The night Harry Potter was left on a doorstep, the world hesitated.
It was not the kind of hesitation humans noticed. No wind stilled, no stars blinked out, no clock hands froze mid-tick. But magic—old, deep, and opinionated—paused as if it had been presented with a question it did not like.
A bundle appeared on the neat, painfully ordinary front step of Number Four, Privet Drive.
Inside the bundle, a baby slept.
He did not cry. He did not stir. His small chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, unbothered by the chill of the autumn air or the absence of warmth where arms should have been. A thin blanket, hastily wrapped, bore no crest, no charm, no mark of protection beyond the bare minimum.
This child was not meant to be here.
Magic knew this.
The house knew this too, though it lacked the vocabulary to express it. The bricks creaked uneasily. The porch light flickered once, then steadied. Somewhere deep in the foundations, something old and warded shifted in discomfort.
A letter lay tucked into the blanket. It would never be read.
Across the country, champagne glasses clinked. Wizards laughed and cried and toasted the end of terror. A name echoed again and again through pubs and parlors, spoken with reverence and awe.
*Aries Potter. The Boy Who Lived.*
No one spoke the name of the second child.
Harry slept on.
Time passed. Minutes, perhaps. Or seconds. Or something less measurable. The rules of night bent slightly around the bundle, as though reality itself were uncertain how to proceed.
Then the air shimmered.
It was subtle at first, like heat haze on a summer road—utterly wrong for a cold English night. The shadows stretched, twisted, then folded inward on themselves. The edges of the world blurred, lines softening until straight things forgot how to remain straight.
A sound followed.
Not footsteps.
Laughter.
High-pitched and delighted, bubbling up from nowhere and everywhere at once, as if the night itself had heard an excellent joke.
"Oh, oh *dear*," a voice said. "This will never do."
A tall figure stepped out of the distortion, boots landing sideways on the pavement before correcting themselves with a little hop. He wore a coat far too large, stitched with mismatched buttons, pockets bulging with teacups, clocks, and things that wriggled when unobserved. A top hat—magnificent and battered—sat at a jaunty angle atop wild orange hair.
The Mad Hatter peered down at the bundle.
The porch light exploded.
"Oops," he said cheerfully, glancing at the shattered bulb. "Always forget how fragile this place is."
He crouched, knees popping at impossible angles, and pulled back the blanket.
Green eyes stared up at him.
They were not crying eyes. Not frightened. Not even particularly curious. They simply *looked*, as if the baby were already accustomed to seeing things others could not.
The Hatter inhaled sharply.
"Oh," he said again, softer now. "Oh, you're *interesting*."
The baby blinked.
A faint pulse rippled through the air—magic responding, recognizing. The Hatter felt it crawl up his spine, tugging at threads long woven into his bones.
"This is a mistake," the Hatter said thoughtfully. "A dreadful, dreadful mistake."
He glanced at the letter, sniffed at it, and recoiled as though it smelled of old disappointment.
"Leftovers," he muttered. "I *hate* leftovers."
The baby gurgled.
The Hatter froze.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—wide, crooked, delighted, and just a little bit feral.
"Well," he said, scooping the bundle up with surprising gentleness, "if they don't want you, that's *their* problem."
He lifted the child, holding him at arm's length, tilting his head as though examining a particularly fascinating teacup.
"What do you think, little one?" he asked. "Fancy a place where rules are optional and nonsense makes *sense*?"
The baby yawned.
A crack split the air behind them, not loud but deep, like porcelain snapping in a warm hand. A doorway appeared where no doorway should exist—tall, narrow, and crooked, its frame breathing slowly as if alive. On the other side was not another street, nor a house, nor anything that could be described with confidence.
Colors leaked through. Sounds echoed backward. Gravity sighed.
Wonderland waited.
The Hatter hesitated only once.
He looked back at the house, at the pristine curtains, the trimmed hedges, the rigid symmetry of a world that required things to fit.
"Poor fit," he said lightly. "You'd break them."
He tipped his hat in mock farewell and stepped through the doorway.
The porch was empty again.
The night exhaled.
Privet Drive settled back into itself, smug and certain. In the morning, Petunia Dursley would open her door and find nothing but broken glass and a draft she couldn't explain. She would complain about it for weeks.
Magic, however, did not forget.
---
Wonderland did not welcome Harry Potter.
It *noticed* him.
The moment the Hatter crossed the threshold, the sky shuddered. Clouds rearranged themselves into shapes that did not exist a moment before. The ground dipped, then rose, then decided it preferred to be stairs. Flowers turned their heads in unison, whispering urgently to one another.
"A baby?" croaked a toad wearing spectacles. "Again?"
"This one's different," murmured a tree, its bark peeling back to reveal an eye. "He smells… sideways."
The Hatter laughed as the door snapped shut behind him.
"Yes, yes, very sideways," he agreed. "That's what makes him perfect."
Harry stirred at last, disturbed by the sudden cacophony. His eyes fluttered open properly now, pupils dilating as Wonderland poured itself into them.
For the first time since his birth, Harry Potter cried.
It was not a loud cry. Not panicked. More a sharp, startled sound, as if he had just realized the universe was far larger—and stranger—than he had been promised.
The Hatter rocked him gently, humming a tune that did not stay the same twice.
"There now," he murmured. "You'll get used to it. Or you won't. Either way, it's terribly fun."
Harry's cry hitched, then stopped.
He stared.
The sky folded itself into a grin.
Somewhere above them, a laugh echoed—low, amused, and utterly feline.
The Cheshire Cat had noticed too.
"Well," the Hatter said, glancing upward, eyes bright with something dangerously close to pride. "Looks like you've been invited."
Harry Potter, abandoned and unwanted, nestled into the crook of madness and impossibility.
The world he had left behind would call him lost.
Wonderland knew better.
He was found.