired girl in a white dress.
"I'm going to send you into your own fanfic."
"Ohhhhh… I knew you'd choose him of all people. Hehehe…"
"Good luck, Ethan. I hope I have a lot of fun."
The snap of fingers.
The white space falling apart.
I'm not dreaming. All of this is real.
A myriad of conflicting emotions explodes inside me. The shock that had been so carefully kept at bay earlier by the goddess's intervention now surges forward in a heavy, hot wave. It's not just fear. It's the collapse of everything I knew to be real. It's the realization that I'm no longer in my world. That I am no longer Ethan. That the world outside is a magical and extremely dangerous one. That that entity is probably watching, bored, waiting for me to start acting.
I am happy, nervous, ecstatic, scared, surprised, excited, and anxious. All at the same time.
What I always wished for has truly happened. I left my shitty life behind. But… at what cost? What does this mean from now on? How much will I have to sacrifice? How much will I have to suffer to keep this "dream" standing? Will I be able to survive the world I made a point of turning into something horrible? Do I have that capability, or will I fail like always?
My breathing falters, and even with my eyes closed, it feels like the world has started spinning. I must be hyperventilating, because my thoughts tangle chaotically. I can't think. I can't…
My consciousness fades.
***
"How is he, doctor?"
"The fever has finally broken. The medication worked."
"Thank God…"
I regained consciousness to the sound of two voices. One is rough, but heavy with concern. The other is drier, clinical, worn down by time. They are standing beside the bed, and I can feel the weight of their gazes on me, even through my closed eyelids.
I know, with instinct not my own, that I should open my eyes and show signs of life, proving that I am fine. Especially for the man with the hoarse voice, toward whom I feel a strange and powerful familiarity. I obviously do not know him, which means this feeling is caused by the child's body that I now possess.
Ugh... just trying to process that makes me feel like I'm going to pass out again.
In the stories I devoured, this dilemma was simple and quickly resolved. The protagonist woke up, accepted the new body with a philosophical thought, and set out for adventure. But reality, as I'm now discovering, is something far more horrible and grotesque.
I was not born into a new body. I stole one, erasing a life that had barely begun. I am a fifty-year-old failure trapped inside a child. What could be worse than that? Being a parasite who seized and sucked dry another person's future.
Although… was there even a soul here for me to have killed? Is this world truly real, or is everyone here merely puppets in a theater run by that goddess? Does free will even exist here?
I'm hyperventilating again. So much insane shit is happening in so little time. So many certainties I carried simply shattered. I mean… I REALLY TRANSMIGRATED INTO THE WORLD OF HARRY POTTER! It was an absolute restart, and in a magical world! My chance to cross out everything from my past life and not make the same mistakes. The pure, golden possibility of being more.
Shit, what am I thinking? I should be writhing in remorse and fear, not excitement! I… must be going crazy, swinging between misery and happiness this fast.
I decide, for my own good, that it's better not to think about any of this for now.
While the chaos boiled inside my head, the two men beside my bed kept talking. Something about the high cost of the medicine they gave me.
I kept my eyes tightly closed, my breathing forced into a slow, steady rhythm, feigning deep sleep. I was light-years away from being able to hold a conversation, let alone play the role of a child whose name I don't even know yet.
A few very difficult minutes pass until I finally dare to hear their footsteps moving away. The door handle creaks, and soon I hear it close with a click, announcing that I am finally alone.
I allow myself to open my eyes, and immediately I'm forced to close them again because of the light. I let out a muffled sigh of frustration. Would I have to get used to this hypersensitivity from now on? I hope not. I reach to the side of the pillow, where those sunglasses had been before I passed out.
My fingers find, with relief, the cold frame of the round rims. Someone—probably the man with the hoarse voice—took care to pick them up from the floor and place them there. A simple act of concern that inexplicably tightens my chest.
Without thinking twice, I lifted them and set them on my face. The dark lenses intercept the world, turning the offensive glare into a tolerable dimness, and for the first time in this new world, I can fully open my eyes.
I look around, observing the room through the tinted lenses. Then I slowly raised my hand, extending it in front of my face. The fingers I see are small, thin, and pale, the skin smooth and unblemished. They are a stranger's hands. My hands now.
The next logical, inevitable, and terrifying step asserts itself: I need a mirror. I need to see my entire body.
With cautious movements, I slide out of bed. Bare feet meet the cold wooden floor. My new body responds with a lightness and balance that are profoundly strange, so different from the weight and effort I've been used to for decades.
It is very good not to feel like a hippopotamus.
I stand still for a moment, slightly shaky—not from weakness, but from the wave of absurd euphoria rising in my chest.
I take several deep breaths so I don't start jumping around before sweeping the room with my eyes. There's no mirror on the desk, nor on the wardrobe. Maybe in the bathroom, but that would mean leaving the room. Or maybe…
My eyes, shielded by the lenses, land on the window, and a horrible sensation—a knot of ice in my stomach—takes hold of me. This body knows. It knows that something very bad is happening outside.
With hesitant, awkward steps—I would have to work hard to get used to having small arms and legs—I cross the few meters separating me from the window and stop in front of the glass.
Apparently, my room was on the second floor of wherever I was living, giving me a very clear view of what was happening below.
A military truck was parked in front of the iron gate. Within the boundaries of the gate, three soldiers are organizing two lines of adolescents—maybe sixteen or seventeen years old—with sharp, abrupt motions of their arms.
The soldier at the front of the group was shouting something, but I couldn't hear it. Several minutes passed as I watched them until all the teenagers are ordered to climb into the back of the truck.
That would be bizarre in my world, especially in the decade I believe I'm in. But in this one… that sight was normal.
I didn't lie when I said I made the world of Harry Potter more dangerous. But it wasn't only the magical world I changed. The Muggle world got its dose of shit too. And this was one of the biggest changes I made: in this world, Nazi Germany was not defeated.
***
Did you enjoy it? If so, give my other two fanfics a chance as well: "Stranger Things: The Number Seven" and "BNHA: God of Explosions"
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.